The Russian Tsar in the halls of the Chamber have:
It is not gold, not rich velvet;
Not in her diamond crown is kept behind glass:
But from top to bottom, full-length, around,
His cyst free and broad
Her painted painter fast-Oka.
Here there is neither rural nymphs, nor virgin Madon,
Neither fauns with chalices, nor buxom wives,
our plyasok, no hunting, - and all coats, to swords,
that persons, full of warlike courage.
Crowd closely artist put
These chiefs folk of our forces,
Covered with glory wonderful hike
And the eternal memory of the twelfth year.
Often slowly between them I wander
And their images look familiar,
AND, crease, I hear their war-clicks.
Of these, too many do not; other, koih Leakey
Still so young on a bright canvas,
Already sostarelis and niknut in silence
Head lavrovoy ...
But this crowd harsh
One involves me all over. With the new Duma
Always stop before him - and did not take my
With him my eyes. The longer I look,
The more I tormented sadness severe.
He wrote to his full height. forehead, as the skull bare,
high shines, and, crease, laid by
There's a great sadness. Circle - thick darkness;
Behind him - a military camp. Quiet and moody,
is he, it seems, looking with contemptuous Duma.
Whether your idea of the artist drew exactly,
When he portrayed it as such,
Or it was an involuntary inspiration, —
But the Dow gave him an expression.
About the leader unhappy!.. Severe was your lot:
All the sacrifice you have brought to you a strange land.
Impervious to view wild mob,
In the silence of the one you came to the idea of the great,
And in the name of your sound strange not vzljubili,
Their cries chasing you,
People, mysteriously salvable thee,
I swore on your sacred white hair.
And the, whose sharp mind and you learned,
To accommodate them, you sly blamed ...
And for a long time, strengthened by being capable of persuasion,
You have been steadfast before the common misconceptions;
And on the floor, the way was supposed to last
Silently concede and laurel wreath,
And the power, and plan, deliberate deeply, —
And in regimental rows abbr lonely.
There, obsolete leader! as a warrior young,
Lead a cheerful whistle when he heard the first time,
You threw into the fire, seeking coveted death, —
Votshte! – …………
………….
………….
O people! pitiful race, worthy of tears and laughter!
priests minute, success fans!
How often do you pass by people,
Over someone swears blind and stubborn century,
But whose high in the face of future generations
Poet will delight and Affection!
