M. Y. Lermontov - From the Poem "Circassians"

M. Y. Lermontov
From the poem "Circassians"

The commander ordered all the regiments to assemble for battle,
The alarm bell rang; they crowded,
Fidgeting, forming ranks, separating;
The gates of the fortress were barred.
And some rushed like a whirlwind
To stop the Circassian force,
Or to taste death with glory.
And around, the glow is visible;
The Circassians cover the field;
The ranks run like lions,
With the clash of swords and shields;
And at once the brave one fell.
A shell whistled through the darkness,
And a whole row of the fearless fell;
But all blended together in the black smoke.
Here, a wild horse, with a spear embedded,
Reared up and neighed;
It rushed through the Russian ranks;
Fell to the ground, struggling violently,
Covering its rider with itself—
Everywhere the groans and wails are heard.

X
The thunder of cannons roars everywhere;
Here, the wounded hero
Wants to call to his loyal comrades,
But his voice is lost on his lips.
Another one runs on the battlefield;
He runs, swallowing dust and dirt;
The steel blade flashes three times,
The sword hangs motionless in the air;
The mail coat clangs as it falls from his shoulders;
The spear pierces his arm,
And blood pours from him like a river.
The unfortunate man presses his wounds
With a cold, trembling hand.
He still looks for his musket;
Everywhere is the sound of gunfire and whistling bullets;
The roar of cannons is heard all around;
Death and horror spread everywhere
In the mountains, valleys, and forests;
The people in the town tremble;
The roar rises into the heavens.
One Circassian is struck;
His sword flashes in vain.
He swings again, but his hand,
Raised high, becomes stiff.
He wanted to run. His leg
Trembles, motionless, paralyzed;
He rises and falls. But now, a daring Circassian
Rides through the row of bayonets;
He pushes forward fiercely
And holds his sword above his head;
He engages in battle with a Cossack;
Their sabers shine brightly;
The bow hums, the arrow trembles;
A fatal blow comes.
The arrow glitters, whistles, flashes,
And in an instant, it kills the Cossack.
But suddenly, surrounded by a crowd,
He is pierced by sharp spears.
The prince himself dies from the wound;
He falls from his horse—and everyone flees,
Leaving the battlefield behind.
Only the Russian cannons roar
Over their heads in horror.
Gradually, the noisy battle quiets,
Only dust rises in the mountains.
The defeated Circassians flee,
Chased by the unflinching sons of the Don,
Who were seen on the shores
Of the Rhine, Loire, and Rhône,
Bringing death and fear in their wake.

XI
Everything has quieted; only occasionally—
You hear a shot from behind the mountains;
Rarely, a Cossack can be seen
Rushing straight into battle,
And in the Russian camp, peace prevails.
The town is saved, and above the river
The beacon shines, and the sentry walks;
He watches the surroundings with a keen eye
And carries a musket on his shoulder.
Only faintly is it heard: someone is coming,
Only the loud sound is heard,
Only rarely does a daring Cossack
Rush through the Russian camp.
Only rarely will a black raven cry,
Eating the corpses with hunger;
Only occasionally, glistening,
The fire in a soldier's tent flashes.
And rarely, a rusty blade will glint,
Stained with blood from battle,
Or suddenly, in solitude,
A Russian sentry will call out near the camp;
Everywhere, there is peace reigning.