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 All this I know is out of date, I cannot tell the reason why, But Eugene, incontestably, The matter did not agitate, Because he yawned at the bare view Of drawing-rooms or old or new.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