Демон -ч. 1, XIII - пер. М. Ю. Лермонтова

The horse is racing faster than a deer,
It snorts and earns as if the fight is near;
Or suddenly it reins slightly in motion
And harkens to the wind's light caution,
Dilating widely the nostrils, or
Kicking the ground in one moment
With the sharp calks on the hoofs,
And waving its mane tousled,
Without mind it goes on and forward.
And there on it you will see now a horseman!
He is silent, tossing on the saddle bed,
Falled down to the mane with head.
He doesn't drive his horse with the bridles far,
With feet, pushed into the stirrups, silent,
And red blood, as a wide spurt, flows down
His snabrack. Though the runner
Has carried from the fight his rider out,
As quick as the instant arrow, this time
The bullet of Ossetian catched goal,
And caused the death, indifferent in mind.