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Prophet Category: Texts On Acquisition of the Holy Spirit

      To the Slanderers of Russia
          Alexander Pushkin

 

      What do you raise an outcry over, national bards?
      Why do you threaten Russia with Anathema?
      What stirred you up? The throes of Lithuania?
      Desist: this is a strife of Slavs among themselves,
      An old domestic strife, already weighed by fate,
      An issue not to be resolved by you.
     
      Long since among themselves
      These tribes have been at war;
      More than once has bent beneath the storm
      Now their, now our side.
     
      Who will prevail in the unequal strife:
      The boastful Lekh, or the faithful Ross?
      Will the Slavonic streams converge in the Russian sea?
      Will it dry up? Here is the question.
     
      Leave us alone: you have not read
      Those bloody tablets;
      To you is unintelligible, you is alien
      This family feud;
      Mute to you are the Kremlin and Praga;
      Unthinkingly you are beguiled
      By the valor of a desperate struggle —
      And you hate us . . .
     
      And for what? Reply: is it because
      On the ruins of blazing Moscow
      We did not acknowledge the insolent will
      Of him under whom you quaked?
      Because we hurled into the abyss
      The idol heavy-looming over kingdoms,
      And with our blood redeemed
      Europe's freedom, honour, and peace?
     
      You are menacing in words — just try to be in action!
      Is then the old thane, resting on his bed,
      Unfit to mount his bayonet is Ismail?
      Or is the Russian Tsar's word powerless by now?
      Or is it new to us to be at odds with Europe?
      Or has the Russian grown unused to victories?
      Are there too few of us? Or will, from Perm to Tauris,
      From frigid crags of Finland to the flaming Colchis,
      From the shaken Kremlin
      To stagnant China's walls,
      Flashing with steely bristle,
      Not rise the Russian land?
      Send then to us, oh, bards,
      Your sons enraged:
      There's room for them in Russia's fields,
      'Mid graves that are not strange to them.


      1831

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