How sad that youth, with all its power,
Was given us in vain, to burn;
That we betrayed it every hour,
And were deceived by it in turn;
That all our finest aspirations,
Our brightest dreams and inspirations,
Have withered with each passing day
Like leaves dank autumn rots away.
It's hard to face a long succession
Of dinners stretching out of sight,
To look at life as at a rite,
And trail the seemly crowd's procession
Indifferent to the views they hold,
And to their passions ever cold.
12
When one becomes the butt of rumour,
It's hard to bear (as you well know)
When men of reason and good humour
Perceive you as a freak on show,
Or as a sad and raving creature,
A monster of Satanic feature,
Or even Demon of my pen!*
Eugene (to speak of him again),
Who'd killed his friend for satisfaction,
Who in an aimless, idle fix
Had reached the age of twenty-six,
Annoyed with leisure and inaction,
Without position, work, or wife
Could find no purpose for his life.
13
He felt a restless, vague ambition,
A craving for a change of air
(A most unfortunate condition
A cross not many choose to bear).
He left his home in disillusion
And fled the woods' and fields' seclusion,
Where every day before his eyes
A bloody spectre seemed to rise;
He took up travel for distraction,
A single feeling in his breast;
But journeys too, like all the rest,
Soon proved a wearisome attraction.
So he returned one day to fall,
Like Chatsky,* straight from boat to ball.
14
But look, the crowd's astir and humming;
A murmur through the ballroom steals . . .
The hostess sees a lady coming,
A stately general at her heels.
