Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov. (№ 374104)

Trim gold shines my dagger;
Blade reliable without blemish;
Bulat keeps it mysterious temper -
The earth heritage of the East.
Rider in the mountains he served for many years
Not knowing the cost of the service;
Not one chest he had a terrible track
And not one broke through the chain mail.
<...>
He was taken beyond the Terek Cossack brave
On the frigid corpse of the master,
And many years was it abandoned then
Hiking in the shop of an Armenian.
Now relatives of the sheath, beaten in war,
Deprived of the hero companion of the poor,
Toy gold it shines on the wall
Alas, inglorious and innocuous!
<...>
In our age effeminate aren't you, poet,
Its lost the purpose
In gold having exchanged the power that light
Listened to the silent reverence?
<...>
Wake up eh you again, ridiculed the prophet?
Il never, to the voice of vengeance
Golden sheath won't tear up your blade,
Covered with the rust of scorn?..