The Monument

"Mortem pro domino acceptam, postea dominus ipse."

(Having taken death for his lord, he thereafter became the lord himself.)

There stands a town of great renown
Upon the Klyazma's shore;
On Godov's hill white walls look down
Where Prince Vladimir rides before.

By the Dormition's sacred ground
The lindens stand arrayed;
And carved domes with gold are crowned.
Their splendor still displayed.

Here once the Prince, Andrei by name,
Raised gates that led to heaven;
Three sons he raised to bear his fame,
And blessed the land he'd given.

The secret that the tombs still guard,
The passing years have not blurred;
The church, raised by his princely hand,
Has grief and sorrow long endured.

Yet all the deeds of bygone days
Have not to dust decayed;
They come to us by hidden ways
Across the green grass laid.

Where cliffs fall steep beneath the blue
And clouds drift slow and shy,
A figure rises now in view,
Seen far by every eye.

Upon the slope below that hill
There's singing and there's laughter;
The priests and people gather still,
Recalling great disaster.

So listen now to me, folk dear,
To this ballad I tell:
How one great man died for the prince
Became that prince as well.

Part I
Let's turn the clock back many  years —
Eight hundred fifty-two;
To that far time we now draw near,
When both those men were true.

The Master said to his servant:
"Shermadin, guard my quarters,
For I must flee away alone,
Far from the wicked plotters.

My kingdom's left to you, not for good,
This throne, this seat of power;
God grant return home safe and sound —
If not, then mourn this hour."

Before his sovereign's solemn word
The Guardian bowed, in prayer:
"All this I'll do, my rightful Lord!
May Fortune guard your way!"

He knew no eloquent, fair speech, 
But served his King with care;
That night, in secret, near the ditch,
Farewell King's boat with prayer.

He wore the prince's robe and ring,
Nor spared his life and soul;
He sat as though he were the king,
That none should doubt at all.

Part II

That festive night was gloomy,
St. Peter's Day brought death.
Bonfires blazed along the lake,
The Kostroma was praised.

Through the archway crept killers grim,
The lavabo had stood near;
Their purses clinked, stuffed to the brim,
With Byzantine silver.

That day is honored, still recalled,
Set down in holy lore:
A warrior, in  the prince's robe,
Fought his last fight,
and fell to the floor.

Was carried to the Cathedral then,
Not with the trumpets' cry;
In silence walked the grieving men,
Laid 'neath the Holy Icon's eye.

God's Mother led them long ago
Into this land to dwell,
From south to northern sunsets' glow,
By paths that none could tell.

And later still She did appear,
And saved Her chosen man;
Until his final breath drew near,
He praised Her Grace again.

Part III

So there he lies with another's name,
Surrounded by walls so grand;
He kept his word, in the Master's face,
That his Lord might stand safe.

But by the Providence Divine
A pedestal was made;
And having crossed the trackless line,
Upon the hill the Master stayed.

The priests bore up the sainted thing,
And set the coffin near;
And myrrh, like dew, began to spring
From that dead head, so clear.

"The hour has come to lay it down
— I'm weary, guarding this old town;
The secret that I've held so long,
I never told, nor right nor wrong."

And now at last they meet again —
The sovereign and his faithful friend:
In granite one - in a coffin lain,
Both blessing all, from end to end.

Whoever looks at them today
Will understand: gold has no worth —
Worth is the servant who, in God's way,
Gave his Master all he had on earth.

Epilogue

Those who behold
this deathless bond,
will understand that
not in swords,
and not in gold,
nor in the crown —
but in Fidelity Divine
Greatness endures
through all time.