The same I was in time of wisdom,
All days I spent in sleep, in shades, And there had my happiest days.
LVI
The love, the plants, the void, the village, The fields! to you I’m staunch a friend.
From Eugene differ I my image, To note this I always trend,
In order that derisive reader, Or any editor, too eager
For intricate and slander talk, In checking all my traits for mock,
Could not repeat, yet being shameless, That I could scribble own face
Like Byron, poet of grace. Or it’s impossible or faithless
To write about otherself As if about ownself?
LVII
All poets, meanwhile I’ll note, Of dreamy, pensive love are friends,
Sometimes in dream they all, whom dote, To soul mine arrived like guests:
My soul secret forms was keeping, My muse made all them once more living,
And I, untroubled, glorified The girl from rocks, ideal my,
And girls, at banks Salgirian captured.
But now, friends, from all my sides -
‘Of whom your own lyre sighs?’ By you I’m often briskly questioned, -
‘To whom in throng of jealous girls You dedicated tune of hers?’
LVIII
’Whose glance, exciting inspiration, With sweet caress gave best reward
For thoughtful singing with attention?’
‘And whom your lovely verse adored?’
Ah, no one, my friends, believe me!
But road alarm of love then filled me.
All that I gladlessly survived.
He’s blessed, who with his love combined
Of rhymes the fever: he could double Of poetry sacred scraps,
Arid, following Petrarka’s tracks, Could calm his heart’s the biggest trouble.
Could catch the glory by the way: But I in love was dumb, inane.
LIX
The love’s foregone, the muse appeared, And clearer my mind became,
I’m free, but look for union, geared In sound, sense and temper game/
I write, and heart yet isn’t boring, The pen unwitting isn’t drawing
Along unfinished rhymes of words No girl’s small feet and no heads.
Extinguished ash will not be heating, Without tears I am sad
And in a while of storm the track In soul mine will soon be ceasing,
And then I shall begin to rhyme New couplets, more than twenty five,
LX
Already I of plan was thinking, Of name of person number one,
From novel’s only beginning I’ve finished now chapter one.
I checked it all, and very strictly; In many places contradictory,
But never wanted to correct; To censorship I’ll pay my debt;
To journalists I put at mercy Of labour mine some real fruit.
You get along the Neva’s route, Newborn by me the work of fancy;
For me the glory bring, of course: Wry talks, the noise, a lot of curse!
CHAPTER TWO
O , rus!
Hor
O Russia!