***
I erected a monument to myself
not made by hand,
People will not grow to him
trail,
Ascended higher he
head of recalcitrant
Alexandria pillar.
No, I won't die all
soul in the cherished lyre
My ashes will survive
and corruption will flee -
And I will be nice,
in the sublunary world
At least one drink will be alive.
Hearing about me will pass
all over great Russia,
And everyone will call me
she is a language
And the proud grandson of the Slavs, and Finn,
and now wild
Tungus, and another steppe Kalmyk.
And so long I will be so kind
I am the people
That the feelings are kind
I was awake,
What's my cruel
century I praised freedom
And mercy for the fallen called.
By the will of God, O muse,
be obedient
Insults not fear,
without requiring a crown;
Praise and slander accepted
indifferently
And do not challenge the fool.
(1836)