Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov(1821 - 1878 / Russia)
I Shall Soon Fall Prey To Rot
- by Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov34
I shall soon fall prey to rot. Though it's hard to die, it's good to die; I shall ask for no one's pity, And there's no one who would pity me.
With my lyre I won no glory For my noble family name; And I die as distant from my people As the day that I began to live.
Ties of friendship, unions of the heart- All are broken: from my youth, Fate has sent me foes implacable, While my friends all perished in the struggle.
Their prophetic songs were left unfinished, They fell victim to misfortune, were betrayed In the bloom of life; and now their portraits watch me From the walls, reproachfully.
The Songs Of Siberian Exiles
- by Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov25
We stand unbroken in our places, Our shovels dare to take no rest, For not in vain his golden treasure God buried deep in earth's dark breast.
Then shovel on and do not falter, Humble and hopeful, clear we see-- When Russia has grown rich and mighty, Our grandchildren will grateful be!
* * * * *
Though streams the sweat in rivers downward, Our arms from shoveling grown weak, Our bodies frozen to an ice crust While we new strength in slumber seek--
Sweating or freezing, we will bear it! Thirst-pain and hunger will withstand, For each stone is of use to Russia, And each is given by our own hand!
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