I’ve raised myself no statue made with hands;
The People’s path to it no weeds will hide.
Rising with no submissive head, it stands
Above the pillar of Napoleon’s pride.
No! I shall never die; in sacred strains
My soul survives my dust, and flies decay—
And famous shall I be, while there remains
A single Poet ’neath the light of day.
Through all great Russia will go forth my fame,
And every tongue in it will name my name;