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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
See also
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