On the Death of Count Orlov

What do I hear? An eagle from heaven’s cloudy sea,
Midst the high-towering hosts that swam
Before Minerva’s steps, when she
To earth from proud Olympus came:
That eagle, sailing in its state,
Heralding Russia’s naval might,
Pierced by the fatal spear of fate,
Falls rustling from the glorious height!

Alas! alas! whither his flight through heaven’s blue vault?
Where is his path on ocean’s deep?
Where is his fearful thunderbolt?
Where do his forked lightnings sleep?
Where is the bosom nought could fright,
The piercing, penetrating mind;
’Tis all, ’tis all enshrined in night;
He left us but his fame behind!