The death of the poet - Lermontov

vengeance, prince, vengeance!
Pad at your feet:
Be just and punish the murderer,
To his execution in later centuries
Your right judgment offspring heralded,
To see an example of the villains in it.

died poet! - Slave of honor -
bollard, maligned rumor,
With lead in his chest and a thirst for revenge,
Hanging his proud head!..
I could not bear the poet's soul
Shame petty offenses,
He rebelled against the light of opinions
One as before ... and killed!
killed!.. What is now sobbing,
Empty praise unnecessary Choir
And pathetic babble excuses?
Destiny come to pass sentence!
L Do not you first so viciously persecuted
its free, bold gift
And for fun fanned
Slightly Hidden fire?
Well? Have fun ... - he torments
The latter could not bear:
Ugas, as a beacon, Brave genius,
Faded festive wreath.

His killer in cold blood
Brought blow ... There is no escape.
An empty heart is calm,
The hand did not waver gun.
And what a miracle?.. from a distance,
Like hundreds of fugitives,
On catching happiness and ranks
Abandoned us by the will of fate;
laughing, he boldly despised
Earth's foreign language and customs;
I could not spare our glory;
I could not understand at this moment bloody,
At that he raised his hand!..

And he killed - and taken to the grave,
As the singer, unbeknownst, but cute,
Mining jealousy deaf,
Sung by him with such marvelous strength,
Struck, as he was, ruthless hand.

Why neg of peace and friendship ingenuous
He came into this world envious and stuffy
Heart-free and fiery passions?
Why would he give his hand to the slanderers void,
Why I believe he says and affection false,
is he, from a young age people postignuvshy?..

And removing the old wreath, - they are the crown of thorns,
wreathed with laurel, put on him:
But needles hidden severely
Yazvili glorious brow;
Poisoned his last moments
Insidious whisper mocking ignorant,
And he died - in vain with a vengeance,
With annoyance mystery disappointments.
Silent sounds wonderful songs,
Do not give them back:
Shelter singer gloomy and cramped,
And in his lips print.

And you, arrogant descendants
Known meanness famous fathers,
Pyatoyu slavish trampling wreckage
The play of happiness offended birth!
You, greedy crowd standing at the throne,
of freedom, Genius and glory of the executioners!
Taites you secretly in a pavilion of the law,
Before you truth and justice - all be silent!..
But there is a judgment of God, foxglove debauchery!
There is a terrible judgment: he is waiting;
He not available gold bell,
And thoughts and deeds, he knows in advance.
Then you need not flee to slander:
It will not help you again,
And you do not wash away all your black blood
Poet righteous blood!

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Sergey Yesenin
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