Page:Songs of Russia.djvu/20

 Resound with indignation’s sacred fire,
 * And ring with teardrops heartfelt and sincere.

Not unto me such power of speech is given;
 * My voice is weak to plead the cause of truth.

My soul indeed is ready for the strife,
 * But in me fails the energy of youth.

Within my breast is but a barren sob,
 * Upon my lips, reproach that cannot save,

And in my heart the sad acknowledgment
 * That I am not a prophet, but a slave.