Some raved or lied, and some were dense;
Some lacked all conscience; some, all sense;
Each with a different dogma girded;
The old was dated through and through,
While nothing new was in the new;
So books, like women, he deserted,
And over all that dusty crowd
He draped a linen mourning shroud.
45
I too had parted with convention,
With vain pursuit of worldly ends;
And when Eugene drew my attention,
I liked his ways and we made friends.
I liked his natural bent for dreaming,
His strangeness that was more than seeming,
The cold sharp mind that he possessed;
I was embittered, he depressed;
With passion's game we both were sated;
The fire in both our hearts was pale;
Our lives were weary, flat, and stale;
And for us both, ahead there waited
While life was still but in its morn
Blind fortune's malice and men's scorn.
46
He who has lived as thinking being
Within his soul must hold men small;
He who can feel is always fleeing
The ghost of days beyond recall;
For him enchantment's deep infection
Is gone; the snake of recollection
And grim repentance gnaws his heart.
All this, of course, can help impart
Great charm to private conversation;
And though the language of my friend
At first disturbed me, in the end
I liked his caustic disputation
His blend of banter and of bile,
His sombre wit and biting style.
47
How often in the summer quarter,
When midnight sky is limpid-light
Above the Neva's placid water
The river gay and sparkling bright,
Yet in its mirror not reflecting
Diana's visagerecollecting
The loves and intrigues of the past,
Alive once more and free at last,
We drank in silent contemplation
The balmy fragrance of the night!
