Around him crowd, a mute caress

Hid in their downcast eyes, and for him

Care with a wordless tenderness.

Above him one waves birch twigs that

Send off sweet scents, another, at

His side stays put and waxes busy,

The juice of spring's fresh roses using

To cool his weary legs and arms

And drown in aromatic balms

His curly locks. Ratmir, enraptured,

Forgets Ludmila, long since captured,

And her once dreamt-of, longed-for charms.

With languor filled and with desire,

His roving eye agleam, he burns,

All passion, and, his heart afire,

For love and its fulfilment yearns.

But now7 the baths he leaves, and, wearing

Rich velvets, to a feast sits down,

With the young sirens gladly sharing

The wonders of the board. I own

I am no Homer to be singing

In lofty verse (not mine his pen

The feasts of Grecian fighting men

And their great goblets' merry ringing.

No, like Parny I would that my

Imprudent lyre might tender sigh

O'er love's sweet kiss and sing the praises

Of nude forms dimmed by night's soft hazes!..

Lit by the moon the castle is;

I see a chamber where, reclining

Upon a couch, Ratmir sleeps, pining

For love in dreamy languor. His

Once pallid brow and cheeks are flaming,