LITMIR.BIZ

      In my young days of wild delight

      On balls I madly used to dote,

      Fond declarations they invite

      Or the delivery of a note.

      So hearken, every worthy spouse,

      I would your vigilance arouse,

      Attentive be unto my rhymes

      And due precautions take betimes.

      Ye mothers also, caution use,

      Upon your daughters keep an eye,

      Employ your glasses constantly,

      For otherwise – God only knows!

      I lift a warning voice because

      I long have ceased to offend the laws.

      Alas! life’s hours which swiftly fly

      I’ve wasted in amusements vain,

      But were it not immoral I

      Should dearly like a dance again.

      I love its furious delight,

      The crowd and merriment and light,

      The ladies, their fantastic dress,

      Also their feet – yet ne’ertheless

      Scarcely in Russia can ye find

      Three pairs of handsome female feet;

      Ah! I still struggle to forget

      A pair; though desolate my mind,

      Their memory lingers still and seems

      To agitate me in my dreams.

      When, where, and in what desert land,

      Madman, wilt thou from memory raze

      Those feet? Alas! on what far strand

      Do ye of spring the blossoms graze?

      Lapped in your Eastern luxury,

      No trace ye left in passing by

      Upon the dreary northern snows,

      But better loved the soft repose

      Of splendid carpets richly wrought.

      I once forgot for your sweet cause

      The thirst for fame and man’s applause,

      My country and an exile’s lot;

      My joy in youth was fleeting e’en

      As your light footprints on the green.

      Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks,

      Are admirable, my dear friend,

      But yet Terpsichore bespeaks

      Charms more enduring in the end.

      For promises her feet reveal

      Of untold gain she must conceal,

      Their privileged allurements fire

      A hidden train of wild desire.

      I love them, O my dear Elvine[14],

      Beneath the table-cloth of white,

      In winter on the fender bright,

      In springtime on the meadows green,

      Upon the ball-room’s glassy floor

      Or by the ocean’s rocky shore.

      Beside the stormy sea one day

      I envied sore the billows tall,

      Which rushed in eager dense array

      Enamoured at her feet to fall.

      How like the billow I desired

      To kiss the feet which I admired!

      No, never in the early blaze

      Of fiery youth’s untutored days

      So ardently did I desire

      A young Armida’s lips to press,

      Her cheek of rosy loveliness

      Or bosom full of languid fire, —

      A gust of passion never tore

      My spirit with such pangs before.

      Another time, so willed it Fate,

      Immersed in secret thought I stand

      And grasp a stirrup fortunate —

      Her foot was in my other hand.

      Again imagination blazed,

      The contact of the foot I raised

      Rekindled in my withered heart

      The fires of passion and its smart —

      Away! and cease to ring their praise

      For ever with thy tattling lyre,

      The proud ones are not worth the fire

      Of passion they so often raise.

      The words and looks of charmers sweet

      Are oft deceptive – like their feet.

      Where is Onegin? Half asleep,

      Straight from the ball to bed he goes,

      Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep

      The drum already doth arouse.

      The shopman and the pedlar rise

      And to the Bourse the cabman plies;

      The Okhtenka[15] with pitcher speeds,

      Crunching the morning snow she treads;

      Morning awakes with joyous sound;

      The shutters open; to the skies

      In column blue the smoke doth rise;

      The German baker looks around

      His shop, a night-cap on his head,

      And pauses oft to serve out bread.

      But turning morning into night,

      Tired by the ball’s incessant noise,

      The votary of vain delight

      Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,

      Late in the afternoon to rise,

      When the same life before him lies

      Till morn – life uniform but gay,

      To-morrow just like yesterday.

      But was our friend Eugene content,

      Free, in the blossom of his spring,

      Amidst successes flattering

      And pleasure’s daily blandishment,

      Or vainly ’mid luxurious fare

      Was he in health and void of care? —

      Even so! His passions soon abated,

      Hateful the hollow world became,

      Nor long his mind was agitated

      By love’s inevitable flame.

      For

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