Classic Poem

I've reared myself a monument not made with hands;
The path to it shall ne'er be overgrown with grass,
Where it with high, unbending head shall tower
Above Napoleon's column.

Not wholly shall I die: the soul that nursed my muse
My dust shall long outlive and shall defy decay;
And men shall love to chant my lays, whilst on our earth
A single bard doth breathe or sing.

My fame shall live and be a Russian household word,
And all who speak our tongue my name shall whisper soft,
The Slav of ancient race, the Finn, the wild Tungese,
And Calmuck born on barren steppe.

And long shall I the people's favourite be held,
Since ne'er my lyre has failed to stir all feelings pure;
My verse the general cause has singly pleaded,
And pity for the fallen taught.

To God's high will, my muse, in lowly meekness bow;
Let no rebuff offend, nor laurel crown demand;
Take praise or calumny with like indifference;
And never argue with the fool.