By Alexander Pushkin (1799Ė1837)
The monument Iíve built is not in chiseled stone,
The peopleís path to it will neíer be overgrown,
Its disobedient head in bold defiance has risen
Above the Alexandian column.
No, I will not all die: my soul in the secret
Will well escape decay, outliving my remains,
My fame will last while in the sublunary sphere
At least one poet remains.
Word of me will traverse the holy land of Rus,
And every living tongue in it will sing my praise:
The Slavsí proud heir, the Finn, the still savage Tungus,
The Kalmyk, friend of prairiesÖ
I daresay that a fact that folk will cherish
Is that bright liberty served as my lyreís true calling,
That I, in my cruel age, evoked kindness with song
And mercy for the fallen.
Remain obedient to Godís injunction, Muse,
Fear no hurt, crave no crown, retain your calm and cool,
Treat flattery and slander with indifference,
Argue not with the fool.