By God on me a sinner. Not in vain

Hath God appointed me for many years

A witness, teaching me the art of letters;

A day will come when some laborious monk

Will bring to light my zealous, nameless toil,

Kindle, as I, his lamp, and from the parchment

Shaking the dust of ages will transcribe

My true narrations, that posterity

The bygone fortunes of the orthodox

Of their own land may learn, will mention make

Of their great tsars, their labours, glory, goodness -

And humbly for their sins, their evil deeds,

Implore the Saviour's mercy. - In old age

I live anew; the past unrolls before me. -

Did it in years long vanished sweep along,

Full of events, and troubled like the deep?

Now it is hushed and tranquil. Few the faces

Which memory hath saved for me, and few

The words which have come down to me; - the rest

Have perished, never to return. - But day

Draws near, the lamp burns low, one record more,

The last. (He writes.)

GREGORY. (Waking.) Ever the selfsame dream! Is 't possible?

For the third time! Accursed dream! And ever

Before the lamp sits the old man and writes -

And not all night, 'twould seem, from drowsiness,

Hath closed his eyes. I love the peaceful sight,

When, with his soul deep in the past immersed,

He keeps his chronicle. Oft have I longed

To guess what 'tis he writes of. Is 't perchance

The dark dominion of the Tartars? Is it

Ivan's grim punishments, the stormy Council

of Novgorod? Is it about the glory