But by the third he couldn't stick it:
The grove, the hill, the field, the thicket
Quite ceased to tempt him any more
And, presently, induced a snore;
And then he saw that country byways
With no great palaces, no streets,
No cards, no balls, no poets' feats
Were just as dull as city highways;
And spleen, he saw, would dog his life,
Like shadow or a faithful wife.
55
But I was born for peaceful roaming,
For country calm and lack of strife;
My lyre sings! And in the gloaming
My fertile fancies spring to life.
I give myself to harmless pleasures
And
Each morning early I'm awake
To wander by the lonely lake
Or seek some other sweet employment:
I read a little, often sleep,
For fleeting fame I do not weep.
And was it not in past enjoyment
Of shaded, idle times like this,
I spent my days of deepest bliss?
56
The country, love, green fields and flowers,
Sweet idleness! You have my heart.
With what delight I praise those hours
That set Eugene and me apart.
For otherwise some mocking reader
Or, God forbid, some wretched breeder
Of twisted slanders might combine
My hero's features here with mine
And then maintain the shameless fiction
That, like proud Byron, I have penned
A mere self-portrait in the end;
As if today, through some restriction,
We're now no longer fit to write
On any theme but our own plight.
57
All poets, I need hardly mention,
Have drawn from love abundant themes;
I too have gazed in rapt attention
When cherished beings filled my dreams.
My soul preserved their secret features;
The Muse then made them living creatures:
Just so in carefree song I paid
My tribute to the mountain maid,
And sang the Salghir captives' praises.*
