EntranceMemoirs in Tsarskoe Selo - a complete collection of poems. A.S. Pushkin I can hear it a little
A “public test of first-time pupils” was scheduled for January 4, 1815, about which an announcement was published in the newspaper “St. Petersburg Vedomosti”.
For the exam, Pushkin wrote the poem “Memoirs in Tsarskoe Selo” and was very worried about reading it before the authoritative commission.
Pupils reported on all subjects. Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin himself, the first poet of Russia, sat on the examination committee. His presence worried Pushkin most of all.
Subsequently, Pushkin recalled: “Derzhavin was very old. He was in a uniform and velvet boots. Our exam tired him very much. He sat with his head on his hand. His face was meaningless, his eyes were dull, his lips drooped... He dozed until the exam in Russian literature began. Here he perked up, his eyes sparkled; he was completely transformed.”
The pall of gloomy night hangs over
On the vault of slumbering skies;
The valleys and groves rested in silent silence,
In the gray fog there is a distant forest;
You can barely hear a stream running into the shadow of the oak grove,
The breeze barely breathes, asleep on the sheets,
And the quiet moon, like a majestic swan,
Floating in silvery clouds...
Friends did not recognize their Pushkin. They listened to familiar poems, realizing that this young man with a flaming face, with a special expression in his burning eyes, was a brilliant poet.
Since then, almost all teachers looked with reverence at Pushkin's growing talent. The source of inspiration for the young poet was often the picturesque corners of Tsarskoye Selo parks. He loved to wander alone along the alleys, along the banks of ponds and canals. He listened to the birds singing and admired the sunset:
So, I was happy, so I enjoyed,
I reveled in quiet joy and delight...
And where is the fun quick day?
I flew through the summer of dreams,
The charm of pleasure has faded,
And again there is a shadow of gloomy boredom around me!..
The initial period of the Lyceum's existence coincided with historical events 1812, which had a huge influence on the students. I. I. Pushchin wrote: “Our lyceum life merges with the political era folk life Russian: the storm of 1812 was being prepared.”
Lyceum students excitedly read and discussed military reports. They went out to the Lyceum arch to say goodbye to the guards regiments heading towards Moscow. In the same poem “Memoirs in Tsarskoe Selo” Pushkin responded to the terrible events of that time:
Oh, loud age of military disputes,
Witness to the glory of the Russians!
Have you seen how Orlov, Rumyantsev and Suvorov,
Descendants of the formidable Slavs,
Perun Zeus stole the victory;
The world marveled at their brave exploits...
The Lyceum celebrated its opening day every year. October 19 has always been a holiday for the first lyceum students. They tried to meet together and remember the years of lyceum brotherhood. And during school, every year on October 19, performances and balls were held. The author of the short plays was the tutor Ikonnikov. In addition, they staged comedies by real playwrights - Shakhovsky and Knyazhnin.
Pushkin and Vyazemsky met in Tsarskoye Selo. The poet often visited N.M. Karamzin, making friends with his entire family. Alexander listened with great interest to the pages from the “History of the Russian State.” And, who knows, maybe it was then that the poet first thought about “Ruslan and Lyudmila.” He began writing his fairy tale poem during his lyceum years. In Tsarskoe Selo for a long time There was a hussar regiment, and Pushkin was seriously thinking about whether he should join the hussars. The young officers with whom Pushkin became friends returned from the war and did not find any changes in their fatherland.
Neither the transformations that the sovereign promised, nor freedom for citizens, nor liberty for the people. Heroes Patriotic War Having returned to Russia, they again turned into serfs. While Alexander I was thinking about rebuilding society, discussing his plans with like-minded people, the ministers and the Senate continued to rule the country as before. It was incredibly difficult to get out of this web. Arakcheev was in charge of everything in the country.
The emperor was not ready to introduce decisive changes in society. He was also frightened by the uncertainty associated with his position during these changes. He was afraid to lose his life, like his grandfather and father, so he was extremely careful and suspicious.
The depraved youth sat down in the council of husbands;
The despot's favorite rules the weak Senate,
He stretched out his yoke against Rome, dishonoring the fatherland;
Vetulius, king of the Romans!.. Oh shame, oh times!
Or is the universe given over to destruction?
I am a Roman at heart; freedom is boiling in my chest;
The spirit of a great people does not sleep within me.
Freedom was boiling in the souls of those who heard these lines. A few years later, Bulgarin wrote in his denunciation to the Lyceum, explaining the reasons for the emergence of the rebellious spirit in educational institution the fact that the whole reason was the communication of the lyceum students with the officers, that “in the Lyceum they began to read all the forbidden books, there was an archive of all the manuscripts that were secretly passed from hand to hand, and, finally, it came to the conclusion that if it was necessary to find something forbidden, then were taken directly to the Lyceum.”
It was in those years that lyceum students became close to future “state criminals”: Pavel Pestel, Fyodor Glinka, Nikita Muravyov. Pushkin, Volkhovsky, Kuchelbecker and Delvig often visited the officers’ circle “Sacred Artel”, where they talked “about public objects, about the evil of our existing order of things and about the possibility of change, desired by many in secret.”
It is unknown how the creative fate of the great poet would have developed if he had not found himself “Under the canopy of friendly muses”, if 7 years of his life had not passed among the extraordinary beauty of Tsarskoye Selo parks.
In 1899, during the celebration of the 100th anniversary of the poet’s birth, a monument to the great poet was laid in the garden near the Lyceum. The author of the monument, sculptor R. R. Bach, depicted Pushkin as a young man sitting on a bench.
The lyceum frock coat is open, the cap is carelessly thrown on the bench. The poet seems to have forgotten about everything around him; he looks thoughtfully and intently into the distance. The following lines are carved on the pedestal of the monument:
In those days in the mysterious valleys,
In the spring, when the swan calls,
Near the waters shining in silence,
The muse began to appear to me.
My friends, our union is wonderful!
He, like a soul, is indivisible and eternal -
Unshakable, free and - carefree
He grew together under the shadow of friendly muses.
Wherever fate throws us,
And happiness wherever it leads,
We are still the same: we the whole world foreign land;
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin (1799– 1837)
Memories in Tsarskoe Selo
The pall of gloomy night hangs over
On the vault of slumbering skies;
The valleys and groves rested in silent silence,
In the gray fog there is a distant forest;
You can barely hear a stream running into the shadow of the oak grove,
The breeze barely breathes, asleep on the sheets,
And the quiet moon, like a majestic swan,
Floating in silvery clouds.
From the flinty hills there are waterfalls
Flowing down like a river of beads,
There are naiads splashing in a quiet lake
His lazy wave;
And there are huge palaces in silence,
Leaning on the arches, they rush towards the clouds.
Isn’t this where the earthly gods lived their peaceful days?
Isn’t it the temple of Minerva of Russia?
Isn’t it Elysium full,
The beautiful Tsarskoye Selo garden,
Where, having slain a lion, the mighty eagle of Russia rested
In the bosom of peace and joy?
Those golden times have flown by forever,
When under the scepter of the great wife
Happy Russia was crowned with glory,
Blooming under the roof of silence!
Here every step in the soul gives birth
Memories of previous years;
Looking around him, Ross says with a sigh:
“Everything has disappeared, the Great One is gone!”
And, deep in thought, over the grassy shores
Sits in silence, inclining his ears to the winds.
The past summers flash before my eyes,
And the spirit is in quiet admiration.
He sees, surrounded by waves,
Over a hard, mossy rock
The monument went up. Spreading with wings.
A young eagle sits above him.
And heavy chains and thunder arrows
They wrapped themselves around the formidable pillar three times;
All around the foothills, rustling, gray shafts
They lay down in shiny foam.
In the shade of thick, gloomy pine trees
A simple monument was erected.
Oh, how diarrhea he is for you, Cahul Breg!
And glory to the homeland!
You are immortal forever, O giants of Russia,
Trained in battle in the midst of harsh weather!
About you, companions, friends of Catherine,
Word will spread from generation to generation.
Oh, loud age of military disputes,
Witness to the glory of the Russians!
Have you seen how Orlov, Rumyantsev and Suvorov,
Descendants of the formidable Slavs,
Perun Zeus stole the victory;
The world marveled at their brave exploits;
Derzhavin and Petrov rattled a song for the heroes
Strings of thunderous lyres.
And you rushed by, unforgettable!
And soon new Age saw
And new battles and war horrors;
To suffer is a mortal's destiny.
The bloody sword flashed in the indomitable hand
By the deceit and insolence of a crowned king;
The scourge of the universe has risen - and soon there will be a new war
A menacing dawn dawned.
And they rushed with a fast stream
Enemies on Russian fields.
Before them the gloomy steppe lies in a deep sleep,
The earth is smoking with blood;
And the villages are peaceful, and the cities are burning in the darkness,
And the sky covered itself with a glow,
Dense forests shelter those running,
And the idle plow rusts in the field.
They go - there is no obstacle to their strength,
They destroy everything, they turn everything into dust,
And the pale shadows of the dead children of Bellona,
In the airy shelves united,
They continually descend into the dark grave,
Or wander through the forests in the silence of the night....
But the clicks were heard!... they are walking into the foggy distance! –
Chain mail and swords sound!...
Be afraid, O army of foreigners!
The sons of Russia moved;
Both old and young rebelled; fly on the daring,
Their hearts are set on fire with vengeance.
Tremble, tyrant! the hour of fall is near!
You will see a hero in every warrior.
Their goal is either to win or to fall in the heat of battle
For Rus', for the holiness of the altar.
The zealous horses are full of abuse,
The valley is dotted with warriors,
The system flows behind the line, everyone breathes revenge and glory,
Delight filled their chests.
They fly to a terrible feast; swords are looking for prey,
And lo - the battle is blazing; thunder roars on the hills,
In the thick air with swords, arrows whistle,
And blood splashes on the shield.
They fought. Russian is the winner!
And the arrogant Gaul runs back;
But strong in battle, the heavenly Almighty
Crowned with the last ray,
It was not here that the gray-haired warrior struck him down;
O Borodino bloody fields!
You are not the limits of fury and pride!
Alas! on the Gaul towers of the Kremlin!...
The edges of Moscow, the native lands,
Where at the dawn of blooming years
I spent golden hours of carelessness,
Without knowing sorrows and troubles,
And you saw them, the enemies of my fatherland!
And your blood turned purple and the flames devoured you!
And I did not sacrifice vengeance on you or my life;
In vain only the spirit burned with anger!...
Where are you, the hundred-domed beauty of Moscow,
Dearest charm of the party?
Where before the majestic city appeared before our eyes,
The ruins are now alone;
Moscow, how scary your sad look is to a Russian!
The buildings of nobles and kings have disappeared,
The flames destroyed everything. The crowns were eclipsed by the towers,
The halls of the rich have fallen.
And where luxury lived
In shady groves and gardens,
Where the myrtle fragrant and the linden tree trembled,
There are now coals, ashes, dust.
In the silent hours of a beautiful summer night
Noisy fun will not fly there,
The shores and bright groves no longer shine in the lights:
Everything is dead, everything is silent.
Be comforted, mother of Russian cities,
Behold the death of the stranger.
Today they are weighed down by their arrogant necks
The avenging right hand of the Creator.
Look: they are running, they don’t dare to look up,
Their blood never stops flowing like rivers in the snow;
They run - and in the darkness of the night their hunger and death are met,
And from the rear the Russian sword is driving.
O you who trembled
Europe's tribes are strong,
O ravenous Gauls! and you fell into your graves. –
O fear! O terrible times!
Where are you, beloved son of happiness and Bellona,
The voice that despises truth, and faith, and law,
In pride, dreaming of overthrowing thrones with a sword?
Disappeared like a bad dream in the morning!
Ross in Paris! – where is the torch of vengeance?
Lower your head, Gaul.
But what do I see? Ross with a smile of reconciliation
Coming with a golden olive.
The military thunder still rumbles in the distance,
Moscow is in despondency, like the steppe in complete darkness,
And he brings the enemy not death, but salvation
And beneficial peace to the earth.
O inspired skald of Russia,
The formidable formation sung of the warriors,
In the circle of comrades, with an ignited soul,
Sound the golden harp!
Yes, again a harmonious voice will be shed in honor of the heroes,
And proud strings will sprinkle fire into hearts,
And the young warrior will boil and tremble
At the sound of a swearing singer.
1814
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Liberty Run, hide from sight, Reveal to me the noble trail |
Alas! wherever I look - Only there above the royal head |
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And crime from above And woe, woe to the tribes, Louis ascends to death Autocratic Villain! When on the gloomy Neva A restful sleep is burdensome, And Klia hears a terrible voice |
The unfaithful sentry is silent, And learn today, O kings:
To Chaadaev Love, hope, quiet glory
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went out daylight;
The evening fog fell on the blue sea.
I see a distant shore
The lands of the midday are magical lands;
I rush there with excitement and longing,
Intoxicated with memories...
And I feel: tears were born in my eyes again;
The soul boils and freezes;
A familiar dream flies around me;
I remembered the crazy love of previous years,
And everything that I suffered, and everything that is dear to my heart,
Desires and hopes are a painful deception...
Make noise, make noise, obedient sail,
Worry beneath me, sullen ocean.
Fly, ship, carry me to the distant limits
By the terrible whim of the deceptive seas,
But not to the sad shores
My foggy homeland,
Countries where the flames of passions
For the first time feelings flared up,
Where tender muses secretly smiled at me,
Where it bloomed early in the storms
My lost youth
Where the light-winged one changed my joy
And betrayed my cold heart to suffering.
Seeker of new experiences,
I ran away from you, fatherly land;
I ran you, pets of pleasures,
Minutes of youth, minute friends;
And you, confidants of vicious delusions,
To whom I sacrificed myself without love,
Peace, glory, freedom and soul,
And you are forgotten by me, young traitors,
Secret golden friends of my spring,
And you are forgotten by me... But the wounds of the former hearts,
Nothing has healed the deep wounds of love...
Make noise, make noise, obedient sail,
Worry beneath me, gloomy ocean...
Dagger
The god of Lemnos has bound you
For the hands of the immortal Nemesis,
Freedom's secret guard, punishing dagger,
The last judge of Shame and Resentment.
Where Zeus's thunder is silent, where the sword of the Law slumbers,
You are the executor of curses and hopes,
You are hidden under the shadow of the throne,
Under the shine of festive clothes.
Like a hellish ray, like the lightning of the gods,
A silent blade shines in the villain's eyes,
And, looking around, he trembles,
Among their feasts.
Everywhere your unexpected blow will find him:
On land, on the seas, in the temple, under tents,
Behind hidden castles
On the bed of sleep, in the family.
The treasured Rubicon rustles under Caesar,
Sovereign Rome fell, the Law became its head:
But Brutus rebelled, a freedom-loving man:
You have defeated Caesar - and he is surrounded by death
Pompey marble is proud.
The fiend of rebellion raises an evil cry:
Despicable, dark and bloody,
Over the corpse of Headless Liberty
An ugly executioner appeared.
Apostle of doom, to weary Hades
With his finger he designated victims,
But the highest court sent him
You and the maiden Eumenides.
O young righteous man, chosen one of fate,
O Zand, your age has died on the chopping block;
But the virtues are holy
A voice remained in the executed ashes.
In your Germany you have become an eternal shadow,
Threatening disaster to the criminal force -
And at the solemn grave
The dagger is burning without an inscription.
1821
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Prisoner I'm sitting behind bars in a damp dungeon. He pecks and throws and looks out the window, He calls me with his gaze and his cry We are free birds; it's time, brother, it's time! There, where the mountain turns white behind the clouds, Who, the waves, stopped you, Who bound your mighty run, Who is in the silent and dense pond Has the rebellious flow turned? Whose magic wand struck I have hope, sorrow and joy And a stormy soul Have you lulled yourself into a nap of laziness? Leap up, winds, roar up the waters, Destroy the disastrous stronghold - Where are you, thunderstorm - a symbol of freedom? Rush across the unwitting waters. |
The sower went out to sow his seeds. Desert sower of freedom, Graze, peaceful peoples! Conversation between a bookseller and a poet Bookseller |
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Why did you take such a deep breath? Poet I remembered that time Bookseller Poet |
And from people, as from graves, Bookseller. Poet. When I involuntarily remember |
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Bookseller. Poet Bookseller. Poet Bookseller. |
Our age is a huckster; in this iron age Poet I remember wonderful moment: In the languor of hopeless sadness, Years passed. The storm is a rebellious gust In the wilderness, in the darkness of imprisonment The soul has awakened: And the heart beats in ecstasy, |
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And deity and inspiration, Ppopok We are tormented by spiritual thirst, “Rise up, prophet, and see and listen, *** Unluckily faithful sister, Love and friendship up to you The heavy shackles will fall, 1827 |
*** Who makes me a hostile power There is no goal in front of me: 1828 Anchar In the desert, stunted and stingy, Nature of thirsty steppes Poison drips through its bark, Not even a bird flies to him And if the cloud waters, But man is man He brought mortal resin He brought it - and weakened and lay down |
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And the prince fed that poison Poet and crowd Poet of inspired lyre And the stupid mob interpreted: Why do hearts worry, torment, Poet. Black. Poet. |
Scourges, dungeons, axes; – * * * I say: the years will fly by, I look at the solitary oak tree, Am I caressing a sweet baby? Every day, every year And where will fate send me death? And even to an insensitive body And let at the tomb entrance |
To the poet
Poet! do not value people's love.
There will be a momentary noise of enthusiastic praise;
You will hear the judgment of a fool and the laughter of a cold crowd,
But you remain firm, calm and gloomy.
You are the king: live alone. On the road to freedom
Go where your free mind takes you,
Improving the fruits of your favorite thoughts,
Without demanding rewards for a noble deed.
They are in you. You are your own highest court;
You know how to evaluate your work more strictly than anyone else.
Are you satisfied with it, discerning artist?
Satisfied? So let the crowd scold him
And spits on the altar where your fire burns,
And your tripod shakes in childish playfulness.
Autumn(excerpt)
Why doesn’t my mind then enter into my slumber?
Derzhavin.
I.
October has already arrived - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has blown in - the road is freezing.
The stream still runs babbling behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And the winter ones suffer from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes up the sleeping oak forests.
II.
Now is my time: I don’t like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stench, dirt - in the spring I am sick;
The blood is fermenting; feelings and mind are constrained by melancholy.
I'm happier in the harsh winter
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
How easy the running of a sleigh with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!
III.
How fun it is to put sharp iron on your feet,
Slide along the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant worries of the winter holidays?...
But you also need to know honor; six months of snow and snow,
After all, this is finally true for the inhabitant of the den,
The bear will get bored. You can't take a whole century
We'll ride in a sleigh with the young Armids,
Or sour by the stoves behind double glass.
IV.
Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If only it weren't for the heat, the dust, the mosquitoes, and the flies.
You, ruining all your spiritual abilities,
You torture us; like the fields we suffer from drought;
Just to get something to drink and refresh yourself -
We have no other thought, and it’s a pity for the old woman’s winter,
And, having seen her off with pancakes and wine,
We are celebrating her funeral with ice cream and ice.
V.
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she’s sweet to me, dear reader,
Quiet beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the family
It attracts me to itself. To tell you frankly,
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her,
There is a lot of good in her; a lover is not vain,
I found something in her like a wayward dream.
VI.
How to explain this? I like her,
Like you probably are a consumptive maiden
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows down without a murmur, without anger.
A smile is visible on faded lips;
She does not hear the gaping of the grave abyss;
The color of his face is still purple.
She is still alive today, gone tomorrow.
VII.
It's a sad time! charm of the eyes!
I am pleased with your farewell beauty -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.
VIII.
And every autumn I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I feel love again for the habits of life:
One by one sleep flies away, one by one hunger comes;
The blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I’m happy, young again,
I’m full of life again - that’s my body
(Please forgive me the unnecessary prosaicism).
IX.
They lead the horse to me; in the open expanse,
Waving his mane, he carries the rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen valley rings and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireplace
The fire is burning again - then the bright light is pouring,
It smolders slowly - and I read in front of it,
Or I harbor long thoughts in my soul.
X.
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I'm sweetly lulled to sleep by my imagination,
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
It trembles and sounds and searches, as in a dream,
To finally pour out with free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.
XI.
And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the poems will flow freely.
So the ship slumbers motionless in the motionless moisture,
But choo! - the sailors suddenly rush and crawl
Up, down - and the sails are inflated, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and is cutting through the waves.
XII.
Floating. Where should we sail?....
...............................
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*** Here is a wooded hill, above which To the lake, remembering with sadness |
Rugged by rain, three pines They stand - one at a distance, the other two I was greeted. Along that road |
When outside the city, thoughtfully, I wander
And I go to a public cemetery,
Grilles, pillars, elegant tombs,
Under which all the dead of the capital rot,
In the swamp, somehow cramped in a row.
Like greedy guests at a beggarly table,
Merchants, officials, deceased mausoleums,
A cheap cutter is a ridiculous idea,
Above them are inscriptions both in prose and verse
About virtues, about service and ranks;
For the old stag, the widow's cry is amorous.
Urns unscrewed from poles by thieves,
The graves are slimy, which are also here
Yawningly waiting for the tenants to come home in the morning, -
Everything gives me such vague thoughts,
That an evil despondency comes over me.
At least spit and run...
But how I love it
Sometimes in autumn, in the evening silence,
In the village, visit the family cemetery,
Where the dead slumber in solemn peace.
There is room for undecorated graves;
The pale thief does not approach them in the dark at night;
Near the age-old stones covered with yellow moss,
A villager passes with a prayer and a sigh;
In place of idle urns and small pyramids,
Noseless geniuses, disheveled charites
The oak tree stands wide above the lower coffins,
Hesitating and noisy...
I erected a monument to myself, not made by hands,
It won't grow on him folk trail,
He ascended higher with his rebellious head
Alexandrian Pillar.
No, all of me will not die - the soul is in the treasured lyre
My ashes will survive and decay will escape -
And I will be glorious as long as I am in the sublunary world
At least one piit will be alive.
Rumors about me will spread throughout Great Rus',
And every tongue that is in it will call me,
And the proud grandson of the Slavs, and the Finn, and now wild
Tungus, and friend of the steppes Kalmyk.
And for a long time I will be so kind to the people,
That I awaken good feelings with my lyre,
That in my cruel age I glorified Freedom
And he called for mercy for the fallen.
By the command of God, O muse, be obedient,
Without fear of insult, without demanding a crown,
Praise and slander were accepted indifferently,
And don't argue with a fool.
Questions
- Follow how Pushkin's poetics changes in the process of mastering the creative principles of classicism, romanticism and realism. How does this creative evolution manifest itself at the level of genre composition, vocabulary, imagery? How does the very idea of the essence of the poetic change in Pushkin’s poetry?
- Trace the Evolution lyrical hero Pushkin, his movement from a conventional image (from a set of genre masks) of a lyrical hero, in which only biographical features slip through, to the image of a divided hero, typical of the poetry of romanticism, to the gradual affirmation of the aesthetic value of the individual world of the individual. Using examples from the text, show the change in the lyrical hero’s attitude to the world. Can you summarize the overall appearance of Pushkin's lyrical hero? What are the defining features of Pushkin's personality?
- How did Pushkin’s idea of the purpose of poetry and the poet, the essence of poetic creativity, the creative process change? What aspects remained constant, independent of ideological and aesthetic evolution?
- Show how Pushkin moves from a “style” word to a “non-style” word? How do you understand the words of L.Ya. Ginzburg given in the introductory article to this section? Demonstrate your conclusion using examples from Pushkin’s works of different periods of creativity.
The pall of gloomy night hangs over
On the vault of slumbering skies;
The valleys and groves rested in silent silence,
In the gray fog there is a distant forest;
You can barely hear a stream running into the shadow of the oak grove,
The breeze barely breathes, asleep on the sheets,
And the quiet moon, like a majestic swan,
Floating in silvery clouds.
9 Floats - and with pale rays
Objects were illuminated around.
The avenues of ancient linden trees opened before my eyes,
Both the hill and the meadow appeared;
Here, I see, a young willow intertwined with the poplar
And was reflected in the crystal of the unsteady waters;
The lily is proud as a queen among the fields
Blooms in luxurious beauty.
17 Waterfalls from the flinty hills
Flowing down like a river of beads,
There are naiads splashing in a quiet lake
His lazy wave;
And there are huge palaces in silence,
Leaning on the arches, they rush towards the clouds.
Isn’t this where the earthly gods lived their peaceful days?
Isn’t it the temple of Minerva of Russia?
25 Not yet full Elysium,
The beautiful Tsarsko-Selo garden,
Where, having slain a lion, the mighty eagle of Russia rested
In the bosom of peace and joy?
Alas! those golden times have flown by,
When under the scepter of the great wife
Happy Russia was crowned with glory,
Blooming under the roof of silence!
33 Here every step in the soul gives birth
Memories of previous years;
Looking around him, Ross says with a sigh:
“Everything has disappeared, the Great One is gone!”
And deep in thought, over the green banks
Sits in silence, inclining his ears to the winds.
The past summers flash before my eyes,
And the spirit is in quiet admiration.
41 He sees, surrounded by waves,
Over a hard, mossy rock
The monument went up. Spreading its wings,
A young eagle sits above him.
And heavy chains and thunder arrows
The threefold entwined themselves around the formidable pillar;
All around the foothills, rustling, gray shafts
They lay down in shiny foam.
49 In the shade of thick, gloomy pines
A simple monument was erected.
Oh, how vilified it is for you, Cahul Coast!
And glory to the homeland!
You are immortal forever, O giants of Russia,
Trained in battle in the midst of harsh weather!
About you, companions, friends of Catherine,
Word will spread from generation to generation.
57 O loud age of military disputes,
Witness to the glory of the Russians!
Have you seen how Orlov, Rumyantsev and Suvorov,
Descendants of the formidable Slavs,
Perun Zeus stole the victory;
The world marveled at their brave deeds;
Derzhavin and Petrov rattled the song of the Heroes
Strings of thunderous lyres.
65 And you rushed by, unforgettable!
And soon a new century dawned
And new battles and war horrors;
To suffer is a mortal's lot.
The bloody sword flashed in the indomitable hand
By the deceit and insolence of a crowned king;
The scourge of the universe arose - and soon a fierce battle
A menacing dawn dawned.
73 And they rushed with a fast stream
Enemies on Russian fields.
Before them the gloomy steppe lies in a deep sleep,
The earth is smoking with blood;
And the villages are peaceful, and the cities are burning in the darkness,
And the sky covered itself with a glow,
Dense forests shelter those running,
And the idle plow rusts in the field.
81 They go - there is no obstacle to their strength,
They destroy everything, they turn everything into dust,
And the pale shadows of the dead children of Bellona,
In the airy shelves united,
They continually descend into the dark grave,
Or wander through the forests in the silence of the night....
But the clicks were heard!... they are walking into the foggy distance! -
Chain mail and swords sound!...
89 Be afraid, O army of foreigners!
The sons of Russia moved;
Both old and young rebelled; fly on the daring,
Their hearts are kindled with vengeance.
Tremble, tyrant! the hour of fall is near!
You will see a hero in every warrior,
Their goal is either to win or to fall in the heat of battle
For faith, for the king.
97 The zealous horses are full of abuse,
The valley is dotted with warriors,
The system flows behind the line, everyone breathes revenge and glory,
Delight filled their chests.
They fly to a terrible feast; swords are looking for prey,
And lo - the battle is blazing; thunder roars on the hills,
In the thick air with swords, arrows whistle,
And blood splashes on the shield.
105 They fought. - Russian is the winner!
And the arrogant Gall runs back;
But strong in battle, the heavenly Almighty
Crowned with the last ray,
It was not here that the gray-haired warrior struck him down;
O Borodino bloody fields!
You are not the limits of fury and pride!
Alas! on the Gall towers of the Kremlin!...
113 Regions of Moscow, native lands,
Where at the dawn of blooming years
I spent golden hours of carelessness,
Without knowing sorrows and troubles,
And you saw them, the enemies of my fatherland!
And your blood turned purple and the flames devoured you!
And I did not sacrifice vengeance on you or my life;
In vain only the spirit burned with anger!...
121 Where are you, hundred-domed beauty of Moscow,
Dearest charm of the party?
Where before the majestic city appeared before our eyes,
The ruins are now alone;
Moscow, how scary is your sad look to a Russian!
The buildings of nobles and kings have disappeared,
The flames destroyed everything. The crowns were eclipsed by the towers.
The halls of the rich have fallen.
129 And where luxury lived
In shady groves and gardens,
Where the myrtle was fragrant and the linden tree trembled,
There are now coals, ashes, dust.
In the silent hours of a beautiful summer night
Noisy fun will not fly there,
The shores and bright groves no longer shine in the lights:
Everything is dead, everything is silent.
137 Be comforted, mother of Russian cities,
Behold the death of the stranger.
Today they are weighed down by their arrogant necks
The avenging right hand of the Creator.
Look: they are running, they don’t dare to look up,
Their blood never stops flowing like rivers in the snow;
They run - and in the darkness of the night their hunger and death are met,
And from the rear Ross’s sword is chasing.
145 O you who trembled
Europe's tribes are strong,
O predatory Gauls! and you fell into your graves. -
O fear! O terrible times!
Where are you, beloved son of happiness and Bellona,
The voice that despises truth and faith and law,
In pride, dreaming of overthrowing thrones with a sword?
Disappeared like a bad dream in the morning!
153 In Paris Ross! - Where is the torch of vengeance?
Lower your head, Gaul.
But what am I seeing? A hero with a smile of reconciliation
Coming with a golden olive.
Military thunder still rumbles in the distance,
Moscow is in despondency, like the steppe in complete darkness,
And he brings the enemy not death, but salvation
And beneficial peace to the earth.
161 Catherine’s worthy grandson!
Mail of the heavenly Aonides,
Like the singer of our days, the Slavic Bard of the squad,
Isn't my spirit burning with delight?
Oh, if only Apollo had a wonderful gift
Influenced my chest now! I admire you
On the lyre I would thunder with heavenly harmony
And shone in the darkness of time.
169 O inspired Skald of Russia,
The formidable formation sung of the warriors,
In the circle of your friends, with an ignited soul,
Sound the golden harp!
Yes, again a harmonious voice will pour out in honor of the Hero,
And trembling strings will sprinkle fire into the hearts,
And the young warrior will boil and shudder
At the sound of the swearing Singer.
Memories in Tsarskoe Selo
The pall of gloomy night hangs over
On the vault of slumbering skies;
The valleys and groves rested in silent silence,
In the gray fog there is a distant forest;
You can barely hear a stream running into the shadow of the oak grove,
The breeze barely breathes, asleep on the sheets,
And the quiet moon, like a majestic swan,
Floating in silvery clouds.
Floats - and with pale rays
Objects were illuminated around.
The avenues of ancient linden trees opened before my eyes,
Both the hill and the meadow appeared;
Here, I see, a young willow intertwined with the poplar
And was reflected in the crystal of the unsteady waters;
The queen flowed proudly among the fields
Blooms in luxurious beauty.
From the flinty hills there are waterfalls
Flowing down like a river of beads,
There are naiads splashing in a quiet lake
His lazy wave;
And there are huge palaces in silence,
Leaning on the arches, they rush towards the clouds.
Isn’t this where the earthly gods lived their peaceful days?
Isn’t it the temple of Minerva of Russia?
Isn’t it Elysium full,
The beautiful Tsarsko-Selo garden,
Where, having slain a lion, the mighty eagle of Russia rested
In the bosom of peace and joy?
Alas! those golden times have flown by,
When under the scepter of the great wife
Happy Russia was crowned with glory,
Blooming under the roof of silence!
Here every step in the soul gives birth
Memories of previous years;
Looking around him, Ross says with a sigh:
“Everything has disappeared, the Great One is gone!”
And deep in thought, over the green banks
Sits in silence, inclining his ears to the winds.
The past summers flash before my eyes,
And the spirit is in quiet admiration.
He sees, surrounded by waves,
Over a hard, mossy rock
The monument went up. Spreading with wings.
A young eagle sits above him.
And heavy chains and thunder arrows
The threefold entwined themselves around the formidable pillar;
All around the foothills, rustling, gray shafts
They lay down in shiny foam.
In the shade of thick, gloomy pine trees
A simple monument was erected.
Oh, how vilified it is for you, Cahul Coast!
And glory to the homeland!
You are immortal forever, O giants of Russia,
Trained in battle in the midst of harsh weather!
About you, companions, friends of Catherine,
Word will spread from generation to generation.
O loud age of military disputes,
Witness to the glory of the Russians!
Have you seen how Orlov, Rumyantsev and Suvorov,
Descendants of the formidable Slavs,
Perun Zeus stole the victory;
The world marveled at their brave deeds;
Derzhavin and Petrov rattled the song of the Heroes
Strings of thunderous lyres.
And you rushed by, unforgettable!
And soon a new century dawned
And new battles and war horrors;
To suffer is a mortal's destiny.
The bloody sword flashed in the indomitable hand
By the deceit and insolence of a crowned king;
The scourge of the universe arose - and soon a fierce battle
A menacing dawn dawned.
And they rushed with a fast stream
Enemies on Russian fields.
Before them the gloomy steppe lies in a deep sleep,
The earth is smoking with blood;
And the villages are peaceful, and the cities are burning in the darkness,
And the sky covered itself with a glow,
Dense forests shelter those running,
And the idle plow rusts in the field.
They go - there is no obstacle to their strength,
They destroy everything, they turn everything into dust,
And the pale shadows of the dead children of Bellona,
In the airy shelves united,
They continually descend into the dark grave,
Or wander through the forests in the silence of the night...
But the clicks were heard!.. they are walking into the foggy distance! -
Chain mail and swords sound!..
Be afraid, O army of foreigners!
The sons of Russia moved;
Both old and young have risen: they fly on the daring
Their hearts are kindled with vengeance.
Tremble, tyrant! the hour of fall is near!
You will see a Hero in every warrior.
Their goal is either to win or to fall in the heat of battle
For faith, for the king.
The zealous horses are full of abuse,
The valley is dotted with warriors,
The system flows behind the line, everyone breathes revenge and glory,
Delight filled their chests.
They fly to a terrible feast; swords are looking for prey,
And lo - the battle is blazing; thunder roars on the hills,
In the thick air with swords, arrows whistle,
And blood splashes on the shield.
They fought. – Russian is the winner!
And the arrogant Gall runs back;
But strong in battle, the heavenly Almighty
Crowned with the last ray,
It was not here that the gray-haired warrior struck him down;
O Borodino bloody fields!
You are not the limits of fury and pride!
Alas! on the Gall towers of the Kremlin!..
The edges of Moscow, the native lands,
Where at the dawn of blooming years
I spent golden hours of carelessness,
Without knowing sorrows and troubles,
And you saw them, the enemies of my fatherland!
And your blood turned purple and the flames devoured you!
And I did not sacrifice vengeance on you or my life;
In vain only the spirit burned with anger!..
Where are you, the hundred-domed beauty of Moscow,
Dearest charm of the party?
Where before the majestic city appeared before our eyes,
The ruins are now alone;
Moscow, how scary is your sad look to a Russian!
The buildings of nobles and kings have disappeared,
The flames destroyed everything. The crowns were eclipsed by the towers,
The halls of the rich have fallen.
And where luxury lived
In shady groves and gardens,
Where the myrtle was fragrant and the linden tree trembled,
There are now coals, ashes, dust.
In the silent hours of a beautiful summer night
Noisy fun will not fly there,
The shores and bright groves no longer shine in the lights:
Everything is dead, everything is silent.
Be comforted, mother of Russian cities,
Behold the death of the stranger.
Today they are weighed down by their arrogant necks
The avenging right hand of the Creator.
Look: they are running, they don’t dare to look up,
Their blood never stops flowing like rivers in the snow;
They run - and in the darkness of the night their hunger and death are met,
And from the rear Ross’s sword is chasing.
O you who trembled
Europe's tribes are strong,
O predatory Gauls! and you fell into your graves. -
O fear! O terrible times!
Where are you, beloved son of happiness and Bellona,
The voice that despises truth and faith and law,
In pride, dreaming of overthrowing thrones with a sword?
Disappeared like a bad dream in the morning!
In Paris Ross! – where is the torch of vengeance?
Lower your head, Gaul.
But what am I seeing? A hero with a smile of reconciliation
Coming with a golden olive.
Military thunder still rumbles in the distance,
Moscow is in despondency, like the steppe in complete darkness,
And he brings the enemy not death, but salvation
And beneficial peace to the earth.
A worthy grandson of Catherine!
Mail of the heavenly Aonides,
Like the singer of our days, the Slavic Bard of the squad,
Isn't my spirit burning with delight?
Oh, if only Apollo had a wonderful gift
Influenced my chest now! I admire you
On the lyre I would thunder with heavenly harmony
And shone in the darkness of time.
O inspired Skald of Russia,
The formidable formation sung of the warriors,
In the circle of your friends, with an ignited soul,
Sound the golden harp!
Yes, again a harmonious voice will pour out in honor of the Hero,
And trembling strings will sprinkle fire into the hearts,
And the young warrior will boil and shudder
At the sound of the swearing Singer.