Again was the inspiration
My lifeless soul
And it turns in songs
Tosca, wreck passions.
So, among strangers steppes,
Girlfriends attentive without knowing,
beautiful stranger, bird paradise
He is sitting on the tree dry,
Glittering azure wing;
let roars, raging blizzard ...
She sings about alone,
She sings about the sun of the south!..
So moved on earth Circassia’s daughter
The loveliest bird of Franguestan!
Byron. The Giaour.
Greetings, gray Caucasus!
Your mountains I wanderer is no stranger:
They carried me in infancy
And to the skies of the desert taught.
For a long time I dreamed since then
The sky of the south cliffs of the mountains yes.
beautiful you, harsh land of freedom,
And you, thrones of the eternal nature,
When, smoke blue, clouds
In the evening you are flying from afar,
Hover over you, whispering, the shadows,
As the head of the huge ghosts
shaken by feathers, - and the moon
According to the blue vaults wandering alone.
How I loved, Caucasus my stately,
Thy sons bellicose manners,
Thy heavens transparent blue
And wonderful howl Instant, loud storms,
When caves and steep hills
As the guard calls out night;
And suddenly the sun peep, and stream
get rich, and prairie flower,
Fragrant head lifting,
shine, like flowers of heaven and paradise ...
In the evening hours of rainy clouds
I watched the torn cover;
purple, with crimson edges,
Some even threatened, and over the rocks
magic castle, a miracle of ancient days,
It grows in a minute; but still rather
It will dissipate breeze!
Since interrupts sharp sound of chains
Criminal sufferer dreams,
When he sees his fields hills ...
Meanwhile whiter, than mountain snow,
Go west on the other clouds
AND, spend the day, huddled in a row,
Through each other bright look
So fun, so lush and nonchalantly,
As if to live and to please them forever!..
And the wild gorges of the tribes,
Their god - freedom, their law - war,
They grow among robberies secret,
Severe cases and cases of extraordinary;
There's a cradle songs of mothers
Russian name scare children;
There hit the enemy - not a crime;
True friendship there, but rather vengeance;
There's good - good, and blood - the blood of,
And hatred is immense, as love.
Dark legends of their. The old Chechen,
Kazbek poor native ranges,
When I was escorted through the mountains,
About antique told me a story.
He praised the people of the last century;
He took me under Roslambeka stone,
Hanging over the winding path,
As if withheld Alloyu
On the air in the fall of his,
Online will acquire all the green grass;
And without fear, that the stone falls,
In his shadow, keep from storm,
Plenitelyney, than the blue eyes
At the tender virgins ice midnight,
Slopes in the heat on a long stalk,
Growing flower memories!..
And in the centenary, the rock mossy
Chechen once sat before me;
As gray rock, hoarhead,
thinking, his head hung ...
May be, He prayed to the homeland!
AND, stranger stranger, I was afraid to interrupt
His silence and the silence of the rocks:
I have them in the hour nearly did not distinguish!
his story, the violent, the sad,
I even think to move to the north of the Far:
Let it be strange in our on edge,
As heard, so ego commit!
I do not want, neznaemыy tolpoyu,
To as the mystery he died with me;
Let him not heed, to end
I doskazhu! Someone with a proud soul
born, that does not require crown;
Love and songs - that's the whole life of the singer;
Without them it is empty, poor, unıla,
As the skies without clouds and without light!..