The pervert world with icy chill Had not yet withered his young breast. His heart reciprocated still When Friendship smiled or Love caressed. He was a dear delightful fool— A nursling yet for Hope to school. The riot of the world and glare Still sovereigns of his spirit were, And by a sweet delusion he Would soothe the doubtings of his soul, He deemed of human life the goal To be a charming mystery: He racked his brains to find its clue And marvels deemed he thus should view. VIII This he believed: a kindred spirit Impelled to union with his own Lay languishing both day and night— Waiting his coming—his alone! He deemed his friends but longed to make Great sacrifices for his sake! That a friend’s arm in every case Felled a calumniator base! That chosen heroes consecrate, Friends of the sons of every land, Exist—that their immortal band Shall surely, be it soon or late, Pour on this orb a dazzling light And bless mankind with full delight. IX Compassion now or wrath inspires And now philanthropy his soul, And now his youthful heart desires The path which leads to glory’s goal. His harp beneath that sky had rung Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung, And at the altar of their fame He kindled his poetic flame. But from the Muses’ loftiest height The gifted songster never swerved, But proudly in his song preserved An ever transcendental flight; His transports were quite maidenly, Charming with grave simplicity. X He sang of love—to love a slave. His ditties were as pure and bright As thoughts which gentle maidens have, As a babe’s slumber, or the light Of the moon in the tranquil skies, Goddess of lovers’ tender sighs. He sang of separation grim, Of what not, and of distant dim, Of roses to romancers dear; To foreign lands he would allude, Where long time he in solitude Had let fall many a bitter tear: He sang of life’s fresh colours stained Before he eighteen years attained. XI Since Eugene in that solitude Gifts such as these alone could prize, A scant attendance Lenski showed At neighbouring hospitalities. He shunned those parties boisterous; The conversation tedious About the crop of hay, the wine, The kennel or a kindred line, Was certainly not erudite Nor sparkled with poetic fire, Nor wit, nor did the same inspire A sense of social delight, But still more stupid did appear The gossip of their ladies fair. XII