It is burning weather. The air is deep azure and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. The nineteenth century wantons in its giant adolescence; the Titan boy uproots mountains in his game, and hurls rocks in his wild sport. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle; he and his host scour Russian deserts. He has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children of the Rhine, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow. Under old Moscow's walls the rude Cossack waits him. Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the boundless ruin rolling on. 
It is burning weather. The air is deep azure and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle, with his army behind him, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow, where the Cossack awaits him. Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the boundless ruin rolling on. 