You understood, oh glum perfection,
Those sadly and unconscious dreams,
The rush of zeal and inspirations –
All that Lord Byron conquered with.
I see the image, that’s half-shown,
But strongly and abruptly marked.
Is that a runaway, well known,
In holy cassock of a monk?
Maybe, his mind, so high and sound,
Was murdered by a hidden crime;
All’s dark behind: with pine and doubt
His gaze burns – chilly and sublime.
Maybe, you’ve copied the nature,
And he is no ideal, yet!
Or in the years of pine and rapture,
You made your own fast portrait?
But looks, the cold ones and pretending,
Could never pierce this secret, great,
And your creation outstanding
Will ever force them to regret.

                                              1830

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November, 2000 Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, June, 2001