Alecsei Durbew - He's Dead--the Poet's Dead.

He's Dead—the Poet's Dead.

The poet's dead—a slave to pride—by rumour slandered—lead
lodged in his breast, and thirsting for revenge, hanging his proud head.
The poet's soul could not endure the insult of disgrace.
Against society he rose, just one, put in his place,
placed in the grave. Why cry—th' unneeded choir's shallow praise,
excuses mumbled full of feeling? Fate made his ukase!
Did you not spitefully rebuff his freely given fame,
and for your own amusement fanned the nearly dying flame?
So now enjoy yourselves. He'd not endure the final pain.
Quenched is the light of genius; withered is triumphant gain.

Cold-bloodedly his murderer took aim; there was no chance.
His empty heart beat steadily, the pistol in his hand.
No wonder far away, the will of fate sent him to us,
like hundreds of his fellows, seeking luck and status—thus.
With impudence he mocked the tongue and customs of his land.
He could not spare our glory in a gesture grave and grand,
nor in that bloody moment know what he had written off.
He raised his hand, opposing Russia, Michael Lermontov!
He's dead, and taken by the grave that well-known happy bard,
a victim of his jealousy, whose song rang strong and hard.