Unending streamlets.... Dawn arrived,

And with its coming he revived,

Let out a heavy, muffled groan,

About him peered, and, vainly trying

To lift himself and stand, fell prone,

Like one already dead-or dying.

RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE SIXTH.

You bid me, O my heart's desire,

Take up my light and carefree lyre

And chant the lays of old, my leisure

Devoting to a faithful Muse.

Do you not know, then, that I treasure

Love's raptures more and frankly choose

To spend but little of my time

With that long cherished lyre of mine,

That being now at odds with rumour

And drunk with bliss, I'm in no humour

To welcome toil or harmony's

Sweet, winsome strains.... By you I breathe,

And though loud are fame's prideful speeches,

Their sound my ear but faintly reaches.

Of genius the secret fires

Are dead; its thoughts are left behind.

Love, love alone my heart inspires,

Its wild desires invade my mind.

But you-you'd have me sing; my stories

Of loves long past and erstwhile glories

Appeal to you; you wish to hear

Of Prince Ruslan and of Ludmila,

The dwarf, Nahina, Vladimir,

And to the old Finn's woes a willing

And patient ear are glad to lend.

The tales I spun would sometimes tend

To make you feel a trifle sleepy