Alexander Pushkin
To Yasikov

Since ancient times the pleasant band
Of poets is one and undivided:
The Muse's priests, alone they stand,
Their ardour by one flame ignited.
All suffer different fates, it's true,
But kindred rest in inspiration.
I swear by Ovid's incarnation
Yasikov, that I'm close to you.
Long, long ago, the Derpt road taking,
I would have gone at early morn,
To your kind threshold onward making
With heavy staff, and travel-worn,
Would have returned in animation
With pictures of those carefree days,
Of free, inspired conversation,
And echoes of your lyre's sweet lays.
But fate played pranks on me, unknowing;
Without a shelter, me she hies
Where cold autocracy is blowing;
I slept, not knowing where I'd rise.
And hounded now, in isolation
Through fettered days I sit and mope.
Hear, poet-friend, my invocation,
Do not deceive my dearest hope.
Here, where the foster-son of Peter,
The favourite of the imperial pair,
And their forgotten household leader,
My negro forbear had his lair.
Where, great Elisabeth forgetting,
The court too, with its promise fleeting,
Beneath the shady grove of limes,
He thought, his hoary years regretting,
Of distant Africa at times...
I wait you. We shall be be-friended
With hugs within my rustic gate
By my blood-brother, my soul-mate,
A scamp with whom you are acquainted,
Delvig, the Muses noble seer,
For us will everything relinquish,
And so our trio will distinguish
This gloomy nook of exile here.
When from the watchful guard we've scampered,
The gifts of freedom we shall praise,
And with our youthful hearts unhampered
A noisy festival shall raise;
With warm attention shall be waiting
The ring of verse and glasses bright,
With wine and chorus dissipating
The tedium of the winter night.

Translated by Walter May