And now philanthropy his soul,

And now his youthful heart desires

The path which leads to glory's goal.

His harp beneath that sky had rung

Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,

And at the altar of their fame

He kindled his poetic flame.

But from the Muses' loftiest height

The gifted songster never swerved,

But proudly in his song preserved

An ever transcendental flight;

His transports were quite maidenly,

Charming with grave simplicity.

X.

He sang of love - to love a slave.

His ditties were as pure and bright

As thoughts which gentle maidens have,

As a babe's slumber, or the light

Of the moon in the tranquil skies,

Goddess of lovers' tender sighs.

He sang of separation grim,

Of what not, and of distant dim,

Of roses to romancers dear;

To foreign lands he would allude,

Where long time he in solitude

Had let fall many a bitter tear:

He sang of life's fresh colours stained

Before he eighteen years attained.

XI.

Since Eugene in that solitude

Gifts such as these alone could prize,

A scant attendance Lenski showed

At neighbouring hospitalities.

He shunned those parties boisterous;