Михаил Лермонтов – The Demon / Демон. Книга для чтения на английском языке (страница 6)
Of holding by their pious rite
He yielded to the Demon's will
Seduced by turbid thoughts – until
Two figures – then a shot – ahead
What was it? Rising in his stirrups
Cramming his high hat on his brow
The gallant lover, at the gallop,
Plunged like a hawk upon his foe!
No word he spoke, his whip cracked once
And once blazed forth his Turkish gun…
Another shot. Wild cries. The Prince
Goes thundering on. The groans behind
Long echoes in the valley find…
Not long the fight. Of timorous mind,
The Georgians turn and run!
XII
Now all is silence; sadly huddled
The camels stand and stare befuddled
Upon their erstwhile master – man,
Lying dead amongst these silent fells.
The only sound their harness bells,
Ravaged and robbed their caravan;
And see, the owl flies softly round
The Christian bodies on the ground!
No peaceful tomb beneath the stones
Of some old church will take these bones
Like those in which their fathers lie;
Mothers nor sisters will not come
In their long floating veils to cry
Over these graves so far from home!
Instead, by zealous hands, a cross
Was raised to mark the dreadful loss
Just where the road hugs close the sheer
And towering cliff-wall, close to where
They perished in the raid…
And ivy, growing lush in spring,
An emerald net about it flings…
Here, weary of the toilsome road,
The traveller yet lays down his load
To rest in God's good shade…
XIII
Swift as a stag still runs the horse
Snorting as though he held his course
In some fierce charge, now plunging on
Now pulling up as though to harken
His nostrils flared to sniff the wind:
Then leaps up and comes ringing down
On all four hooves, sets sparking
The stones and, in his mad career,
His tangled mane streams out behind.
A silent rider he does bear
Who lurches forward now and then
To rest his head in that wild mane.
The reins lie slack in useless hands,
The feet are deep-thrust in the stirrups,
And on his saddle-cloth the bands
Of blood are broadening as they gallop
Ah gallant steed, your wounded master
You bore from battle swift as light
The ill-starred bullet sped yet faster
And overtook him in the night!
XIV
Gudaal's is now a house of mourning,
The people crowd into the court:
Whose horse comes galloping in terror 
