Смерть поэта

Погиб поэт! — невольник чести —
Пал, оклеветанный молвой,
С свинцом в груди и жаждой мести,
Поникнув гордой головой!..
Не вынесла душа поэта
Позора мелочных обид,
Восстал он против мнений света
Один как прежде… и убит!
Убит!.. к чему теперь рыданья,
Пустых похвал ненужный хор,
И жалкий лепет оправданья?
Судьбы свершился приговор!
Не вы ль сперва так злобно гнали
Его свободный, смелый дар
И для потехи раздували
Чуть затаившийся пожар?
Что ж? веселитесь… — он мучений
Последних вынести не мог:
Угас, как светоч, дивный гений,
Увял торжественный венок.

Его убийца хладнокровно
Навел удар… спасенья нет:
Пустое сердце бьется ровно,
В руке не дрогнул пистолет.
И что за диво?.. издалёка,
Подобный сотням беглецов,
На ловлю счастья и чинов
Заброшен к нам по воле рока;
Смеясь, он дерзко презирал
30 Земли чужой язык и нравы;
Не мог щадить он нашей славы;
Не мог понять в сей миг кровавый,
На что́ он руку поднимал!..

И он убит — и взят могилой,
Как тот певец, неведомый, но милый,
Добыча ревности глухой,
Воспетый им с такою чудной силой,
Сраженный, как и он, безжалостной рукой.

Зачем от мирных нег и дружбы простодушной
Вступил он в этот свет завистливый и душный
Для сердца вольного и пламенных страстей?
Зачем он руку дал клеветникам ничтожным,
Зачем поверил он словам и ласкам ложным,
Он, с юных лет постигнувший людей?..

И прежний сняв венок — они венец терновый,
Увитый лаврами, надели на него:
Но иглы тайные сурово
Язвили славное чело;
Отравлены его последние мгновенья
Коварным шепотом насмешливых невежд,
И умер он — с напрасной жаждой мщенья,
С досадой тайною обманутых надежд.
Замолкли звуки чудных песен,
Не раздаваться им опять:
Приют певца угрюм и тесен,
И на устах его печать. —
——————————————
А вы, надменные потомки
Известной подлостью прославленных отцов,
Пятою рабскою поправшие обломки
Игрою счастия обиженных родов!
Вы, жадною толпой стоящие у трона,
Свободы, Гения и Славы палачи!
Таитесь вы под сению закона,
Пред вами суд и правда — всё молчи!..
Но есть и божий суд, наперсники разврата!
Есть грозный суд: он ждет;
Он не доступен звону злата,
И мысли и дела он знает наперед.
Тогда напрасно вы прибегнете к злословью:
Оно вам не поможет вновь,
И вы не смоете всей вашей черной кровью
Поэта праведную кровь!
1837

Михаил Лермонтов (1814-1841)

Death Of the Poet

The poet’s dead! his satisfaction
Demanded this, and all this led
To bullet-leaded putrefaction,
And lifeless hangs his once-proud head.
The poet’s soul could never swallow
The petty grievance and its shame,
Rejected all who blindly follow,
Succumbed alone to mortal claim!
Succumbed! So why now all this crying,
The choir’s unneeded empty praise,
Pathetic explanations flying?
Fate’s verdict now is all ablaze!
Weren’t you the ones who tried to stifle
His noble gift, so brave, untamed,
And yet did fan for pleasure’s trifle
His dying ember till it flamed?
So now? have fun… this final torment
He surely never could have borne:
Extinguished is his shining ferment,
His stately wreath lies now forlorn.

His killer calmly pulled the trigger,
The poet dear would not awake:
Assassin’s heart still beat with vigour,
The gun in hand did barely quake.
And is it really any wonder?
For he, like many from afar,
To us had come to hitch his star,
Our happiness and rank to plunder.
For laughing at another land
Dismissed he thus our fabled story;
He fain would snatch our nation’s glory;
Not knowing, at this moment gory,
At what he raised his wretched hand!

And he was killed – by grave was taken,
Just like that bard so sweet and yet forsaken,
Deaf envy’s undeserving prize,
The one whose fame the poet’s verse did waken,
Who met like him at ruthless hand his sad demise.

So why from peaceful bliss and generous friends’ affection
Would he depart to meet this stuffy world’s rejection
Of hearts unfettered, filled with ardent passion’s flame?
And why did he expose himself to lies malignant,
In face of their deceit remain so unindignant,
This man who’d always known of human shame?

And taking off his former crown some thorns entwining
With laurels in a wreath, they put it on his head:
Its hidden spikes, his pain refining
Bit into noble brow that bled;
And as he died, his final moments were corrupted
By treacherous innuendo of the mocking dopes,
His quest for vengeance thus was interrupted
By silent disappointment’s sad abandoned hopes.
His wondrous songs then ceased resounding,
And ears to strain again won’t yield:
Grim grave of bard is tight, surrounding,
His lips for ever now are sealed.
The poet is gone! — slave to abuse —
——————————————
The Poet’s righteous blood!
And you, O haughty ones, the blossom
Of noble fathers who for spite alone were known,
With slavish heel a-trampling on the wretched flotsam
Of generations who by chance’s deal were thrown!
You greedy crowd, who kiss the throne in false subjection,
Who slay our Freedom, Glory, and our brightest Thought!
You seek a refuge in the law’s protection,
Before you truth and justice come to naught.
But God one day will judge you, friends of degradation!
This judge he waits for you;
He is unswayed by gold’s donation,
Before it happens fathoms all you think and do.
It will not help you then again to turn to slander;
So cease your protestation’s flood!
You never can expunge with gory black meander
The righteousness of poet’s blood!

Mikhail Lermontov
Translation by Rupert Moreton

Death of the Poet

The poet is gone! — slave to abuse —
By slanderous rumor he was murdered,
With thirst for revenge, with lead in his breast,
His glorious head’s cast to the ground! . .
The soul of the poet was not brought forth
For the ignominy of degrading claims,
He stood against the world’s filth
As always alone . . . and he is slain!
He’s slain! . . what purpose now are sobs,
The vacuous praise of a useless chorus,
And the pitiful babble of alibis?
The sentence of fate has come to pass!
Did you not snub his ample talents,
Their fearless pure unselfishness,
And did you not for your amusement
Fan dying embers into fires?
What then? be amused . . . — he couldn’t
Bear how he was tormented:
The marvelous light of genius is snuffed,
The proud laurel wreath, faded.
​
The killer took aim with cold calculation
And shot . . . so fatefully:
His empty heart beat steadily
As he steadied his pistol in his hand.
Is that so amazing?. . from abroad,
Like hundreds of immigrants who seek
To win happiness and earn rank,
He was cast on us as fate contrived;
Once challenged, he scorned with impudence
The tongue and customs of this country;
He could not tolerate our glory,
Nor at that bloody moment understand
Against what man he raised his hand! . .
Now he is slain — and lowered in a grave,
An unknown singer of songs well loved,
Victim of the envious,
He sang with a power wondrous,
And was struck down by a ruthless hand.

Why from the bliss of camaraderie and peace
Did he, a man of free sincerity,
Enter a world so spiteful and crass?
Why did he turn to worthless slanderers,
How could he believe their deceitful words.
He, who since youth, embraced humanity? . .

And they removed his former wreath, — in place
They put a wreath of thorns and laurel;
But the hidden barbs
Pierced his famous brow,
And with cunning whispers of derisive fools,
Poisoned his final moments;
And so he died — thirsting for vengeance
With secret despair of hopes betrayed.
The sounds of wonderful songs have ceased,
The life in them, no longer heard:
Confined and gloomy is his rest,
And his lips are sealed.
​——————————————
And you, the haughty progeny
Of famous fathers, are famed for scorn,
You whose servile heels tramp down
One aggrieved by taunts of fortune!
You, whose greed fawns upon the throne,
You executioners of Freedom, Genius, Glory!
Sheltered by the law you stand
Before the judges’ bench, and truth — silenced! . . .
But justice is of God, you debauchees!
A terrible judgment awaits you;
It is impervious to bribes and gold,
It knows beforehand your thoughts and deeds.
Your lies and subterfuges
Will not protect you then
And your black blood will never stain
The Poet’s righteous blood!

Mikhail Lermontov
Translated by Don Mager

On The Death Of Pushkin

He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour,
A sacrifice to slander’s lust;
The haughty Poet’s head, the noblest,
Bowed on his wounded breast in dust.
No longer could his free soul suffer
The vulgar world’s low infamy;
He rose against the world’s opinion,
And as a hero, lone fell he.
He fell! To what avail the sobbing —
The useless choir of tears and praise?
Wretched the stammering excuses!
The Fates have spoke,—no power allays!
Have ye not at all times together
His sacred genius baited sore,
The silent fury fanned to flaming,
Delighted in your work before?
O be triumphant! Earthly torment
The Poet soul did fully bear,
Extinguished are the lights inspired,
The laurel crown lies leafless there!
The murderer contemptuous gazing
Did stedfastly his weapon aim,
No swifter beat his heart, Assassin!
Nor shook his lifted hand for shame.
No wonder; from a distance came he
As an adventurer unknown,
For worthy title, star of order—
Stood but his mad desire alone.
Sneering and self-complacent mocked he
The rights and customs of our land,
He could not understand our glory,
Against which he has raised his hand.

‘Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung,
The Singer even as the song he sung;
Who of a hot, heroic mood,
In death disgraceful shed his blood!’

Why did he leave his home life tranquil,
To seek the envious market place,
Where each free flame is suffocated,
Expose him to the assassin base?
The human breed, who had known better
Since earliest years of youth, than he —
Why did he trust the false pretending
Of malice and hypocrisy?
Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him,
Gave him a martyr’s crown instead,
And now the cruel thorns have pierced him
E’en to the blood of his proud head!
His last days were for him envenomed —
Through senseless fools’ contempt aggrieved,
He died revenge a’thirst, accusing
That every hope his heart deceived!

Mute evermore the magic echoes,
That ne’er shall wonders more reveal,
The Poet’s home is dark and narrow—
Upon the Singer’s lips a seal.

But ye, sons insolent and shameless —
Defamers, faithless fathers, ye!
Who trod the pure soul of another
Beneath your feet, who zealously
Press to the Tsar’s throne with your driveling
For fame and freedom, hatred steeled!
Well may you sneer at truth and justice,
The law provides you screen and shield,
Only a higher law shall sentence!
A mighty Judge beyond assail
Avenge the Poet’s death on his slayers,
The Highest Judge who does not fail!
So then calumniate with brazen courage,
Your hatred’s fury nought restrains —
Since your dark blood could ne’er atone for
One drop within the Poet’s pure veins.

Mikhail Lermontov
Translated by unknown author

Death Of the Poet

A poet’s dead — entrapped by honour,
Felled by slanderous rumours spread —
A bullet in the breast, with vengeful anger,
He bowed at last his noble head.
His soul could not endure the legions
Of trifling insults and their shame,
He stood against the world’s opinions,
Alone, as always — and was slain!
Yes, slain!.. And wherefore now the crying,
The praising choir’s empty shout
And wretched babble’s justifying —
Fate’s sentence has been carried out!
Was it not you who long conspired
To mock his gift so free and bold
And, just for fun, to fan the fire
Whose embers were now growing cold?
So now, you’re laughing?!.. This last anguish
The poet simply could not bear.
His genius, like a torch, extinguished,
His laurel wreath — beyond repair!..
Aloof and poised his killer boldly
Takes aim — and no escape is near:
His empty heart beats calmly, coldly,
No trembling of the pistol here.
And why the awe?.. Like countless legions
Of fugitives seeking fun and fame,
From some far distant place he came
By quirk of fate into our regions,
Deriding, mocking with disdain
This land, its language and its story;
He had no mercy for our glory,
And, at that point of time so gory,
No thought of what it was he’d slain!

And so he died a death most frightful,
Just like that singer, unknown, but still delightful,
The victim of deaf jealousy,
The one he praised with power of phrase insightful,
Struck down, just like himself, and just as mercilessly.
Now why from peaceful bliss
and friendship among brothers
Did he come into this world so envious that it smothers
The heart’s free reign and flaming passion’s tears?
Why did he embrace the fools
who wrongfully accused him,
Why did he trust the lies of those who so abused him,
He whose insight long surpassed his years!
And taking off the wreath,
now once again they crowned him —
A crown of laurels, secretly enmeshed
With thorns, whose needles all around him
Pierced through the noble poet’s flesh…
His life’s last moments venomously blighted,
By mocking fools’ sly whisperings aggrieved,
He died with thirst for vengeance unrequited,
Tormented in his soul by fervent hopes deceived…
The poet’s sounds are interdicted,
No more their wondrous songs to yield;
His joyless resting-place constricted,
His lips for all eternity now sealed!
——————————————
And you, you haughty ones, descendants
Of forebears known for shallowness of trait,
Who trample under slavery’s heel the remnants
Of generations scarred by whim of fate!
You stand before the throne, a horde of greedy misers,
Who freedom, genius, honour, seek to kill!
You hide behind your lawyers and advisors,
Before you truth and judgement — both keep still!
But there is a Judge Divine,
you playmates of perversion,
There is a Judge Almighty — He awaits,
Your gold for Him is no diversion,
He knows well in advance your thoughts
and deeds and traits.
In vain now and henceforth will you resort to vileness:
It will not do you any good,
And you will not obliterate
with all your blood of blackness
The poet’s true and righteous blood!

Mikhail Lermontov
Translation by John Woodsworth

Death Of the Poet

The Bard is killed! The honor’s striver
Fell, slandered by a gossip’s dread,
With lead in breast and vengeful fire,
Drooped with his ever-proud head.
The Poet’s soul did not bear
The shameful hurts of low breed,
He fought against the worldly «faire,»
Alone as always, … and is killed!
He’s killed! What for are late orations
Of useless praise; and weeps and moans,
And gibberish of explanations? —
The fate had brought her verdict on!
Had not you first so hard maltreated
His free and brave poetic gift,
And, for your pleasure, fanned and fitted
The fire that in ashes drifts?
You may be happy … Those tortures
Had broken his strength, at last:
Like light, had failed the genius gorgeous;
The sumptuous wreath had weathered fast.

His murderer, without mercy,
Betook his aim and bloody chance,
His empty heart is calm and healthy,
The pistol did not tremble once.
And what is wonder? … From a distance,
By road of manifold exiles,
He came to us, by fatal instance,
To catch his fortune, rank and price.
Detested he the alien lands
Traditions, language and discussions;
He couldn’t spare The Fame of Russians
And fathom — till last instant rushes —
What a disaster grips his hand! …

And he is killed, and leaves from here,
As that young Bard, mysterious but dear,
The prey of vengeance, deaf and bland,
Who sang he of, so lyric and sincere,
Who too was put to death by similar a hand.

And why, from peaceful times and simple-hearted fellows,
He entered this high life, so stiff and so jealous
Of freedom-loving heart and passions full of flame?
Why did he give his hand to slanders, mean and worthless
Why trusted their words and their oaths, godless,
He, who from youth had caught the mankind’s frame?

And then his wreath, a crown of sloe,
Woven with bays, they put on Poet’s head;
The thorns, that secretly were grown,
Were stinging famous brow, yet.
His life’s fast end was poisoned with a gurgle
And faithless whisper of the mocking fops,
And died he with burning thrust for struggle,
With hid vexation for his cheated hopes.
The charming lyre is now silent,
It will be never heard by us:
The bard’s abode is grim and tightened,
And seal is placed on his mouth.
——————————————
And you, oh, vainglory decedents
Of famous fathers, so mean and base,
Who’ve trod with ushers’ feet the remnants
Of clans, offended by the fortune’s plays!
In greedy crowd standing by the throne,
The foes of Freedom, Genius, and Repute —
You’re hid in shadow of a law-stone,
For you, and truth and justice must be mute! …

But there is Court of God, you, evil manifold! —
The terrible court: it waits;
It’s not reached by a ring of gold,
It knows, in advance, all thoughts’ and actions’ weights.
Then you, in vain, will try to bring your evil voice on:
It will not help you to be right,
And you will not wash of with all your bloody poison,
The Poet’s righteous blood!
1837

Mikhail Lermontov
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, June, 1998
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, May, 2001