I built myself a monument, eternal and miraculous,
It's higher than the Pyramids, than metal it is harder;
Swift winds and thunder cannot knock it down
The flight of time cannot demolish it.
Thus I won't really die! The part of me that's largest
Will baffle death, and will escape decay,
My fame will grow, and never wither,
As long as Slavs are honored in this world.
And word of me shall spread from the White Sea to the Black,
Where Volga, Don, Neva and Ural rivers flow,
Each member of the countless tribes will know
How from obscurity I found my way to fame,
By daring first in lively Russian speech
To celebrate the virtues of Felitsa,
To talk of God with intimate simplicity,
And with a smile announce the truth to kings.
O Muse! take pride in your well-earned rewards,
Disdain all those who show disdain for you,
And with an easy and unhurried hand,
With dawn eternal crown your brow.
Я памятник себе воздвиг чудесный, вечный,
Металлов тверже он и выше пирамид;
Ни вихрь его, ни гром не сломит быстротечный,
И времени полет его не сокрушит.
Так! — весь я не умру, но часть меня большая,
От тлена убежав, по смерти станет жить,
И слава возрастёт моя, не увядая,
Доколь славянов род вселенна будет чтить.
Слух пройдет обо мне от Белых вод до Чёрных,
Где Волга, Дон, Нева, с Рифея льет Урал;
Всяк будет помнить то в народах неисчётных,
Как из безвестности я тем известен стал,
Что первый я дерзнул в забавном русском слоге
О добродетелях Фелицы возгласить,
В сердечной простоте беседовать о Боге
И истину царям с улыбкой говорить.
О Муза! возгордись заслугой справедливой,
И презрит кто тебя, сама тех презирай;
Непринуждённою рукой неторопливой
Чело твоё зарёй бессмертия венчай.
«Yes! It's settled! Now and for ever / I have left my dear old plain. / And the winged leaves of poplars will never / Ring and rustle above me again. / / Our house will sag in my absence, / And my dog died a long time ago. / Me, I'm fated to die with compassions / In the crooked str...»
«There was only one game now lacking: / Pursed my lips and a whistle blew. / Foolish glory thus sent I packing, / Cause of scandal and foul mouthed too. Ach! how comical is the losing! / Life is full of this kind of loss. / Can’t deny if you are accusing – / Faith I had in that god o...»
«I have got but one only fun left: / Fingers mouthed, and a whistle of cheer. / An ill fame has swept o’er that I am / A vulgarian, a debauchee. Ah, how paltry, how trifling the waste is! / Trifling losses are plenty around. / Having had faith in God is shameful. / Having no faith is ...»
«Out-up is a crescent; down, a wind is blowing. / Settling poplar wool is silvery and glowing. Far ‘talianka* sobbing, solitary descant, / Is so sweetly homey and so sadly distant. Crafty runs now giggle, now burst out crying. / Where are you, my linden? Age ol' mine, where are you? Once, ...»