Anonymous: Alba (From Occitan)

Alba
Anonymous (c. 13th century)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The nightingale sings his delight
To his sweetheart all day and night
Meanwhile my love and I lie quite
Safe in the flowers
Till the watchman from the tower’s
Top calls down “Get up! Come on,
The sky is getting bright with dawn!”

The Original:

Alba

Quand lo rossinhols escría
amb sa par la nuòch e·l día,
ièu soi amb ma bèll' amía
jos la flor.
Tro la gacha de la tor
escría: drutz, al levar!
qu'ièu vei l'alba e·l jorn clar,

Ausiàs March: "Voyage of Love or Death" Poem XLVI (From Catalan)

Poem XLVI: Voyage of Love or Death
By Ausiàs March (1400 – 1459)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The powers of sail and wind will work my will, 
Setting a chancy course across the sea.
Ponente and Mistral rise to rebel.
Levante and Sirocco fight for me   
Backed by their allies Midi and Gregal
Beseeching the North Mountain Wind to turn
Its storms aside in their support, so all
Five winds may blow the way of my return.

The sea will seethe like boiling casserole,
Change colors, taking on unnatural form,
Showing its ill will at full blast to all
That stray on it one second in that storm. 
The fish will panic all throughout the sea
And seek out secret shelter in the deep,
Till from the sea that gave them life they flee 
To death on dry land with a desperate leap.

The pilgrim passengers aboard my boat
Will call on God, pledge votive gifts in tears,
And in their fear let every secret out
That never fell on a confessor's ears. 
Through all those dangers, you'll not leave my mind. 
Before the God that joined us two I swear
Nothing shall weaken this resolve of mine,
And you'll be with me always, everywhere.

I fear death - lest it break my heart from yours,
For death can cancel love out with its still,
Though I doubt even death's great severing force
Could overcome my loving strength of will. 
I wish I could believe your love for me
Would not leave me forgotten when I die,
And though while we two live this could not be
One thought makes all life's pleasure out a lie:

That on the day I died, your love as well
Would die, and be transformed to hate that night.
While I, cast from this world, would feel full Hell
Never again to hold you in my sight. 
Oh God, why aren't there bounds to love? For there 
I'd stand alone at their extremity

To face a future without hope or fear
Knowing the cut-off of your love for me.

I am the most extreme of all in love
Save those who've breathed in love their life's last breath.
The anguish of my heart I cannot prove
Without the good faith agony of death. 
For good or ill at love's command I wait
Though Fortune still withholds my fate from me.
She'll find the gates unbarred, and me awake,
Ready to humbly follow her decree.

Getting what I so wish may cost me dear
Yet this alone consoles the soul in strife:
If it turns out my fate is what I fear
I only ask that God not spare my life. 
For people then will see the outward fact
Of love at work within and need no faith.
Capacity will be revealed in act,
And my words' credit backed by deed of death. 

Envoi:
Love! I who feel you don't know you at all,
And so can only win the loser's prize.  
No one who knows you is within your thrall. 
Your simile: addictive game of dice. 


Notes:

Stanza 1:
It seems to me fairly clear the voyage alluded to is metaphorical and did not actually transpire, though many have sought to identify a real-world course based on the meteorological description here.
The proper names are Mediterranean winds, each traditionally attributed to a different cardinal compass direction. The Mistral blows from the North-West, the Ponente from the West, the Levanter from the East, the Sirocco from the South-East, the Midi from the South, the Gregale from the North-East and the Tramontane (here rendered as "North Mountain Wind") from the North. The winds have various resonances in the tradition.
The Mistral and Ponente would be associated with Provence and the tradition of Occitan lyricism which March was consciously writing against. The Sirocco and Levanter, blowing from the exact opposite direction as the Mistral and Ponente, are harsh winds well-known to mediterranean mariners. The Levanter in particular can reach speeds of up to 200 km/h along the Catalonian coast, occasionally doing severe property damage even in modern times. 
The (normally pleasant) breeze that blows from the beloved lady's land is a theme well developed in Occitan poetry (picked up in Italian by Petrarch among others.) The contrary nature of the winds here evokes the resistance of the beloved. Whereas the medieval Occitan or Stilnovistic Italian poet would draw pleasure and inspiration from the breezes blowing from the land of the lady love, March must subdue the winds blowing from the direction he wishes to travel in, summoning equal elemental powers of his own.  

Stanza 3:
It was a custom for those facing imminent danger to make confessions to one another, in the absence of a priest to hear them. This was particularly common for passengers who found themselves imperiled on the high seas.

Envoi:
The reference to games of dice suggests something morally suspect. Gambling in 15th century Valencia was preached against as a cardinal sin, and many games of chance were symbolically burned in public.


The Original:

"Veles e vents"

Veles e vents han mos desigs complir
faent camins dubtosos per la mar:
mestre i ponent contra d’ells veig armar;
xaloc, llevant, los deuen subvenir,
ab llurs amichs lo grech e lo migjorn,
fent humils prechs al vent tramuntanal
que·n son bufar los sia parcial
e que tots cinch complesquen mon retorn.

Bullirà·l mar com la cassola en forn,
mudant color e l’estat natural,
e mostrarà voler tota res mal
que sobre si atur un punt al jorn.
Grans e pocs peixs a recors correran
e cercaran amagatalls secrets:
fugint al mar, on són nudrits e fets,
per gran remei en terra eixiran.

Los pelegrins tots ensems votaran
e prometran molts dons de cera fets,
la gran paor traurà·l llum los secrets
que al confés descuberts no seran,
e·n lo perill no·m caureu de l’esment,
ans votaré al Déu qui·ns ha lligats
de no minvar més fermes voluntats
e que tots temps me sereu de present.

Jo tem la mort per no ser-vos absent,
perquè amor per mort és anul·lats,
mas jo no creu que mon voler sobrats
pusca esser per tal departiment.
Jo só gelós de vostre escàs voler
que, jo morint, no meta mi·n oblit.
Sol est pensar me tol del món delit,
car, nós vivint, no creu se pusca fer:

aprés ma mort, d’amar perdau poder
e sia tost en ira convertit.
E jo forçat d’aquest món ser eixit,
tot lo meu mal serà vós no veer.
Oh Déu! per què terme no hi ha·n amor,
car prop d’aquell jo·m trobara tot sol?
Vostre voler sabera quant me vol,
tement, fiant de tot l’avenidor!

Jo son aquell pus extrem amador
aprés d’aquell a qui Déu vida tol:
puix jo son viu, mon cor no mostra dol
tant com la mort, per sa extrema dolor.
A bé o mal d’amor jo só dispost,
mas per mon fat fortuna cas no·m porta:
tot esvetlat, ab desbarrada porta
me trobarà, faent humil respost.

Jo desig ço que·m porà ser gran cost
i aquest esper de molts mals m’aconhorta;
a mi no plau ma vida ser estorta
d’un cas molt fer, qual prec Déu sia tost.
Lladoncs les gents no·ls calrà donar fe
al que amor fora mi obrarà:
lo seu poder en acte·s mostrarà
e los meus dits ab los fets provaré.

Tornada:
Amor, de vós, jo·n sent més que no·n sé,
de què la part pitjor me·n romandrà,
e de vós sap lo qui sens vós està.
A joc de daus vos acompararé

Joan Brossa: End of Season (From Catalan)

End of Season 
By Joan Brossa
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The fallen leaves block the road
I imagine I am what I am not.
Here I am quite still. 
I try to not move,
To occupy a minimum of space,
Just as if I weren't here. 
Silence is the original,
Words are the copy. 

The Original:

Fi del Cicle
Joan Brossa

Les fulles caigudes obstrueixen el camí.
Imagino de ser el que no sóc.
Aquí m'estic ben quiet.
Procuro de no moure'm
i d'occupar el mínim d'espai.
Talment com si ja no hi fos.
El silenci és l'original,
les paraules són la còpia.

Ausiàs March: Poem I "Pleasure Hurts" (from Catalan)

Poem I: Pleasure Hurts
By Ausiàs March
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Think of a man delighted in his slumber,
The foolishness of dream where he resides.
Think thus of me: imagination fastens
Onto the past where all my joy abides.
I know that Grief awaits but do not waver
Knowing my certain end lies in her jaws.
The things ahead hold nothing but disaster.
The better things are nothing but what was.

I find myself no lover of the present,
But of the past; adore oblivion;
There in the thought of yesterday I revel
Till grief returns emboldened under dawn.
Think of a man condemned to execution
So long he’s blunted to his bitter lot.
Suppose they feed him rumors of a pardon
Then have him hanged without another thought.

I wish to God my thoughts were like a corpse’s,
Existence an eternity of sleep,
Wretched the man who holds his mind at swordpoint
For how it keeps reminding him to weep.
And when he begs it for a bit of pleasure
It’s like a mother when her child in tow,
Shunning all milk, howls to be nursed on poison.
She doesn’t have the sense to answer No.

The purest of all pain I’d rather suffer
Than try to blend a bit of pleasure too
Into the ills that rob the brain of reason,
And ache for all the goodness that I knew.
Dear Lord! Delight transmuted into sorrow
Doubles the torment after rest too brief,
Like someone sick who sees too a rich morsel,
Eats it and turns his dinner into grief.

It’s like a hermit long beyond being lonely,
Long drained of care for folk, who’s ceased to sigh
For his companions in the silly city,
And now suppose that one of them drops by,
Recalls with him the times they spent in leisure:
Back to the past the present moments roam.
But, soon alone, he grumbles in annoyance.
Joy as it leaves tells grief to come on home.

Beauty of Prudence: when love starts to age
It's chumbled by the worm of being away
Unless you turn a constant heart against it
And deafer ears to what the jealous say.



The Original:

Poema I

Axi com cell qui ’n lo somni·s delita
e son delit de foll pensament ve,
ne pren a mi, que·l temps passat me te
l’imaginar, qu’altre be no y habita,
sentint estar en aguayt ma dolor,
sabent de cert qu’en ses mans he de jaure.
Temps de venir en negun be·m pot caure;
aquell passat en mi es lo millor.

Del temps present no·m trobe amador,
mas del passat, qu’es no-res e finit;
d’aquest pensar me sojorn e·m delit,
mas quan lo pert, s’esforça ma dolor,
si com aquell qui es jutgat a mort
he de lonch temps la sab e s’aconorta,
e creure·l fan que li sera estorta
e·l fan morir sens un punt de recort.

Plagues a Deu que mon pensar fos mort,
e que passas ma vida en durment!
Malament viu qui te lo pensament
per enamich, fent li d’enuyts report;
e com lo vol d’algun plaer servir
li·n pren axi com dona ’b son infant,
que si veri li demana plorant
ha ten poch seny que no·l sab contradir.

Ffora millor ma dolor sofferir
que no mesclar pocha part de plaher
entre ’quells mals, qui·m giten de saber
com del passat plaher me cove ’xir.
Las! Mon delit dolor se converteix;
doble·s l’affany apres d’un poch repos,
si co·l malalt qui per un plasent mos
tot son menjar en dolor se nodreix.

Com l’ermita, qui ’nyorament no·l creix
d’aquells amichs que teni’en lo mon,
essent lonch temps qu’en lo poblat no fon,
per fortuyt cars hun d’ells li apareix,
qui los passats plahers li renovella,
si que·l passat present li fa tornar;
mas com se·n part, l’es forçat congoxar:
lo be, com fuig, ab grans crits mal apella.

Plena de seny, quant amor es molt vella,
absença es lo verme que la guasta,
si fermetat durament no contrasta,
e creura poch, si l’envejos consella.

Ausiàs March: Poem XXVIII "Dark Night of the Heart" (From Catalan)

Poem XXVIII: Dark Night of the Heart
By Ausiàs March
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Day's terrified to lose her last bright features,
Seeing the night spread darkness overhead.
Small creatures dare not close their eyes for slumber.
The sick and weak ail even more in bed. 
Then evil men can freely do their worst,

They'd love a year of dark in which to crime.
Not I who am tormented as no other
Yet do no harm. I long for day to clime.   

I do no harm, and yet do worse than murder
A thousand guiltless men for ruthless fun:
I summon all my powers for self-betrayal
And do not count on clemency from dawn.
No, every night I blast my brain concocting
Treasonous plots planned out for all day long.
No fear of death or dungeon life deter me
From visiting against myself such wrong. 

Beauty of Prudence: I know it's my doing, 
Twisting the noose of love so tight round me. 
Here I go straight and right away to meet
My end, unless your mercy set me free. 


The Original:

Poema XXVIII

Lo jorn ha por de perdre sa claror
quan ve la nit que espandeix ses tenebres.
Pocs animals no cloen les palpebres
e los malalts creixen de llur dolor.
Los malfactors volgren tot l'any duràs
perquè llurs mals haguessen cobriment.
Mas jo, qui visc menys de par en turment
e sens mal fer, volgra que tost passàs.

E d'altra part faç pus que si matas
mil hòmens justs menys d'alguna mercè,
car tots mos ginys jo solt per trair-me.
E no cuideu que-l jorn me n'excusàs.
Ans, en la nit treball rompent ma pensa
perquè en lo jorn lo traïment cometa.
Por de morir o de fer vida estreta
no-m tol esforç per donar-me ofensa.

Plena de seny, mon enteniment pensa
com aptament lo llaç d'amor se meta.
Sens aturar, pas tenint via dreta,
Vaig a la fi si mercè no-m defensa.

Saul Tchernichovsky: The Hawk (From Hebrew)

If you speak Hebrew and are wondering why this poem's title isn't translated as "The Eagle," see the notes following the text.

The Hawk
By Saul Tchernichovsky
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Hebrew

There's a hawk above your mountains!¹  There's a mounting hawk on high!
Light and slow it seems a moment merely floating in the sky...
Floating, sailing azures seas, alert to songs of sheer delight
In the heart of sky and heavens- circling mute in searing light. 

There's a hawk above your mountains! There's a mounting hawk on high! 
Sleek the body, dark the feathers, broad the wings and bright the eye,
Soaring like a bowshot arrow, rounding out its careful gyre
Tracking trails of prey below between the crags and through the briar. 

There's a hawk above your mountains! There's a mounting hawk on high! 
Gliding wide with wondrous touch, with wings locked back against the sky,
Frozen for a moment, then a single pinion barely sways.
Now the slightest palpitation, and it surges through the haze.

There's a hawk above your mountains! There's a mounting hawk on high! 
Light and slow it seems one moment merely floating in the sky....
Land! A hawk is on your mountains, and condensing shadow glides
From the giant's wing caressing mighty heaven's mountainsides².

Notes on the text:

¹- These are the stony hills of the Judea.

²- The Hebrew phrase is identical to one in Psalm 36:6 Your righteousness is like the almighty mountains, and your justice a tremendous gulf. O Lord, you sustain man and beast. (translation mine, because all the existing translations flatten out this rather evocative phrase into "great mountains" or some such infelicitous cliché.)

Note on the title:

The titular bird of this poem, which I finally translated (after much thought) as "Hawk" is a particular brainbuster. עיט áyit, technically, means "Eagle" in modern Hebrew. However, the Hebrew עיט áyit is in many ways a much more ominous bird than the English counterpart it translates into. עיט áyit in modern Israeli speech is, I understand, commonly confused with vulture. The two native Hebrew-speakers I have queried confirmed my impression that the words עיט áyit "eagle" and נשר nésher (ostensibly "vulture" according to schoolmarms and the dictionaries written by them) are rather interchangeable in the modern language, with the choice depending more on symbolism than ornithology- where the עיט áyit "eagle" is an ominous bird of prey and the and נשר nésher a symbol of hope and persistence. This kind of taxonomic conflation and connotative distinction is a common occurrence in the lexicon of many languages, since humans have usually categorized fauna in experiential rather than taxonomic terms- especially with birds, which tend to figure prominently in mythology, religion, divination and poetic symbolism. (This is true of English too. Compare the connotations and symbolism of dove vs. pigeon or even crow vs. raven.)

In Hebrew, the ominous עיט áyit paired against the propitious נשר nésher appears to have its semantic origins in the Hebrew Bible. By way of illustration, here are some Biblical uses of עיט áyit. The English word or expression used to translate the bird in question is in bold:

יֵעָזְבוּ יַחְדָּו לְעֵיט הָרִים וּלְבֶהֱמַת הָאָרֶץ וְקָץ עָלָיו הָעַיִט וְכָל-בֶּהֱמַת הָאָרֶץ עָלָיו תֶּחֱרָף
They shall be left together unto the fowls of the mountains, and to the beasts of the earth: and the fowls shall summer upon them, and the beasts shall winter upon them. (Isaiah 18:6)

וַיֵּרֶד הָעַיִט עַל-הַפְּגָרִים וַיַּשֵּׁב אֹתָם אַבְרָם
And when the fowl came down upon the carcasses, Abraham drove them away (Genesis 15:11)

עַל-הָרֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל תִּפּוֹל אַתָּה וְכָל-אֲגַפֶּיךָ וְעַמִּים אֲשֶׁר אִתָּךְ לְעֵיט צִפּוֹר כָּל-כָּנָף וְחַיַּת הַשָּׁדֶה נְתַתִּיךָ לְאָכְלָה
Thou shalt fall upon the mountains of Israel, thou, and all thy bands, and the people that is with thee: I will give thee unto the ravenous birds of every sort and to the beasts of the field to be devoured. (Ezekiel 39:4)

And here are some typical uses of נשר nésher:

וָאֶשָּׂא אֶתְכֶם עַל כַּנְפֵי נְשָׁרִים
Ye have seen what I did unto the Egyptians, and how I bare you on eagles' wings, and brought you unto myself (Exodus 19:4)

כְּנֶשֶׁר יָעִיר קִנּוֹ עַל-גּוֹזָלָיו יְרַחֵף, יִפְרֹשׂ כְּנָפָיו יִקָּחֵהוּ יִשָּׂאֵהוּ עַל-אֶבְרָתוֹ יְהוָה בָּדָד יַנְחֶנּוּ וְאֵין עִמֹּו אֵל נֵכָר
As an eagle stirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, beareth them on her wings, so the Lord alone did lead him, and there was no strange god with him. (Deuteronomy 32:11-12)

In the end I decided to render the bird's name as "hawk". The other possibility "raptor" (a naturalist's term for any bird of pray) had most of what I needed, but its off-key tone, as well as the accrued associations with dinosaurs thanks to Jurassic Park, made it unusable.


The Original:

עַיִט

שאול טשרניחובסקי

עַיִט! עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ, עַיִט עַל הָרַיִך עָף!
אַט וָקַל – נִדְמֶה כְּאִלּוּ רֶגַע – אֵינוֹ אֶלָּא צָף,
צָף-מַפְלִיג בְּיָם שֶׁל תְּכֵלֶת, עֵר לְרֶנֶן-גִּיל בְּלֵב
הַשָּׁמַיִם – הָרָקִיעַ, חַג אִלֵּם בְּאוֹר צוֹרֵב.

עַיִט! עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ, עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ עָף!
יְשַׁר-גֵּו וְכֶבֶד אֵבֶר, שְׁחוֹר-נוֹצָה וּרְחַב-כָּנָף;
טָס מָתוּחַ (חֵץ מִקֶּשֶׁת), עַיִט עָג עוּגִיּוֹת חוּגָיו;
תָּר עִקְּבוֹת טַרְפּוֹ מִמַּעַל בָּאֲפָר וּבַחֲגָו.

עַיִט! עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ, עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ עָף!
טָס גּוֹלֵשׁ-גּוֹלֵשׁ וּבְמַגַּע פֶּלֶא אֵבֶר לֹא נָקָף.
רֶגַע-קַל – קָפָא, מִשְׁנֵהוּ – נִיד-לֹא-נִיד בְּאֶבְרוֹתָיו,
רֶטֶט כָּל-שֶׁהוּא לְפֶתַע – וְעוֹלֶה לִקְרַאת הָעָב.

עַיִט! עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ, עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ עָף!
אַט וָקַל, – נִדְמֶה כְּאִלּוּ – רֶגַע אֵינוֹ אֶלָּא צָף...
אֶרֶץ, עַיִט עַל הָרַיִךְ, – עַל פָּנַיִךְ חַשְׁרַת צֵל,
מֵאֶבְרוֹת עֲנָק חוֹלֶפֶת, מְלַטֶּפֶת הַרְרֵי-אֵל...

Romanization:

ˁÁyit! ˁAyit ˁal haráyix, ˁáyit ˁal haráyix ˁaf!

At vakal — nidme ke'ílu régaˁ — éyno éla tsaf,

tsaf-maflig beyam šel txélet, ˁer lerénen-gil belev

hašamáyim — harakíaˁ, ḥag ilem be'or tsorev.

ˁÁyit! ˁAyit ˁal haráyix, ˁáyit ˁal haráyix ˁaf!

Yešar-gev vexéved éver, šḥor-notsa urḥav-kanaf;

tas matúaḥ (ḥets mikéšet) ˁáyit ˁag ˁugiyot ḥugav;

tar ˁikvot tarpo mimáˁal baafar uvaḥagav. 

ˁÁyit! ˁAyit ˁal haráyix, ˁáyit ˁal haráyix ˁaf!

tas goleš-goleš uvmágaˁ péle éver lo nakaf.

régaˁ-kal — kafa mišnéhu — nid-lo-nid beevrotav

rétet kol-šehu lefétaˁ — veˁole likrat haˁav.

ˁÁyit! ˁAyit ˁal haráyix, ˁáyit ˁal haráyix ˁaf!

At vakal — nidme ke'ílu régaˁ — éyno éla tsaf,

Érets, ˁáyit ˁal haráyix, — ˁal panáyix ḥašrat tsel,

meevrot ˁanak ḥoléfet, melatéfet harrey-el...

Pushkin: Ode to Liberty (From Russian)

This poem was, at the time of writing, held to be subversive and revolutionary in Russia. It had a talismanic significance for many a young revolutionary. Manuscript copies of it were often confiscated upon arrest. One, for example, was among the "disloyal writings possessed by officers of the Kiev Grenadier Regiment." Tsar Alexander's reaction to the popularity of this poem was that "Pushkin must be exiled". Capo d'Istrias wrote in his capacity as head of the Foreign Office :

"Некоторые поэтические произведения, а в особенности Ода на свободу, привлекли внимание правительства на г. Пушкина. Среди великих красот замысла и слога это последнее стихотворение свидетельствует об опасных началах, почерпнутых в современной школе, или, лучше сказать, в системе анархии, недобросовестно именуемой системой прав человека, свободы и независимости народов"
"Some pieces of verse and most of all an ode to liberty directed the government's attentions toward Mr. Pushkin. Among the greatest beauties of conception and style this latter piece gives evidence of dangerous principles drawn from the ideas of our age, or, more precisely, that system of anarchy dishonestly called the system of human rights, of freedom and the independence of nations."

 

Here's me reciting the original Russian followed by the English


Ode to Liberty
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman


Go shrinking from my eyes and sing
No more, Cythera's¹ frail queen. Flee.
Where are you, scourge of Tsar and King, 
Proud Muse of Freedom? Come to me. 
Come now and tear my laurels down  
And smash the pampered lyre tonight.  
Let Freedom be my song to smite  
The scum that capers in a crown. 

Reveal to me the noble path 
Where that exalted Gaul² once strode, 
When you in storied Days of Wrath 
Inspired in him a dauntless Ode. 
Now, favored little pets of fate, 
You Tyrants of the Nations, tremble! 
But you, Slaves, hearken and assemble. 
Be men. Arise now and be great. 

Wherever my eyes fall, they see 
A body flayed, an ankle chained, 
The powerless tears of Slavery, 
The Law perverted and profaned. 
Everywhere an iniquitous 
Power in the fog of superstition 
Ascends: Vainglory's fateful passion, 
And Slavery's grisly genius.  

The only sovereigns with a head 
Free of the Nations' misery, 
Rule where the mighty Law is wed 
Steely with holy Liberty, 
Where their firm shield is spread for all, 
Where in a Nation's faithful hand 
Among mere equals in the land 
The sword can equitably fall³

To smite transgression from on high 
With one blow, righteously severe 
In fingers uncorrupted by 
Ravenous avarice or fear. 
Kings, you are throned and crowned by will 
And law of Man, not Nature's hand. 
Though you above the people stand, 
Eternal Law stands higher still. 

But woe betide the nation now 
Where it is blithely slumbering, 
Where Law itself is forced to bow 
Before the Masses, or the King. 
Here is the Man: witness he bears 
To his forebears’ infamous error 
And in the storm of recent Terror 
Laid down kingly neck for theirs. 

King Louis to his death ascends⁴ 
In sight of hushed posterity, 
His crownless, beaten head he bends: 
Blood for the block of perfidy.  
The Laws hush and the People too. 
The lawless guillotine-blade falls. 
And over freshly fettered Gauls⁵
A ghastly purple starts to spew. 

You psychopathic autocrat,⁶
You and your throne I do despise! 
You and your children die. To that  
I turn with joyous loathing eyes. 
Upon your brow the Peoples read 
The signature of stamped damnation. 
Stain of the world, shame of creation, 
Reproach on earth to God in deed! 

When on the dark Neva the star 
Of midnight makes the water gleam,  
When carefree eyelids near and far  
Are overwhelmed with peaceful dream, 
The poet, roused with intellect, 
Sees the lone tyrant's statue loom 
Grimly asleep amid the gloom, 
The palace now a derelict,⁷ 

And Clio's⁸ awesome call he hears 
Behind those awesome walls of power. 
Vivid before his sight appears 
The foul Caligula's last hour. 
In stars and ribbons he espies 
Assassins drunk with wine and spite 
Approaching, furtive in the night 
With wolfish hearts and brazen eyes. 

And silent stands the faithless guard, 
The drawbridge downed without alarm, 
The gate in dark of night unbarred 
By treason’s mercenary arm. 
The shame! The terror of our time!  
Those Janissary beasts burst in⁹
And slash. The Criminal Sovereign 
Is butchered by unholy crime.  

Now Monarchs, this lesson well:  
No punishment, no accolade, 
No altar and no dungeon cell 
Can be your steadfast barricade. 
The first bowed head must be your own 
Beneath Law's trusty canopy 
Then Peoples' life and liberty 
Forevermore shall guard your throne. 

Notes:

¹ I.e. Venus Aphrodite, associated in antiquity with the Ionian island of Cythera.

²The identity of this "exalted Gaul" is one of the many quarrels with which scholars of Pushkinian minutiae have busied themselves. Possibilities range from Nabokov's suggestion of the minor poet Ponce Denis Ecouchard Le Brun, to the sadly underrated (by modern critics) poet André Chénier who died on the guillotine at the age of 31, to Jacques de Molay- last grand master of the Knights Templar. For a variety of reasons Chénier seems the most likely, or rather, the only likely choice. But obviously this is a question of interest to historians and the appreciator of poetry doesn't, or at least shouldn't, care.

³ C.f. Guillaume Thomas Raynal's Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes where he writes:

La loi n'est rien, si ce n'est pas un glaive qui se promène indistinctement sur toutes les têtes, et qui abat ce qui s'élève au-dessus du plan horizontal sur lequel il se meut. La loi ne commande à personne ou commande à tous. Devant la loi, ainsi que devant Dieu, tous sont égaux.
The law is nothing, unless it be a sword passing indiscriminately over all heads, and smiting all that rise above the horizontal plane in which it moves. The law governs none, or governs all. Before the Law as before God, all are equal

⁴King Louis XVI, guillotined in 1793 during the reign of Terror.

⁵i.e. Napoleonic purple.

⁶ i.e. Napoleon. Yeah, I know, "psychopath" wasn't a word in the early 19th century.

⁷ The Tyrant here referred to is Tsar Paul I, father of the then-current Tsar Alexander I. The poem was written in the Turgenevs' apartment which looked out across the canal at the Mikhailovsky Castle, the scene of Paul's assassination in 1801- an event envisioned in the subsequent two stanzas. In Pushkin's time, Paul was considered and depicted as a royal psychopath who ignored the will of his subjects.

⁸- Clio: the muse of History.

⁹ Janissaries: i.e. assassins fierce and ruthless as Turkish troops. 

Вольность: Ода
Александр Пушкин

Бѣги, сокройся отъ очей

Цитеры слабая Царица. 

Гдѣ ты? — Гдѣ ты? — Гроза Царей,

Свободы гордая Пѣвица! 

Приди, сорви съ меня вѣнокъ;

Разбѣй изнѣженную Лиру. 

Хочу воспѣть Свободу міру,

На Тронахъ поразить порокъ. 

Открой мнѣ благородной слѣдъ

Того возвышеннаго Галла;

Кому сама средь славныхъ бѣдъ,

Ты Гимны смѣлыя внушала. 

Питомцы вѣтренной Судьбы,

Тираны Мира! Трепещите! 

А вы мужайтесь и внемлите,

Возстаньте падшіе рабы. 

Увы!.. Куда не брошу взоръ;

Вездѣ бичи, вездѣ железы.

Народа гибельный позоръ,

Неволи немощныя слезы. 

Вездѣ неправедная Власть. 

Въ сгущенной мглѣ предразсужденій,

Возсѣла — Рабства грозный Геній,

И славы роковая страсть. 

Лишь тамъ надъ Царскою главой

Народовъ не легло страданье,

Гдѣ крѣпко съ Вольностью святой

Законовъ мощныхъ сочетанье; 

Гдѣ всѣмъ простертъ ихъ твердый щитъ,

Гдѣ сжатый вѣрными руками

Гражданъ надъ равными стенами

Ихъ мечь безъ выбора скользитъ. 

И преступленье съ высока

Сражаетъ праведнымъ размахомъ,

Гдѣ не подкупна ихъ рука

Ни алчной скупостью ни страхомъ.

Владыки!.. Вамъ венецъ и Тронъ

Даетъ Законъ, а не Природа:

Стоите выше вы народа;

Но вѣчной выше васъ Законъ.

И горе, горе! Племенамъ

Гдѣ дремлетъ онъ неосторожно,

Гдѣ иль Народу, иль Царямъ

Закономъ властвовать возможно.

Тебя въ свидѣтели зову

О, мученикъ ошибокъ славныхъ!

За предковъ въ шумѣ бурь недавнихъ

Сложивший Царскую главу.

Восходитъ къ смерти Людовикъ,

Въ виду безмолвнаго потомства.

Главой развѣнчанной приникъ

Къ кровавой плахѣ вероломства.

Молчитъ Законъ. Народъ молчитъ.

Падетъ преступная секира...

И се — злодѣйская Порфира

На Галлахъ скованныхъ лежитъ.

Самовластительной Злодѣй!

Тебя, твой Тронъ я ненавижу.

Твою погибель, смерть дѣтей

Съ жестокой радостію вижу.

Читают на твоемъ челѣ

Печать проклятія народы.

Ты ужасъ Мира, стыдъ Природы;

Упрекъ ты Богу на землѣ. 

Когда на мрачную Неву

Звѣзда полуночи сверкаетъ,

И беззаботную главу

Спокойной сонъ отягощаетъ,

Глядитъ задумчивый Пѣвецъ

На грозно спящій средь тумана

Пустынный памятникъ Тирана,

Забвенью брошенный Дворецъ. 

И Кліи слышитъ страшный гласъ

Надъ сими страшными стѣнами,

Калигулы послѣдній часъ

Онъ видитъ живо предъ очами.

Онъ видитъ въ лентахъ и звѣздахъ

Виномъ и Злобой упоенны,

Идутъ убійцы потаенны.

На лицахъ дерзость, въ сердце страхъ. 

Молчитъ невѣрной часовой,

Опущенъ молча мостъ подъемной,

Врата отверсты въ тьмѣ ночной

Рукой предательства наемной.

О, стыдъ! О, ужасъ нашихъ дней!

Какъ звѣри вторглисъ янычары,

Падутъ безславныя удары;

Погибъ увенчанный Злодѣй! 

И днесь учитеся Цари:

Не наказанья, ни награды;

Ни кровъ темницъ; ни алтари,

Не вѣрныя для васъ ограды. 

Склонитесь перьвые главой

Подъ сѣнь надежную Закона,

И станутъ вѣчной стражей Трона

Народовъ Вольность и Покой.