Александр Пушкин — Арист! и ты в толпе служителей Парнаса (К другу стихотворцу)

Arist! i ty v tolpe sluzhiteley Parnasa!
Ty khochesh osedlat upryamogo Pegasa;
Za lavrami speshish opasnoyu stezey
I s strogoy kritikoy vstupayesh smelo v boy!

Arist, pover ty mne, ostav pero, chernily,
Zabud ruchyi, lesa, unylye mogily,
V kholodnykh pesenkakh lyubovyu ne pylay;
Chtob ne sletet s gory, skoreye vniz stupay!
Dovolno bez tebya poetov yest i budet;
Ikh napechatayut — i tsely svet zabudet.
Byt mozhet, i teper, ot shuma udalyas
I s glupoy muzoyu navek soyedinyas,
Pod senyu mirnoyu Minervinoy egidy
Sokryt drugoy otets vtoroy «Telemakhidy».
Strashisya uchasti bessmyslennykh pevtsov,
Nas ubivayushchikh gromadoyu stikhov!
Potomkov pozdnykh dan poetam spravedliva;
Na Pinde lavry yest, no yest tam i krapiva.
Strashis besslavia! — Chto, yesli Apollon,
Uslyshav, chto i ty polez na Gelikon,
S prezrenyem pokachav kudryavoy golovoyu,
Tvoy geny nagradit — spasitelnoy lozoyu?
No chto? ty khmurishsya i otvechat gotov;
«Pozhaluy, — skazhesh mne, — ne trat izlishnikh slov;
Kogda na chto reshus, uzh ya ne otstupayu,
I znay, moy zhreby pal, ya liru izbirayu.
Pust sudit obo mne, kak khochet, tsely svet,
Serdis, krichi, branis, — a ya taki poet».

Arist, ne tot poet, kto rifmy plest umeyet
I, peryami skrypya, bumagi ne zhaleyet.
Khoroshiye stikhi ne tak legko pisat,
Kak Vitgenshteinu frantsuzov pobezhdat.
Mezh tem kak Dmitriyev, Derzhavin, Lomonosov,
Pevtsy bessmertnye, i chest i slava rossov,
Pitayut zdravy um i vmeste uchat nas,
Skol mnogo gibnet knig, na svet yedva rodyas!
Tvorenya gromkiye Rifmatova, Grafova
S tyazhelym Bibrusom gniyut u Glazunova;
Nikto ne vspomnit ikh, ne stanet vzdor chitat,
I Febova na nikh proklyatia pechat.

Polozhim, chto, na Pind vzobravshisya schastlivo,
Poetom mozhesh ty nazvatsya spravedlivo:
Vse s udovolstviyem togda tebya prochtut.
No mnish li, chto k tebe rekoy uzhe tekut
Za to, chto ty poet, nesmetnye bogatstva,
Chto ty uzhe beresh na otkup gosudarstva,
V zheleznykh sundukakh chervontsy khoronish
I, lezha na boku, pokoyno yesh i spish?
Ne tak, lyubezny drug, pisateli bogaty;
Sudboy im ne dany ni mramorny palaty,
Ni chistym zolotom nabity sunduki:
Lachuzhka pod zemley, vysoki cherdaki —
Vot pyshny ikh dvortsy, velikolepny zaly.
Poetov — khvalyat vse, pitayut — lish zhurnaly;
Katitsya mimo ikh Fortuny koleso;
Rodilsya nag i nag stupayet v grob Russo;
Kamoens s nishchimi postelyu razdelyayet;
Kostrov na cherdake bezvestno umirayet,
Rukami chuzhdymi mogile predan on:
Ikh zhizn — ryad gorestey, gremyashcha slava — son.

Ty, kazhetsya, teper zadumalsya nemnogo.
«Da chto zhe, — govorish, — sudya o vsekh tak strogo,
Perebiraya vse, kak novy Yuvenal,
Ty o poezii so mnoyu tolkoval;
A sam, possorivshis s parnasskimi sestrami,
Mne propovedovat prishel syuda stikhami?
Chto sdelalos s toboy? V ume li ty, il net?»
Arist, bez dalnykh slov, vot moy tebe otvet:

V derevne, pomnitsya, s miryanami prostymi,
Svyashchennik pozhiloy i s kudryami sedymi,
V miru s sosedyami, v chesti, dovolstve zhil
I pervym mudretsom u vsekh izdavna slyl.
Odnazhdy, osushiv butylki i stakany,
So svadby, pod vecher, on shel nemnogo pyany;
Popalisya yemu navstrechu muzhiki.
«Poslushay, batyushka, — skazali prostyaki, —
Nastavi greshnykh nas — ty pit ved zapreshchayesh,
Byt trezvym vsyakomu vsegda povelevayesh,
I verim my tebe; da chto zh segodnya sam...»
«Poslushayte, — skazal svyashchennik muzhikam, —
Kak v tserkvi vas uchu, tak vy i postupayte,
Zhivite khorosho, a mne — ne podrazhayte».

I mne to samoye prishlosya otvechat;
Ya ne khochu sebya nimalo opravdat:
Schastliv, kto, ko stikham ne chuvstvuya okhoty,
Provodit tikhy vek bez gorya, bez zaboty,
Svoimi odami zhurnaly ne tyagchit
I nad ekspromtami nedeli ne sidit!
Ne lyubit on gulyat po vysotam Parnasa,
Ne ishchet chistykh muz, ni pylkogo Pegasa;
Yego s perom v ruke Ramakov ne strashit;
Spokoyen, vesel on. Arist, on — ne piit.

No polno rassuzhdat — boyus tebe naskuchit
I satiricheskim perom tebya zamuchit.
Teper, lyubezny drug, ya dal tebe sovet,
Ostavish li svirel, umolknesh ili net?..
Podumay obo vsem i vyberi lyuboye:
Byt slavnym — khorosho, spokoynym — luchshe vdvoye.

K drugu stikhotvortsu