Part 6 (1/2)

57.

Poets, I'll note, in this connection Are friends of amorous reverie.

It used to be my predilection To dream of objects dear to me; My soul retained their secret image Until the Muse gave them a language: Carefree, I'd sing of my ideal, Maid of the mountains, and of all The captive maids of Salgir's65 waters.

Now, friends, I hear you put to me, The question not infrequently: For whom among these jealous daughters Sighs most your lyre? To which of these Did you devote its melodies?

58.

'Whose gaze, exciting inspiration, Rewarded with caressing eyes Your pensive song and adoration?

Whom did your verses idolize?'

Friends, not a single one, believe me!

Love's mad alarms will not deceive me, I've been through them with little joy.

Happy is he who can alloy Them with a fevered rhyme: he doubles The poet's sacred frenzy, strides In Petrarch's footsteps, and besides Relieves the heart of all its troubles, And captures glory's palm to boot; But I, in love, was stupid, mute.

59.

Love pa.s.sed, the Muse resumed dominion And cleared the darkness from my mind, Free now, I seek again the union Of feelings, thoughts and magic sound.

I write, my heart's no longer pining, My pen no longer wanders, making Sketches of female heads or feet Alongside verses incomplete.

Dead ashes cannot be replenished, I'm sad still, but the tears are gone, And soon, soon when the storm is done And in my soul all trace has vanished, Then will I start a poem a oh, In cantos, twenty-five or so.

60.

I have a plan already for it, And how the hero will be known; But for the moment I'll ignore it, Having completed Chapter One.

I've scrutinized it all for any Discrepancies a and there are many, But I've no wish to change them yet; I'll pay the censors.h.i.+p my debt; My labour's fruits I shall deliver To the reviewers to devour; Depart then, newborn work this hour, Off to the banks of Nevsky river And earn for me the prize of fame: Falsification, noise and blame!

CHAPTER II.

O rus!

Horace

O Rus'!

I.

The country place where Eugene suffered Was a delightful little spot; The innocent might there have offered Blessings to heaven for their lot.

The manor house stood in seclusion, Screened by a hill from wind's intrusion, Above a stream. Far off, there stretched Meadows and golden cornfields, patched With dazzling, multi-coloured flowers; Small hamlets could be glimpsed around, Herds wandered through the meadow ground, And, in its thick, entangled bowers A vast, neglected garden nursed Dryads, in pensive mood immersed.