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
Amid sly, pusillanimous
Spoiled children most degenerate
And tiresome rogues ridiculous
And stupid censors passionate;
Amid coquettes who pray to God
And abject slaves who kiss the rod;
In haunts of fashion where each day
All with urbanity betray,
Where harsh frivolity proclaims
Its cold unfeeling sentences;
Amid the awful emptiness
Of conversation, thought and aims—
In that morass where you and I
Wallow, my friends, in company!
END OF CANTO THE SIXTH
CANTO THE SEVENTH
Moscow
Moscow, Russia's darling daughter,
Where thine equal shall we find?'
Dmitrieff
Who can help loving mother Moscow?
Baratynski (Feasts)
A journey to Moscow! To see the world!
Where better?
Where man is not.
Griboyedoff (Woe from Wit)
Canto The Seventh
[Written 1827-1828 at Moscow, Mikhailovskoe, St. Petersburg and Malinniki.]
I
Impelled by Spring's dissolving beams,
The snows from off the hills around
Descended swift in turbid streams
