To Yazykov

I’m ready to see you for long, In, sung by you, that German town, To drink with you – as poets sound – The wine for which your verses longed. And I was called for the same goal By Kiselev, sung by your verse, And I was ready to leave shores, Of cold Neva – with my gay soul. Alas! the hand of money-troubles Caught my threadbare coat’s tails, And by Neva, without desires, I’m left to ringing of my chains. Oh youth, my youth, so brave and royal! I cannot help a-pitying you? When being sunk in debts, in whole, And from the greedy debtors stolen, I’d fly at once all places through. Now I’m dragging my dull fetter To chase my fleeting debtors trace, And having, at last, down-settled, Cursing the weight of gold and years. Forgive me, bard! Play harp and feast With Phoebus, Cypride in one bliss Don’t know the pride of high-ranked goblins, Don’t know the pleasant debtors-rats, And do not pay your own debts By holly right of Russian nobles. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver