Mikhail Lermontov

Tops of dreaming highlands
Darken in a night;
Valleys lull, in silence,
A fresh dim inside;
...

I love my land, but with a queer passion,
My mind isn't able to absorb it, yet!
Nor glory, purchased by the bloody actions,
Nor peace, in proud confidence inlaid,
...

For all, for all! I thank you, o my dear:
For passions' deeply hidden pledge,
For poison of a kiss, and stinging of a tear,
Abuse by friends, and enemies' revenge;
...

Yes, I like you, my knife of damask pledge,
My friend so bright and so cold,
A thoughtful Georgian forged you for his revenge,
A free Circassian then sharpened for a row.
...

The angel was flying through sky in midnight,
And softly he sang in his flight;
And clouds, and stars, and the moon in a throng
Hearkened to that holy song.
...

Don't trust in self, my dreamer young, don't trust,
Beware, like ulcers, inspiration…
It is the heavy fit of your unhealthy heart,
Or jailed ideas' irritation.
...

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.
...

It's Hell for us to draw the fetters
Of life in alienation, stiff.
All people prefer to share gladness,
And nobody - to share grief.
...

In my beloved Scottish highlands,
Under a curtain of cold mists,
Between the sky of storms and dry sands,
The grave of Ossian exists.
...

I come out to the path, alone,
Night and wildness are referred to God,
Through the mist, the road gleams with stone,
Stars are speaking in the shinning lot.
...

I want to live; I crave for sadness -
Against my bliss and love, in truth;
They sank my mind in idle gladness
And made my brow very smooth.
...

My heart is in a gloom. Be fast, Oh bard, be fast!
There is a harp of gold:
And let your fingers, that on strings are cast,
Wake sounds of the God's Abode.
...

He has been born for hopes and for joys,
For inspirations peaceful! - But, a crazy,
He early left the world of fairy tales and toys
And threw his heart in a sea of high life, hazy.
...

My home is always there,in the heaven's vault,
Where one just hears lyre's sounds,
All with a spark of life have here their resort,
A bard has, too, a space around.
...

The glen of Daghestan, at noon, was hot and gleaming;
I lay on sand with lead sent to my heart,
My deadly wound was deep and easily steaming;
And, drop by drop, was oozing out blood.
...

When I often stay a motley crowd in,
When before my eyes, as in an awful dream,
To humming orchestras and dances,
And foolish whispering of speeches learnt by eart,
...

Forever you, the unwashed Russia!
The land of slaves the land of lords:
And you, the blue-uniformed ushers,
And people who worship them as gods.
...

By gates of an abode, blessed,
A man stood, asking for donation,
A beggar, cruelly oppressed
By hunger, thirst and deprivation.
...

By a loophole, I sit in my prison,
Could see the blue of the heaven from there,
I feel sharp pain and a shame at the vision
Of heedless birds, freely playing in air.
...

I'm to believe, but with some fear,
For I haven't tried it all before,
That every monk could be sincere
And live as he by altar swore;
...