The Poets Death Смерть поэта

The Poet fell! – His honor’s captive,
Succumbed to gossip, slander, lies.
The heart is pierced - revenge exacting;
And, bowed his head - once proud and blithe.
He couldn’t stand, this spirit proud,
The petty stabs of no end,
He raised his voice against the crowd:
Alone, as ever; now – dead.
He’s dead! – Forget the mournful wails,
The empty psalms, the mumbling voice
Of vain excuses – no avail,
The Lady Fate had made its choice.

Oh, wasn’t you, in malice trying
To yoke his talent, courage, rhyme?!
Not you, who stirred his latent fire? -
To poke and jeer at wounded pride…
So, now rejoice! He stooped, unwilling,
Beneath your scoffs, their final drop;
The flame – extinguished, laurels – wilting,
He’s stripped of life, of genius robbed.

The muzzle – aimed, and no escaping,
In cold blood the blood was shed;
The killer’s hand was firm, unshaking;
His heart was empty, unashamed.

But lo! Behold! Like fleeing men
He came to us in search of status
And luck - by Fortune thrown at us
From foreign realms, and here sent.
He laughed and jeered, despised and winced
At distant country’s tongue and mores,
He could not honor heroes foreign,
And in that moment, cruel and gory
He hardly knew his real sin…

An excerpt from a poem by Mikhail Lermontov, written right upon the death of Alexander Pushkin