ss shade
As in a garden when I grew,
I Apuleius gladly read
But would not look at Cicero.
'Twas then in valleys lone, remote,
In spring-time, heard the cygnet's note
By waters shining tranquilly,
That first the Muse appeared to me.
Into the study of the boy
There came a sudden flash of light,
The Muse revealed her first delight,
Sang childhood's pastimes and its joy,
Glory with which our history teems
And the heart's agitated dreams.

II

And the world met her smilingly,
A first success light pinions gave,
The old Derjavine noticed me,
And blest me, sinking to the grave.(78)
Then my companions young with pleasure
In the unfettered hours of leisure
Her utterances ever heard,
And by a partial temper stirred
And boiling o'er with friendly heat,
They first of all my brow did wreathe
And an encouragement did breathe
That my coy Muse might sing more sweet.
O triumphs of my guileless days,
How sweet a dream your memories raise!

[Note 78: This touching scene produced a lasting impression on
Pushkin's mind. It took place at a public examination at
the Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. The
incident recalls the "Mon cher Tibulle" of Voltaire and the
youthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during the
reigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. His
poems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought of
by contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimal
endowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperial
reward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire.
Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder having
been expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I have
filled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the author
having reference to this canto.]

III

Passion's wild sway I then allowed,
Her promptings unto law did make,
Pursuits I followed of the crowd,
My sportive Muse I used to take
To many a noisy feast and fight,
Terror of guardians of the night;
And wild festivities among
She brought with her the gift of song.
Like a Bacchante in her sport
Beside the cup she sang her rhymes
And the young revellers of past times
Vociferously paid her court,
And I, amid the friendly crowd,
Of my light paramour was proud.

IV

But I abandoned their array,
And fled afar--she followed me.
How oft the kindly Muse away
Hath whiled the road's monotony,
Entranced me by some mystic tale.
How