Mikhail Lermontov: On the death of the poet

Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov

(Михаи́л Ю́рьевич Ле́рмонтов 1814 – 1841)

 

On the death of the poet

 

The poet is no more! He’s fallen

A slave to honour –

Lead in his chest, for vengeance calling,

The proud head bowed at last – he died!…

He would not brook the rankling shame

The petty calumnies, the stain

They sought to put upon his name….

Alone he stood, and now is slain!

Is slain… What use in lamentation,

Or empty choruses of praise,

Belated words of exculpation?

Say rather – Fate cut short his days!

Yet – are you blameless, you who banned

His free, brave talent out of spite,

And smouldering flames to white heat fanned

That should have been extinguished quite?

Come, be content, then – such refinement

Of pain was more than he could bear.

The lamp of genius is no longer shining,

The laurel wreath is fading now and sear.

 

Yet the assassin knew no hesitation

In cooly taking aim… not one

Beat missed that heart; no saving revelation

Made tremble that fell hand which held the gun….

Hard is it though indeed to credit

How came it that this common emigre,

This fortune hunter, this upstart careerist,

This poor blind tool of destiny,

Should, in his insolence, so spurn our land,

Her language and her customs fair

And spare no thought her chiefest pride to spare

Nor pause to wonder what it was – he dare,

To think ‘gainst what he raised his hand!…

 

So he is slain – our singer – dead and gone

Like that less-known but well-beloved one

Of whom he told in wondrous poetry,

Who, like him by a ruthless hand undone,

A victim fell to senseless jealousy.

 

Why did he leave his peaceable pursuits and friendships

For this false world of harsh constraint and envy

To free and ardent heart so straight a pen?

Why did he give his hand to futile tattlers?

Why did he credence lend to liers, flatterers,

Who from his youth had been a judge of men?…

 

They’ve robbed him of his crown and set a crown of thorns

All wound about with laurel on him now

The hidden spikes have deeply torn

The poet’s glorious brow;

And even his last moments were envenomed

By gossips ill-disposed and vulgar whispering

And so he died – filled with vain thirst for vengeance

And plagued by broken hopes fast festering….

The splendid songs will sound no more,

To silence must the great voice yield

In that small room without a door….

And – ah! – those lips are sealed.

– – – – – –

But as for you, you arrogant descendants

Of fathers famed for their base infamies

Who, with a slavish heel, have spurned the remnants

Of nobler but less favoured families!

Who throng the throne, alert for gain – and gory

As executioners who cloak their vile intent

In robes of justice – so to slaughter Glory,

Freedom and Genius, seeming innocent!

But there’s God’s judgement, which fears not to wait;

A dreadful Judgement that’s not bought nor sold.

It knows your inmost thoughts, ye panders reprobate,

It does not even hear the clink of gold.

Before this seat your slanders will not sway

That Judge both just and good…

Nor all your black blood serve to wash away

The poet’s righteous blood.

 

 

Mikhail Lermontov poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

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