Yevgeny Onegin

CHAPTER SEVEN

Moscow, Russia’s favourite daughter,

Where is your equal to be found?

DMÍTRIYEV

How not to love our native Moscow?

BARATÝNSKY

Defaming Moscow? Worthless to see the world.

Where’s better?

Where we’re not.

GRIBOYÉDOV

1

Forced down by spring suns from the summits

Of nearby hills, the winter snows

Descend in turbid streams to plummet

Onto the flooded fields below.

With her bright smile, though still half-yawning,

Nature salutes the year’s new morning,

The heavens radiate dark blue,

The limpid woodlands are shot through

With verdure, and their fluff grows fuller,

Bees wander from their cells of wax

To fly the fields and take their tax,

The drying flatlands gleam with colour,

Cows moo, and nightingales delight

In singing through the silent night. 2

What sadness comes with your emergence,

O time of love. Yes, spring is spring,

When the soul stirs and the blood surges!

But, oh, what anguished pains you bring!

Ah, how my heavy spirit lurches

When springtime breathes on me and burgeons,

Wafting its charms into my face

In some secluded country place,

When happiness can seem discordant

And all things joyous, all things quick

Turn out to be a shabby trick

Leading to disaffected boredom,

Taxing a spirit long extinct

That sees all things as black as ink. 3

We cannot welcome the renewal

Of autumn’s dead leaves. It’s no good:

The loss of them is no less cruel

Despite new whispers from the woods.

Perhaps we watch the rise of nature

With blurred ideas, and link it later

With the slow fading of our youth,

Not destined to return, in sooth.

Or it may be our minds remember

In a poetic, sleepy haze

Another spring in bygone days

Which stirs the heart, and with the tremor

Come dreams of places far from this…

The moonlight… and a night of bliss. 4

It’s springtime. Come, you gentle idlers,

Epicureans, sages all,

You apathetic, smug insiders,

You armchair farmers, heed the call,

You Priams of the Russian country

You caring ladies, all and sundry,

The rural spring is calling you—

Warm weather, flowers, work to do,

With country rambles, oh, so bracing

Followed by long seductive nights…

Come to the fields, friends, now! Take flight

In laden carriages outpacing

Slow-trundling wagons and old crates.

Stream forth from every city gate. 5

Come, readers (loyally indulgent),

In coaches of the gaudy kind,

Come from your cities busy, bulging,

Leave all that winter fun behind.

Come with my wayward muse. Let’s listen

Together as the oak trees whisper

Above a nameless little brook

Where my Yevgeny found a nook,

Living in idle, sad seclusion,

And saw the recent winter through,

Near to the place where she lived too—

Tanya, my meditative maiden.

He lives no longer in this place,

Where he has left so sad a trace. 6

You see those hills set in a crescent?

Let’s go there, where a brooklet winds

Down to the river through those pleasant

Green meadows and that copse of limes.

Spring’s friend, the nightingale, sings for us,

And all night long we hear his chorus;

Wild roses bloom, the brook purls by

Near where a tombstone meets the eye

Beneath two shady pines, now ageing,

Its epitaph open to view:

HERE LIES VLADIMIR LENSKY, WHO

WENT YOUNG FROM THIS LIFE, AND COURAGEOUS.

(Age, years and details such as these)

YOUNG POET, MAY YOU REST IN PEACE. 7

On a low-hanging pine-tree twiglet,

Rocked gently by the morning breeze

O’er this mean funerary tribute,

There used to be an unsigned wreath.

Late in the evening, at their leisure,

Two girls would come out here together

By moonlight where the grave was dug

To shed warm tears and share a hug,

But now… the monument looks dismal,

Forgotten, and the path forlorn,

All overgrown. The wreath has gone.

Nearby, alone, withered and grizzled,

A shepherd warbles while he plaits

His wretched shoes, as in the past. [8, 9] 10

Poor Lensky! Olga did not languish

Or weep for very long. Alas,

This marriageable maiden’s anguish

Was something that was soon to pass.

Another fellow won her favour,

Another came along to save her

And soothe her sorrow, someone who

Knew all the tricks of how to woo.

A lancer won her heart… The altar

Awaited them. Soon, looking down,

She blushed beneath her bridal crown,

Steadying as she shyly faltered.

Her downcast eyes were blazing, while

Her lips played with the faintest smile. 11

Poor Lensky! Could he somehow know it?

Facing the eternal void, could he

Have felt this hurt, the tragic poet,

This fateful form of treachery?

Or is he on the Lethe, stealing

Away now, blissfully unfeeling,

Untouched by us till kingdom come,

Our world closed off from him, and dumb?…

That’s it—the cold void in attendance

Beyond the grave. We have no choice.

Foes, friends and lovers—every voice

Is stilled. Malevolent descendants,

A chorus of our angry heirs,

Will squabble over what is theirs. 12

And Olga’s bright voice at the Larins’

Did not last long. Her time was spent.

Her lancer (whose fate was the army’s)

Took her to join his regiment.

The mother, seeing off her daughter,

Her eyes an ocean of salt water,

Seemed to be less than half-alive.

But Tanya did not, could not cry.

Her saddened face was an array of

Pale shadows that resembled death,

Though when they walked out on the steps

To say goodbye, in all the chaos

Around their carriage, sure enough,

Tanya was there to see them off. 13

She stood and watched the misty drama

Of their departure. In the end

She stood there, lonely. Poor Tatyana—

Alas, her lifetime’s bosom friend,

Her turtledove, her pal to hang on,

Her confidante and old companion,

Was seized by fate and whisked away,

Gone off for ever and a day.

Now she goes wandering like a shadow,

Inspecting their deserted plot.

Is there relief ? No, there is not,

Nor consolation. She grows sadder,

In tears that she could scarce suppress.

Her heart is sundered in her breast. 14

Her passion burns with more insistence

Now she’s alone, feeling apart.

Onegin, who is now so distant,

Speaks louder to her troubled heart.

They would now never see each other,

And he—the killer of her “brother”—

Was someone whom she ought to loathe.

But Lensky’s storybook is closed.

He’s not remembered. His fiancée

Has gone away with someone else,

And now the poet’s memory melts

Like smoke in a blue sky. Just fancy:

Perhaps the odd heart feels (or not?)

Some grief for him… But grief means… what? 15

Evening. A darkling sky. The waters

Go bubbling by, and beetles buzz.

Their dancing done, the peasants scatter.

Across the river, through the dusk,

Fires of the fishermen burn, plume-like,

While, lonesome in the silvery moonlight,

Tatyana strolls the fields and seems

Preoccupied, dreaming her dreams.

She wanders on. Then, with a shiver,

She spots a house down in a dell,

A village, copses down the hill,

And parkland by the gleaming river.

And one glance is enough to start

A faster frenzy in her heart. 16

She feels misgivings, sensing danger.

Go on? Go back? The choice is stark.

“He’s not here, and I am a stranger…

Just one glance at the house and park.”

And from the hilltop she walks down there,

Holding her breath. She looks around her,

Lost, apprehensive, on her guard,

And enters the deserted yard.

Some dogs rushed out to meet her, woofing.

She yelled in panic; as she did,

Some youngsters came out, servants’ kids,

And ran to her. After a scuffle,

They chased the mastiffs from the grounds,

Keeping the lady safe and sound. 17

“Could one ask where the big house keys are?”

Tatyana asked, and like a shot

The children rushed to find Anisya,

From whom the big keys could be got.

Anisya sped round in short order

To open up the big door for her,

And Tanya walked into the home

Where our hero had lived alone.

She looked around. A cue, unheeded,

Lay on the billiard-table top,

And she could see a riding crop

On a rough couch. Tanya, proceeding,

Was taken to the inglenook,

Where he’d sat on his own. “There, look. 18

And this is where our neighbour, Lensky,

Would come to dine last winter. See,

That’s the big study through the entry.

If you would kindly follow me…

Here he took naps and drank his coffee,

Heard statements from the steward’s office,

Or, in the mornings, read a tome.

This used to be the old squire’s home.

On Sundays I would sometimes visit,

And by that window—him in specs—

We’d play tomfool with that there deck.

The Lord have mercy on his spirit,

And rest his bones. I knew his worth,

And now he’s with damp Mother Earth.” 19

Tanya looked round with heartfelt pleasure,

Casting her eyes on every side.

It all seemed infinitely precious

And her sad spirits were revived.

Half-agonized and half-excited,

She scanned the desk, its lamp not lighted,

Book-piles, the window and the bed

With a rug cover for a spread,

The view outside, dark, moonlit, solemn,

The half-light cast upon it all,

Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall,

The cast-iron figure on his column,

His crowning hat, his scowling brow,

His arms crossed tightly—you know how. 20

Bewitched, she lingered in this prison,

This latter-day recluse’s room.

But it is late. Cold winds have risen.

The woods sleep in their darkened coomb.

Across the steaming, misty river,

The moon goes down the hillside thither.

Far has the young girl-pilgrim roamed,

And it is time she went back home.

She stifles her disturbed condition,

Though she can’t suppress a sigh,

And leaves for home now, not too shy

To ask permission to revisit

The lonely castle on her own

And read the books there all alone. 21

She took her leave of the housekeeper

Outside the gate, but came again,

First thing next day to go down deeper

Into his long-abandoned den,

And once inside his silent study,

Dead to all things and everybody,

She loitered there alone, inside,

And as time passed she cried and cried.

And as his books slipped through her fingers,

Quite unappealingly at first,

The choice of them seemed so perverse

And weird. But when she looked and lingered

Her eager spirit soon unfurled

An altogether different world. 22

We know Yevgeny had rejected

The reading business; all the same,

He did make one or two exceptions,

Exemptions from his hall of shame,

Such as the author of Don Juan,

And novels, even the odd new one

From our contemporary span

That represents the “modern man”,

Who is depicted most precisely

With his amoral attitude,

His arid soul, his selfish views,

His boundless taste for fantasizing,

His uselessly embittered mind

And actions of the futile kind. 23

And decorating many pages

Are thumbnail imprints deeply etched.

The girl’s sharp focus now engages

With these, her concentration stretched.

Her hands shake when she sees a passage

Containing some idea or message

That must have left Onegin moved

Or where he tacitly approved.

On many a page she found appended

Onegin’s marginalia.

At every corner there they are,

Hints of his spirit (unintended),

A short phrase here, a small cross there,

A query hanging in the air. 24

And my Tatyana comes by stages

To understand the very man

(Depicted clearly as outrageous?)

Destined for her by some weird plan,

Sent to unsettle and derange her,

A maverick oddball bringing danger,

A child of heaven, of hell perchance,

Devil and god of arrogance.

What is he? A copy of mischances,

A ghost of nothingness, a joke,

A Russian in Childe Harold’s cloak,

A ragbag of imported fancies,

A catchphrase-monger and a sham.

Is he more parody than man? 25

A parody? Does this expression

Give us the riddle’s final clue?

The hours fly by. She’s been forgetting

Her home, where she’s long overdue.

Two visitors are there, two locals,

And Tanya is their present focus.

“Tanya’s no child. This is no joke.

What can one do?” her mother croaks.

“Our Olga was the younger sister;

Now Tanya’s turn is overdue.

She must wed, but what can I do?

We speak, but she is so insistent:

Not marriage! Then she’ll mope and moan,

And go out in the woods alone.” 26

“She’s not in love, then?” “Who’d she fancy?

Buyánov made an offer—no!

Then Petushkóv, Iván—same answer.

Pykhtín the lancer stayed here—oh,

He fell for Tanya altogether,

All over her he was, young devil…

It looked good and I thought perhaps…

But, no. Again it all collapsed.”

“My dear friend, you should wait no longer.

Get you to Moscow—the brides’ fair—

Plenty of vacancies up there.”

“Pity my income isn’t stronger…”

“You could just see one winter through.

And I could lend you something too.” 27

Old Madame Larina, delighted

By such a wise and friendly tip,

Added things up and soon decided:

Come winter, they would make the trip.

Tatyana sees all this as tricky,

Moving to people who are picky—

Their modes and manners still alive

With primitive provincial life:

Their dull, unfashionable clothing,

Their dull, unfashionable speech,

The Moscow toffs and beauties, each

Observing them with fun and loathing!

God save her! Better if she could

Just stay there wandering in the woods. 28

Up with the early sun, Tatyana

Would fly down to the fields and stay

To scan the beauteous panorama

With melting eyes, as if to say,

“Farewell, you valleys all sequestered,

You hilltops where my eyes have rested,

You woodlands that I know and prize,

Farewell, you gorgeous heavenly skies,

Farewell to you, this happy Eden.

I trade my lovely, quiet world

For a noisy, glittering, empty swirl.

And I bid you farewell, my freedom!

Where am I going, and what for?

What does my future hold in store?” 29

The walks she takes are lasting longer;

Those hills and streams take her aback,

Working their wondrous charms upon her,

Stopping Tatyana in her tracks.

Treating them like long-lost companions,

Down to the woods and fields she scrambles

To greet them, chattering on and on…

But soon short summer’s day is gone,

And onward steals the golden autumn

To shiver the pale countryside,

Arraying it for sacrifice.

A north wind drives the storm clouds, awesome

In gusts and howls. Onto the scene

Comes winter like a fairy queen. 30

She came here, spreading wide, amassing

On every twig upon the oaks,

And carpeting the rolling grassland

Across the fields and down the slopes.

She levelled the still banks of rivers

In shrouds of dark mist densely driven.

Frost sparkled. We were all transfixed

By Mother Winter and her tricks.

And yet Tatyana felt unable

To celebrate; she did not care

To inhale the dusty, frosty air

Or use snow from the bathroom gable

To wash her shoulders, face and chest.

She feared the coming winter quest. 31

Departure times had been allotted,

Then come and gone. This was the last.

The old sleigh carriage, long forgotten,

Was reupholstered and made fast.

A caravan (three covered wagons)

Would haul the family household baggage;

Pans, chairs and trunks had all been crammed

With mattresses and jars and jams,

And feather beds, cockerels in cages,

Basins and pots, et cetera,

All their paraphernalia.

The servants’ uproar is outrageous.

Across the courtyard someone drags—

Through tears and farewells—eighteen nags. 32

They’re harnessed to the winter carriage,

The cooks get breakfast for them all,

The carts are mountains high with baggage,

The women and the drivers bawl.

Here’s a thin, shaggy hack whose rider,

A bearded man, is the team-driver.

The servants gather in a horde.

“Goodbye, my lady! All aboard!”

The venerable carriage trundles

Off, gliding through the gate. “Goodbye,

Sweet spaces!” comes the cry.

“Farewell, the sheltered nook! I wonder

If I’ll see you again.” And streaks

Of tears run down Tatyana’s cheeks. 33

When we’ve extended all the borders

Of our grand culture, gentlemen,

In time (our thinkers will reward us

With charts for calculating when—

Five hundred years hence?) our road system

Will have become completely different.

Then Russia’s highways will appear,

Conjoining and criss-crossing her.

Across our waters iron bridges

Will stride with an enormous span.

Mountains will move, and, where we can,

We’ll dig deep vaults beneath the rivers,

And at all Christian staging posts

We’ll open inns with Russian hosts. 34

Today, our highways are outrageous.

Neglected bridges rot in heaps

While bugs and fleas at all the stages

Never give us a minute’s sleep.

There are no inns. Ramshackle venues

Offer impressive-looking menus,

Showy but not to be believed,

Tempting but flattering to deceive,

And many a rural Russian Cyclops,

In smithies slow and clogged with ash,

With Russian tools will bang and bash

At Western workmanship, delighted

To bless their homegrown landscape, which

Is well supplied with rut and ditch. 35

But in the frozen winter it is

Much easier; it’s fun to ride.

Like the crass lines of modern ditties,

The winter road’s an easy slide.

The charioteers here do not loiter,

Untiring is the Russian troika!

You idly watch the mileposts hence

As they flash by in one long fence.

But, sad to say, the Larins laboured.

Post-horses were beyond her purse;

Her own were cheaper but much worse,

But Tanya actually savoured

The trek, however dull and bleak,

Which took them no less than a week. 36

But now they’re nearly there. Before them

Stands Moscow chiselled in white stone,

The buildings topped with fiery glory,

A golden cross on every dome.

Brothers, I’ve always been delighted

By churches passed, and belfries sighted

With many a palace near a park,

Appearing in a sudden arc!

With all my contacts sadly broken

And travelling forth my destiny,

Moscow, I’ve often thought of thee!

Moscow! The very word when spoken

Blends many things in Russian hearts!

What resonances it imparts! 37

Petróvsky Castle stands here dourly

In its own oak grove to proclaim

Its recently acquired glory;

Napoleon stood here in vain,

Full of his fame with all its promise,

Expecting Moscow to pay homage

By giving up its Kremlin keys.

But Moscow was not on her knees,

And would not come to supplicate him.

The hasty hero got short shrift:

Instead of holidays and gifts

She met him with a conflagration.

Here he stood, brooding as he gazed

Upon the unpropitious blaze. 38

Goodbye Petróvsky, you who swallowed

Our humbled pride. We’re on our way!

We rumble past white gates and columns

Down Tver Street in our trundling sleigh,

Where every rut and pothole rocks us,

Past peasant women, sentry boxes,

Boys, shops, lamp-posts along the street,

Convents, palaces, gardens neat,

Allotments, sleds, Bukhara traders,

Dealers and our poor people’s shacks,

Avenues, towers and Cossacks,

Chemist’s shops and boutiques for ladies,

Balconies, gates lion-embossed,

With jackdaws poised on every cross. [39] 40

This torment of a journey lasted

For rather more than two hours straight,

But then in Kharitónov passage

The ponderous sleigh came to a gate

And stopped. Here lived an ageing auntie

Who’d fought for four years valiantly

Against consumption. They’d arrived,

And the front door was opened wide

By an old, grizzled Kalmyk servant

Wearing a loose coat, specs on nose,

Stocking in hand. A cry arose

From the princess, couch-bound but fervent.

The old girls swooned in tears and hugs,

Loud greetings pouring forth in floods. 41

“Princess, mon ange!” “Pachette!” “Alina!”

“Incredible!” “At last we meet!

Astonishing!” “Ma chère cousine!

Will you stay long? Do take a seat.

It’s like a novel… All this drama…”

“This is my daughter, dear Tatyana!”

“Oh. Tanya, come to me. This seems

Too much. It’s like the stuff of dreams.

Remember Grandison? You must do.”

“What Grandison? Oh, you mean him!

I do remember. Where’s he been?”

“He’s near St Simeon’s here in Moscow.

Dropped in to see me Christmas Eve.

Married his son off, I believe. 42

And he… But let’s save this till later,

Shall we? Tomorrow we must show

Tatyana off to her relations.

Sorry, I’m poorly. I can’t go.

My feeble legs will barely serve me…

But you’re exhausted from the journey.

Why don’t we have a little rest?

I’m feeble. Oh, my tired old chest…

Now, even pleasure is a burden,

And not just sadness. Oh, my dear,

I’m pretty useless now, I fear.

Old age is dreadful, that’s for certain.”

She was exhausted. That was it.

She wept and had a coughing fit. 43

The good cheer of her ailing auntie

Moves Tanya, although, truth to tell,

Her new rooms are not to her fancy

Compared with those she knew so well.

The drapes are of a silken sweetness,

But in her new bed she lies sleepless,

And then the early sound of bells,

Heralding morning work, propels

Her out of bed. Her chair is placed by

The window, where she now stays put.

The darkness thins, she looks out, but

Instead of her home fields she’s faced by

A yard she doesn’t know at all,

A stable, a kitchen and a wall. 44

To family dinner after dinner

Tanya is taken, to impress.

With grans and grandads she’s a winner,

For all her dreamy idleness.

As kinfolk, come from distant places,

They’re met with warmth and smiling faces,

With exclamations and nice meals.

“She’s grown!…” “But yesterday—it feels!—

I stood for you when you were christened.

I held you in my arms, my dear.

I used to tweak your little ear.

I gave you sweeties.” Tanya listens

To granny’s age group and their cries

Of “How the years have gone. Time flies!” 45

They haven’t changed. Depend upon it:

The old ways are their golden rule.

Thus Princess (Aunt) Yeléna’s bonnet

Is of unfashionable tulle,

Ivan Petróvich is no wiser,

Semyón, his brother’s still a miser,

Lukérya’s face is all white paint.

Is Lyubóv truthful? No, she ain’t.

You’ll find that Auntie Pelagéya

Still friends with Finemouche (gentilhomme),

Still has a husband, and a pom.

He’s still a clubman, a long-stayer,

Still henpecked, deaf and someone who

Still eats and drinks enough for two. 46

Their girls greet Tanya with embraces,

But, there being much they want to know,

Silently these young Moscow Graces

Examine her from top to toe.

They find her rather odd, provincial,

With mannerisms strangely mincing,

A little thin and pale withal—

Though otherwise not bad at all.

But nature will prevail—with passion

They make friends, entertain her, and

They kiss her often, squeezing hands,

Fluffing her curls in the new fashion.

With girlish giggles they impart

The secrets of their girlish hearts— 47

Details of conquests, theirs and others’,

Their hopes and schemes, daydreams and such,

Flowing in guileless chat that buzzes

With scandal (though not all that much).

Then in return for all this chatter

They lean on Tanya, getting at her

To tell the stories of her heart,

But dreamily she stands apart.

She hears things but forgets soon after,

For nothing heard makes any sense.

Her feelings, private and intense,

Her secret thoughts, her tears and laughter

She keeps unspoken, for herself

And shareable with no one else. 48

Tatyana is quite keen to listen

To what they’re saying, but, alas,

The room is swamped with the transmission

Of incoherent, vulgar trash.

It’s so banal and so insipid;

Even the scandal’s far from gripping.

In the dry desert of their views,

Their queries, slurs and bits of news,

Days pass with nothing thought-provoking,

No twist of fate or happenstance

To set the weary mind a-dance,

Nothing heart-lifting, nothing jokey,

No silly fun to be enjoyed

Anywhere in this social void. 49

Young men with sinecures look at her

In priggish, condescending ways,

Then walk off to discuss the matter

With nothing very nice to say.

Among them one pathetic jester

Found her “ideal” as he assessed her,

And now he leans against the door

To pen an ode. Guess who it’s for.

Once Vyázemsky sat down beside her

When she was at a boring aunt’s

And captivated her, by chance.

An old man, looking on, espied her,

And curiously began to dig,

While neatly straightening his wig. 50

But in the halls, where raging Tragedy

Is still performed in one long wail,

With spangled mantles wielded, waggling,

At the full house (to no avail),

Where Comedy lies gently napping

And sleeps through even friendly clapping,

Where the young public is entranced

By nothing but the Muse of Dance—

That’s how it was in former ages

When you and I were in our prime—

Tanya was cut dead all the time

By the lorgnettes of jealous ladies

And the eye-tubes of strutting beaux

In boxes or the lower rows. 51

She’s taken on to the Assembly,

With all its crowds, excitement, heat,

The blaring band, the candles trembling

As pairs sweep by with flashing feet.

The lovely girls arrayed in flimsy,

The galleries with their gaudy whimsy,

And nubile girls in one wide arc—

All this struck her and made its mark.

Made manifest by dazzling dandies,

Bravado gleams, and waistcoats too,

Eyeglasses spurned but kept in view,

Hussars on leave, fine and upstanding,

Leap to the fore, gallop and stamp,

Delight the eye, and then decamp. 52

The night has many stars, resplendent,

Moscow has lovely girls on view,

Yet of these friends the moon ascendant

Outshines them all in the deep blue.

And she… (I wouldn’t dare upset her;

To mute my lyre would be far better…)

Gives off her splendour, casting shade

On every mother, every maid.

With heavenly poise and proud composure

She deigns to tread the earth, and breathes

Profound bliss as her bosom heaves.

Her eyes shine, wondrously ambrosial.

But stop, stop. That’s enough from you.

To folly you have paid your due. 53

They shout, laugh, bow and charge through dances—

Mazurka, gallop, waltz—all night,

But Tanya stands there with two aunties

Behind a pillar out of sight.

She watches things, uncomprehending,

Repelled by this world and its frenzy.

She cannot breathe… And, starry-eyed,

She floats back to the countryside,

Back to the poor folk in their hovels,

To distant parts, secluded nooks

Busy with sparkling, babbling brooks,

Back to her flowers and her novels,

To lines of lime trees dark and grim,

Where she had once encountered him. 54

But as her thoughts depart, dispersing

Beyond the guests, the noisy ball,

She is the target of one person,

A most impressive general.

The aunts wink at each other, touching

Tatyana with their elbows, nudging

Her, both of them, and hissing low,

“Look to your left… Quick… There you go.”

“Where on my left? What’s all this bother?”

“Oh, never mind… Across there, that’s

The one, leading that group. Two chaps

In uniform… and he’s the other…

He’s off… He stood there, sideways on.”

“That tubby general who’s just gone?” 55

Congratulations on your victory,

Lovely Tatyana, dear young thing!…

But we must change direction quickly

And turn to him of whom I sing…

A subject that’s worth going into:

I sing an old friend, whom I cling to,

With all his idiosyncrasies.

Bless this, my work, long as it is,

O Muse, thou mother of the epic!

Entrust me with thy rod and staff,

And stand me steady on my path.

Enough. My burden falls. I let it…

For every classic it seems fit

To pen a Prologue. This is it.