«O, Voice of time! O, metal's clang! / Your dreadful call distresses me, / Your groan doth beckon, beckon me / It beckons, brings me closer to my grave. / This world I'd just begun to see / When death began to gnash her teeth, / Like lightening her scythe aglint, / She cuts my days like...»
«A sweet-voiced bird's been caught. / They squeeze it in a vice-like grip. / The poor thing squeaks and warbles not / But they insist: "O, birdie, sing!"»
«The current of time's river / Will carry off all human deeds / And sink into oblivion / All peoples, kingdoms and their kings. And if there's something that remains / Through sounds of horn and lyre, / It too will disappear into the maw of time / And not avoid the common fate.»
«Why do you strike up songs military / Fife-like, o, bullfinch, my friend? / Who'll take the lead in our fight with Hell's forces? / Who will command us? What Hercules? / Where is Suvorov, strong, swift and fearless? / Now Northern thunder lies dead in the grave. Who will ride fiery, ahea...»