Enough! The burden's off my shoulder!
To classicism I've been true:
The foreword's here, if overdue.
Chapter 8
Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well.
Byron
1
In days when I still bloomed serenely
Inside our Lyce* garden wall
And read my Apuleius keenly,
But read no Cicero at all
Those springtime days in secret valleys,
Where swans call out and beauty dallies,
Near waters sparkling in the still,
The Muse first came to make me thrill.
My student cell turned incandescent;
And there the Muse spread out for me
A feast of youthful fancies free,
And sang of childhood effervescent,
The glory of our days of old,
The trembling dreams the heart can hold.
2
And with a smile the world caressed us;
What wings our first successes gave!
The old Derzhvin* sawand blessed us,
As he descended to the grave.
3
And I, who saw my single duty
As heeding passion's siren song
To share with all the world her beauty,
Would take my merry Muse along
To rowdy feasts and altercations
The bane of midnight sentry stations;
And to each mad and fevered rout
She brought her gifts . . . and danced about,
Bacchante-like, at all our revels,
And over wine she sang for guests;
And in those days when I was blest,
The young pursued my Muse like devils;
While I, mid friends, was drunk with pride
My flighty mistress at my side.
4
But from that band I soon departed
And fled afar . . . and she as well.
How often, on the course I charted,
My gentle Muse's magic spell
Would light the way with secret stories!
How oft, mid far Caucasia's glories,
