Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov - born on October 3, 1814 - died July 15, 1841.

The freedom loving Russian Romantic poet and author of "Hero of Our Time" (1840) novel, who deeply influenced later Russian writers. Lermontov was exiled two times to the Caucasus because of his libertarian verses. He died in a duel like his great contemporary poet Alexander Pushkin.

From his position in Hussars and early devotion to writing, Lermontov observed the social life of the wealthy. By 1832 he had already written two hundred lyric poems, ten long poems and three plays. In 1837 Lermontov gained a wider recognition as a writer. After Alexandr Pushkin was killed in the duel, he published an elegy "Death of the Poet".

During this creative period he wrote such masterpieces as Novice, Cliff, Argument, Meeting, Leaf, and Prophet. In Clouds (1840) the poet contrasted the clouds "free both to come and go, free and indifferent" to his fate in exile. The Dream (1841) anticipated the poet's death in the remote country.

The Demon (1842), about an angel who falls in love with a mortal woman, reflected the poet's self-image as a demonic creature. The melancholic Demon, exiled from Paradise, wanders on Earth, past hope of making peace again. Lermontov drafted this sorrowful and self-accusing poem first at the age of 14.

He quarreled with Major N.S.Martynov, an old acquaintance of the family, and was killed in 1841, at the age of 27, in a duel.

Two my favourite poets were killed in duels... They were so young and could do so much... Pity

The Sail

Alone white sail shows for an instant

Where gleams the sea, an azure streak.

What left it in its homeland distant?

In alien parts what does it seek?

The billow play, the mast bends creaking,

The wind, impatient, moans and sighs...

It is not joy that it is seeking,

Nor is it happiness it flies.

The blue wave dance, they dance and tremble,

The sun's bright ray caress the seas.

And yet for storm it begs, the rebel,

As if in storm lurked calm and peace!..

1832

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

The Dream

In noon's heat, in a dale of Dagestan

With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay;

The deep wound still smoked on; my blood

Kept trickling drop by drop away.

On the dale's sand alone I lay. The cliffs

Crowded around in ledges steep,

And the sun scorched their tawny tops

And scorched me -- but I slept death's sleep.

And in a dream I saw an evening feast

That in my native land with bright lights shone;

Among young women crowned with flowers,

A merry talk concerning me went on.

But in the merry talk not joining,

One of them sat there lost in thought,

And in a melancholy dream

Her young soul was immersed -- God knows by what.

And of a dale in Dagestan she dreamt;

In that dale lay the corpse of one she knew;

Within his breast a smoking wound showed black,

And blood ran in a stream that colder grew.

translated from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov.

The Dagger

I like you well, O trusty dagger mine,

My comrade wrought of cool Damascus steel!

Forged were you by the Georgian with revange in the mind,

By the Circassian free -- for war were you made keen.

A lily-white hand it was gave you to me --

You were affection's keepsake, its last gift...

Not blood, but pearl-like tears born of the agony

Of bitter parting down your blade ran swift.

Her dark eyes rested, full of secret pain,

Of sadness and of mystery, upon

My face, and like yourself when lit by flickering flame,

Now clouded and turned dull, now glowed and shone.

O dagger, love's mute pledge, you will my true

Friend stay, and an example set to me, a wanderer:

For faithful, yes, and firm of soul like you

I'll be like you that tempered was by fire

1838

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

My Native Land

I love my country, but my love is strange

And rare, a love that reason cannot change.

It is not my country's victories, nor fame

So dearly bought with blood, nor ancient claim

Of rich tradition, glory, and command

That stir sweet reveries about my native land.

Not these bring quiet joy. I love - I know

Not why - her rivers at the flood like seas,

The voices of her boundless forest trees,

The frozen silence of her plains in snow.

I love to ride for days inside a jolting cart

On dusty lanes, and, searching slow the evening shadows,

To dream of lodgings near and hail with thankful heart

A blur of trembling village light among the meadows.

I love the smell of stubble burning,

The wagons huddled on the plain

At night, a pair of silver birches

Above a field of yellow grain.

With gladness few can share, I see

The grain upon the threshing floor,

The lowly cottage with its trim

Above the window and the door.

I'm glad to watch on holidays

The stamp of dancers on the ground,

And hear until the morning's near

The talk of tipsy peasants round.

1841

translated from Russian by Eugene M. Kayden