How drearily, how wearily, how mournfully, and slow, 
Towards thy plains, Siberia, our exiled footsteps go; 
But o'er that tract of dismal length our hearts refuse to roam, 
They still evade the tyrant's strength, and, lingering, dwell at home. 

Yes! wildly free our hearts shall be, nor share the outward chain, 
The soul preserves its liberty, though crush'd and bow'd with pain; 
And in our dreams the forms we love all smiling bright shall stand, 
And with us through thy pathways rove, oh! unforgotten land! 

What voices murmur in our ears? -- the great ancestral dead! 
They bid us dry the burning tears impatient eyes have shed,
And trust the future, yet unknown, with calm, courageous breast, 
For righteous Heaven still makes his own the cause of the oppressed.