No More Learning

Thus carelessly I once portrayed
Mine own ideal, the mountain maid,
The captives of the Salguir's shore. (22)
But now a question in this wise
Oft upon friendly lips doth rise:
Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore?
To whom amongst the jealous throng
Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?

[Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions of
the poet. The former line indicates the _Prisoner of the
Caucasus_, the latter, _The Fountain of Baktchiserai_. The
Salguir is a river of the Crimea. ]

LII

Whose glance reflecting inspiration
With tenderness hath recognized
Thy meditative incantation--
Whom hath thy strain immortalized?
None, be my witness Heaven above!
The malady of hopeless love
I have endured without respite.
Happy who thereto can unite
Poetic transport. They impart
A double force unto their song
Who following Petrarch move along
And ease the tortures of the heart--
Perchance they laurels also cull--
But I, in love, was mute and dull.

LIII

The Muse appeared, when love passed by
And my dark soul to light was brought;
Free, I renewed the idolatry
Of harmony enshrining thought.
I write, and anguish flies away,
Nor doth my absent pen portray
Around my stanzas incomplete
Young ladies' faces and their feet.
Extinguished ashes do not blaze--
I mourn, but tears I cannot shed--
Soon, of the tempest which hath fled
Time will the ravages efface--
When that time comes, a poem I'll strive
To write in cantos twenty-five.

LIV

I've thought well o'er the general plan,
The hero's name too in advance,
Meantime I'll finish whilst I can
Canto the First of this romance.
I've scanned it with a jealous eye,
Discovered much absurdity,
But will not modify a tittle--
I owe the censorship a little.
For journalistic deglutition
I yield the fruit of work severe.
Go, on the Neva's bank appear,
My very latest composition!
Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows--
Misunderstanding, words and blows.


END OF CANTO THE FIRST



CANTO THE SECOND

The Poet

"O Rus! "--Horace

Canto The Second

[Note: Odessa, December 1823. ]

I

The village wherein yawned Eugene
Was a delightful little spot,
There friends of pure delight had been
Grateful to Heaven for their lot.
The lonely mansion-house to screen
From gales a hill behind was seen;
Before it ran a stream. Behold!
Afar, where clothed in green and gold
Meadows and cornfields are displayed,
Villages in the distance show
And herds of oxen wandering low;
Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade,
A thick immense neglected grove
Extended--haunt which Dryads love.

II

'Twas built, the venerable pile,
As lordly mansions ought to be,
In solid, unpretentious style,
The style of wise antiquity.
Lofty the chambers one and all,
Silk tapestry upon the wall,
Imperial portraits hang around
And stoves of various shapes abound.
All this I know is out of date,
I cannot tell the reason why,
But Eugene, incontestably,
The matter did not agitate,
Because he yawned at the bare view
Of drawing-rooms or old or new.

III

He took the room wherein the old
Man--forty years long in this wise--
His housekeeper was wont to scold,
Look through the window and kill flies.
'Twas plain--an oaken floor ye scan,
Two cupboards, table, soft divan,
And not a speck of dirt descried.
Oneguine oped the cupboards wide.