The Demon

In days, when all earthly impressions Where utter novelty for me – And looks of maids and noise of groves, And nightingale’s plea, – When highly elevated senses, The love, the liberty, the pride And arts’ fancies Such strongly aggravated blood – Having filled time of bliss and hopes With sudden bitterness of pine, Some genius of the evil scopes Began invade a realm of mine. Our meetings were all sad and secret, dismel His smile and ever charming look, His speeches’ endless evil ringlet, Poured poison in my soul’s brook. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver My Demon In those days when new to me were Of existence all impressions: — The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper, The song of nightingale at night; When the sentiments elevated Of Freedom, glory and of love, And of art the inspiration Stirred deeply so my blood: — My hopeful hours and joyful With melancholy sudden dark'ning A certain evil spirit then Began in secret me to visit. Grievous were our meetings, His smile, and his wonderful glance, His speeches, these so stinging Cold poison poured into my soul. Providence with slander Inexhaustible he tempted; Of Beauty as a dream he spake And inspiration he despised; Nor love, nor freedom trusted he, On life with scorn he looked — And nought in all nature To bless he ever wished. Translated by Ivan Panin