"Oh, Muse of the Red..."

Aleksandr Pushkin

Oh, Muse of the red-hot satire,
Appear at my urgent spell:
I've no need for rattling lyre,
Give me the whip of Juvenal!
Not to translators ever cold,
Or imitators gaunt and bold,
Not to the lambs, who make the rhymes,
I'll send the pledge of epigrams!
Enjoy your peace, oh, bard, despondent,
The journal's creature-correspondent,
The dull humiliated slaves!
But you, 'good' fellows, you, knaves --
Step forward! All your blackguards' party
I'll sentence to the stake of shame,
And, if I will forget the name
Of somebody, please help me smartly!
A lot of faces, pale and sassy,
A lot of brows, wide and brassy,
Are ready to receive from me
The brand, that ever must there be.

Muse

In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure.
The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure
And harked to me with smile -- without speed,
Along the ringing holes of the reed,
I got to play with my non-artful fingers
The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,
And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.
From morn till night in oaks' silent shade
I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;
Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,
And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,
She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.
The reed became alive in consecrated breathing
And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.