Death of a Poet by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov

The Bard is killed! The honor's striverFell, slandered by a gossip's dread,With lead in breast and vengeful fire,Drooped with his ever-proud head.The Poet's soul did not bearThe shameful hurts of low breed,He fought against the worldly "faire,"Alone as always, ... and is killed!He's killed! What for are late orationsOf useless praise; and weeps and moans,And gibberish of explanations? --The fate had brought her verdict on!Had not you first so hard maltreatedHis free and brave poetic gift,And, for your pleasure, fanned and fittedThe fire that in ashes drifts?You may be happy ... Those torturesHad broken his strength, at last:Like light, had failed the genius gorgeous;The sumptuous wreath had weathered fast.

His murderer, without mercy,Betook his aim and bloody chance,His empty heart is calm and healthy,The pistol did not tremble once.And what is wonder? ... From a distance,By road of manifold exiles,He came to us, by fatal instance,To catch his fortune, rank and price.Detested he the alien landsTraditions, language and discussions;He couldn't spare The Fame of RussiansAnd fathom -- till last instant rushes --What a disaster grips his hand! ...

And he is killed, and leaves from here,As that young Bard, mysterious but dear,The prey of vengeance, deaf and bland,Who sang he of, so lyric and sincere,Who too was put to death by similar a hand.

And why, from peaceful times and simple-hearted fellows,He entered this high life, so stiff and so jealousOf freedom-loving heart and passions full of flame?Why did he give his hand to slanders, mean and worthlessWhy trusted their words and their oaths, godless,He, who from youth had caught the mankind's frame?

And then his wreath, a crown of sloe,Woven with bays, they put on Poet's head; The thorns, that secretly were grown, Were stinging famous brow, yet.

His life's fast end was poisoned with a gurgleAnd faithless whisper of the mocking fops,And died he with burning thrust for struggle,With hid vexation for his cheated hopes. The charming lyre is now silent, It will be never heard by us: The bard's abode is grim and tightened, And seal is placed on his mouth.

And you, oh, vainglory decedentsOf famous fathers, so mean and base,Who've trod with ushers' feet the remnantsOf clans, offended by the fortune's plays!In greedy crowd standing by the throne,The foes of Freedom, Genius, and Repute -- You're hid in shadow of a law-stone, For you, and truth and justice must be mute! ...

But there is Court of God, you, evil manifold! -- The terrible court: it waits; It's not reached by a ring of gold,It knows, in advance, all thoughts' and actions' weights.Then you, in vain, will try to bring your evil voice on: It will not help you to be right,And you will not wash of with all your bloody poison, The Poet's righteous blood!

____________________________________________________________________

This poem was a great feet of writing. The writer Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov alone lived a very odd life that ended to his death of being shot on a mountainside in a battle with fellow army officer Nikolai Martynov was hurt by one of Lermontov's jokes.
Lermontov had a very eloquent writing style studying mostly romanticism, battle strategy, and writing. His most famous writings (like this beautiful piece) were found posthumously in his notebooks and were published (like emily dickinson).
The way he describes the murderer and the bard (poet) it was just something so odd to see. i had to reread it to grasp all the detail that he put into such small amount of space.

Thanks to: http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/lermontov/death_of_poet.html
and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mikhail_Lermontov