Mikhail Lermontov
The Grave Of Ossian

In my beloved Scottish highlands,
Under a curtain of cold mists,
Between the sky of storms and dry sands,
The grave of Ossian exists.
My dreaming heart flies to its stone
To breathe in native air puffs
And take from it the priceless loan —
The treasure of the second life.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver