Restored to home and its safekeeping,
Young Lensky came to cast an eye
Upon his neighbour's place of sleeping,
And mourned his ashes with a sigh.
And long he stood in sorrow aching;
'Poor Yorick!' then he murmured, shaking,
'How oft within his arms I lay,
How oft in childhood days
I'd play
With his Ochkov decoration!*
He destined Olga for my wife
And used to say: 'Oh grant me, life,
To see the day!' ' ... In lamentation,
Right then and there Vladimir penned
A funeral verse for his old friend.
38
And then with verse of quickened sadness
He honoured too, in tears and pain,
His parents' dust. . . their memory's gladness . . .
Alas! Upon life's furrowed plain
A harvest brief, each generation,
By fate's mysterious dispensation,
Arises, ripens, and must fall;
Then others too must heed the call.
For thus our giddy race gains power:
It waxes, stirs, turns seething wave,
Then crowds its forebears toward the grave.
And we as well shall face that hour
When one fine day our grandsons true
Straight out of life will crowd us too!
39
So meanwhile, friends, enjoy your blessing:
This fragile life that hurries so!
Its worthlessness needs no professing,
And I'm not loathe to let it go;
I've closed my eyes to phantoms gleaming,
Yet distant hopes within me dreaming
Still stir my heart at times to flight:
I'd grieve to quit this world's dim light
And leave no trace, however slender.
I live, I writenot seeking fame;
And yet, I think, I'd wish to claim
For my sad lot its share of splendour
At least one note to linger long,
Recalling, like some friend, my song.
40
And it may touch some heart with fire;
And thus preserved by fate's decree,
The stanza fashioned by my lyre
