Part 20 (2/2)

x.x.xVI

Or, it may be, the bard had pa.s.sed A life in common with the rest; Vanished his youthful years at last, The fire extinguished in his breast, In many things had changed his life-- The Muse abandoned, ta'en a wife, Inhabited the country, clad In dressing-gown, a cuckold glad: A life of fact, not fiction, led-- At forty suffered from the gout, Eaten, drunk, gossiped and grown stout: And finally, upon his bed Had finished life amid his sons, Doctors and women, sobs and groans.

x.x.xVII

But, howsoe'er his lot were cast, Alas! the youthful lover slain, Poetical enthusiast, A friendly hand thy life hath ta'en!

There is a spot the village near Where dwelt the Muses' wors.h.i.+pper, Two pines have joined their tangled roots, A rivulet beneath them shoots Its waters to the neighbouring vale.

There the tired ploughman loves to lie, The reaping girls approach and ply Within its wave the sounding pail, And by that shady rivulet A simple tombstone hath been set.

x.x.xVIII

There, when the rains of spring we mark Upon the meadows showering, The shepherd plaits his shoe of bark,(66) Of Volga fishermen doth sing, And the young damsel from the town, For summer to the country flown, Whene'er across the plain at speed Alone she gallops on her steed, Stops at the tomb in pa.s.sing by; The tightened leathern rein she draws, Aside she casts her veil of gauze And reads with rapid eager eye The simple epitaph--a tear Doth in her gentle eye appear.

[Note 66: In Russia and other northern countries rude shoes are made of the inner bark of the lime tree.]

x.x.xIX

And meditative from the spot She leisurely away doth ride, Spite of herself with Lenski's lot Longtime her mind is occupied.

She muses: ”What was Olga's fate?

Longtime was her heart desolate Or did her tears soon cease to flow?

And where may be her sister now?

Where is the outlaw, banned by men, Of fas.h.i.+onable dames the foe, The misanthrope of gloomy brow, By whom the youthful bard was slain?”-- In time I'll give ye without fail A true account and in detail.

XL

But not at present, though sincerely I on my chosen hero dote; Though I'll return to him right early, Just at this moment I cannot.

Years have inclined me to stern prose, Years to light rhyme themselves oppose, And now, I mournfully confess, In rhyming I show laziness.

As once, to fill the rapid page My pen no longer finds delight, Other and colder thoughts affright, Sterner solicitudes engage, In worldly din or solitude Upon my visions such intrude.

XLI

Fresh aspirations I have known, I am acquainted with fresh care, Hopeless are all the first, I own, Yet still remains the old despair.

Illusions, dream, where, where your sweetness?

Where youth (the proper rhyme is fleetness)?

And is it true her garland bright At last is shrunk and withered quite?

And is it true and not a jest, Not even a poetic phrase, That vanished are my youthful days (This joking I used to protest), Never for me to reappear-- That soon I reach my thirtieth year?

XLII

And so my noon hath come! If so, I must resign myself, in sooth; Yet let us part in friends.h.i.+p, O My frivolous and jolly youth.

I thank thee for thy joyfulness, Love's tender transports and distress, For riot, frolics, mighty feeds, And all that from thy hand proceeds-- I thank thee. In thy company, With tumult or contentment still Of thy delights I drank my fill, Enough! with tranquil spirit I Commence a new career in life And rest from bygone days of strife.

XLIII

But pause! Thou calm retreats, farewell, Where my days in the wilderness Of languor and of love did tell And contemplative dreaminess; And thou, youth's early inspiration, Invigorate imagination And spur my spirit's torpid mood!

Fly frequent to my solitude, Let not the poet's spirit freeze, Grow harsh and cruel, dead and dry, Eventually petrify In the world's mortal revelries, Amid the soulless sons of pride And glittering simpletons beside;

XLIV

<script>