For empty sound the rascal swore he Existence would not make a curse, Knew not an iamb from a choree, Although we read him heaps of verse. Homer, Theocritus, he jeered, But Adam Smith to read appeared, And at economy was great; That is, he could elucidate How empires store of wealth unfold, How flourish, why and wherefore less If the raw product they possess The medium is required of gold. The father scarcely understands His son and mortgages his lands. VIII But upon all that Eugene knew I have no leisure here to dwell, But say he was a genius who In one thing really did excel. It occupied him from a boy, A labour, torment, yet a joy, It whiled his idle hours away And wholly occupied his day— The amatory science warm, Which Ovid once immortalized, For which the poet agonized Laid down his life of sun and storm On the steppes of Moldavia lone, Far from his Italy—his own.(4) [Note 4: Referring to Tomi, the reputed place of exile of Ovid. Pushkin, then residing in Bessarabia, was in the same predicament as his predecessor in song, though he certainly did not plead guilty to the fact, since he remarks in his ode to Ovid: To exile _self-consigned_, With self, society, existence, discontent, I visit in these days, with melancholy mind, The country whereunto a mournful age thee sent. Ovid thus enumerates the causes which brought about his banishment: “Perdiderint quum me _duo_ crimina, carmen et error, Alterius facti culpa silenda mihi est.” _Ovidii Nasonis Tristium_, lib. ii. 207.] IX How soon he learnt deception’s art, Hope to conceal and jealousy, False confidence or doubt to impart, Sombre or glad in turn to be, Haughty appear, subservient, Obsequious or indifferent! What languor would his silence show, How full of fire his speech would glow! How artless was the note which spoke Of love again, and yet again; How deftly could he transport feign! How bright and tender was his look, Modest yet daring! And a tear Would at the proper time appear. X How well he played the greenhorn’s part To cheat the inexperienced fair, Sometimes by pleasing flattery’s art, Sometimes by ready-made despair; The feeble moment would espy Of tender years the modesty Conquer by passion and address, Await the long-delayed caress. Avowal then ’twas time to pray, Attentive to the heart’s first beating, Follow up love—a secret meeting Arrange without the least delay— Then, then—well, in some solitude Lessons to give he understood! XI