Morning! Here’s morning! I’m growing aware
Of the red sun drawing rays in the air,
Cold of a bright autumn cloudless day
Is waking me in a cheerful way.
Charms of the night from my soul are streaming;
I will come out: there heavens are beaming,
Spangles in the air are whirling, while frost
Boughs of birches has bleached and glossed.
Radiant skies display haleness and pleasure;
How are you, ample field, at your leisure?
What happy time for a hunt is indeed!
Give me the rifle! Let you saddle my steed!
Here he is! – a conspicuous patrician
Feeling the cold shows rapid volition,
Neighing he is and is arching the neck
Panels of wood crunching under his leg,
Geese being frightened are passing with cackling,
My hunting dog jumps with joy near stabling,
Its loud bark sounds joyous and hoarse.
Hey, do not dawdle! Bring me promptly the horse!
Утро! вот утро! Едва над холмами
Красное солнце взыграет лучами,
Холод осеннего, светлого дня,
Холод весёлый разбудит меня.
Выйду я… небо смеётся мне в очи;
С сердца сбегают лобзания ночи…
Блёстки крутятся на солнце; мороз
Выбелил хрупкие сучья берёз…
Светлое небо, здоровье да воля —
Здравствуй, раздолье широкого поля!
Вновь не дождаться подобного дня.
Дайте ружьё мне! седлайте коня!
Вот он… по членам его благородным
Ветер промчался дыханьем холодным,
Ржёт он и шею сгибает дугой…
Доски хрустят под упругой ногой;
Гуси проходят с испугом и криком;
Прыгает пёс мой в восторге великом;
Ясно звучит его радостный лай…
Ну же, скорей мне коня подавай!
«On a bare hill's top, in the North, wild and cold, / A lone pine-tree somewhere stands; / She dozes, swaying, all covered by snow / With a mantel from feet to a head. She sees in her dreams: in a faraway desert, / In lands where the sun enters skies, / Alone and sad, on a rock's sunburn...»
«Not with the proud kind of beauty / She charms the animated youth, / And she doesn't drag behind her booty — / The crowd of her slaves, confused. Her waist isn't one of any goddess, / Her breast does not rise like sea waves, / And nobody calls her gorgeous, / While falling on his knee...»
«No, not with you I fell in love so fast, / And not for me your beauty is succeeding; / I love in you my suffering preceding, / And youth of mine, that perished in the past. And when sometimes my look is long and hard, / And penetrates your eyes of high perfection; / I'm busy with a secret...»
«No, I'm not Byron; I am, yet, / Another choice for the sacred dole, / Like him — a persecuted soul, / But only of the Russian set. / I early start and end the whole, / And will not win the future days; / Like in an ocean, in my soul, / A cargo of lost hopes stays. / Who, oh, my oce...»