Не бил барабан перед смутным полком,
Когда мы вождя хоронили,
И труп не с ружейным прощальным огнем
Мы в недра земли опустили.
И бедная почесть к ночи отдана;
Штыками могилу копали;
Нам тускло светила в тумане луна,
И факелы дымно сверкали.
На нем не усопших покров гробовой,
Лежит не в дощатой неволе —
Обернут в широкий свой плащ боевой,
Уснул он, как ратники в поле.
Недолго, но жарко молилась творцу
Дружина его удалая
И молча смотрела в глаза мертвецу,
О завтрашнем дне помышляя.
Быть может, наутро внезапно явясь,
Враг дерзкий, надменности полный,
Тебя не уважит, товарищ, а нас
Умчат невозвратные волны.
О нет, не коснется в таинственном сне
До храброго дума печали!
Твой одр одинокий в чужой стороне
Родимые руки постлали.
Еще не свершен был обряд роковой,
И час наступил разлученья;
И с валу ударил перун вестовой,
И нам он не вестник сраженья.
Прости же, товарищ! Здесь нет ничего
На память могилы кровавой;
И мы оставляем тебя одного
С твоею бессмертною славой.
Ив. Ив. Козлов
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him —
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
Чарльз Вульф Did not beat the drum in front of the vague regiment,
When we are harmonious
And corpse not with rifle farewell fire
We lowered the land of the earth.
And poor honors to the night are given;
Bayonets gave the grave;
We duskly shone in the fog of the moon,
And torches smoke sparkled.
On it did not deceased covering coffin,
Lies not in a militant captivity -
Wrapped in a wide raincoat combat
He fell asleep as warriors in the field.
Not long but hot prayed the Creator
Daughty his dear
And silently looked into the death of the dead,
Thinking about tomorrow is crumbling.
Perhaps the next morning suddenly gone
The enemy muster, complete,
You do not respect, comrade, and us
I will die non-return waves.
Oh no, will not touch the mysterious dream
Before the brave Duma Summer!
Your ODRE is lonely in someone else's side
Return hands were postponed.
Not yet achieved the rite of fatal,
And the hour has been severed;
And with the shaft hit Perun Vestova,
And he is not a messenger of the Blight.
Forgive, comrade! There is nothing here
On the memory of the grave of bloody;
And we leave you one
With your immortal glory.
Yves. Yves. Kozlov.
Not a Drum Was Heard, Not a Funeral Note,
AS HIS CORSE TO THE RAMPART WE HURRIED;
Not a Soldier Discharged His Farewell Shot
O'er The Grave Where Our Hero We Buried.
We Buried Him Darkly At Dead Of Night,
The Sods with Our Bayonets Turning,
By The Struggling Moonbeam's Misty Light
And The Lanthorn Dimly Burning.
NO Useless Coffin Enclosed His Breast
NOT IN SHEET OR IN SHROUD WE WOUND HIM;
But He Lay Like A Warrior Taking His Rest
With His Martial Cloak Around Him.
FEW AND SHORT WERE THE PRAYERS WE SAID
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But We Steadfastly Gazed On The Face That Was Dead
And We Bitterly Thought of The Morrow.
We Thought, AS We Hollow'd His Narrow Bed
And Smooth'D Down His Lonely Pillow,
THAT THE FOE AND THE STRANGER Would Tread O'er His Head
And We Far Away On The Billow!
Lightly They'll Talk of the Spirit That 'S Gone
And O'er His Cold Ashes Upbraid Him -
But Little He'll Reck, If The Let Him Sleep ON
In The Grave Where A Briton Has Laid Him.
But Half of Our Heavy Task Was Done
When The Clock Struck The Hour for Retiring;
And WE Heard The Distant and Random Gun
That The Foe Was Sullly Firing.
Slowly and Sadly We Laid Him Down,
From The Field of His Fame Fresh and Gory;
WE CARVED NOT A LINE, AND WE RAISED NOT A STONE,
But We Left Him Alone with His Glory.
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