Sometime collected, shall relate

The story of thy life and fate.

[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He was an author of promise—unfulfilled.]

XXVI

Since Fame and Freedom he adored,

Incited by his stormy Muse

Odes Lenski also had outpoured,

But Olga would not such peruse.

When poets lachrymose recite

Beneath the eyes of ladies bright

Their own productions, some insist

No greater pleasure can exist

Just so! that modest swain is blest

Who reads his visionary theme

To the fair object of his dream,

A beauty languidly at rest,

Yes, happy—though she at his side

By other thoughts be occupied.

XXVII

But I the products of my Muse,

Consisting of harmonious lays,

To my old nurse alone peruse,

Companion of my childhood's days.

Or, after dinner's dull repast,

I by the button-hole seize fast

My neighbour, who by chance drew near,

And breathe a drama in his ear.

Or else (I deal not here in jokes),

Exhausted by my woes and rhymes,

I sail upon my lake at times

And terrify a swarm of ducks,

Who, heard the music of my lay,

Take to their wings and fly away.

XXVIII

But to Oneguine! A propos!

Friends, I must your indulgence pray.

His daily occupations, lo!

Minutely I will now portray.

A hermit's life Oneguine led,

At seven in summer rose from bed,

And clad in airy costume took

His course unto the running brook.

There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spanned

His Hellespont from bank to bank,

And then a cup of coffee drank,

Some wretched journal in his hand;

Then dressed himself…(*)

[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]

XXIX

Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss,

The murmuring brook, the woodland shade,

The uncontaminated kiss

Of a young dark-eyed country maid,

A fiery, yet well-broken horse,

A dinner, whimsical each course,

A bottle of a vintage white

And solitude and calm delight.

Such was Oneguine's sainted life,

And such unconsciously he led,

Nor marked how summer's prime had fled

In aimless ease and far from strife,

The curse of commonplace delight.

And town and friends forgotten quite.

XXX

This northern summer of our own,

On winters of the south a skit,

Glimmers and dies. This is well known,

Though we will not acknowledge it.

Already Autumn chilled the sky,

The tiny sun shone less on high

And shorter had the days become.

The forests in mysterious gloom

Were stripped with melancholy sound,

Upon the earth a mist did lie

And many a caravan on high

Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

A weary season was at hand—

November at the gate did stand.

XXXI

The morn arises foggy, cold,

The silent fields no peasant nears,

The wolf upon the highways bold

With his ferocious mate appears.

Detecting him the passing horse

snorts, and his rider bends his course

And wisely gallops to the hill.

No more at dawn the shepherd will

Drive out the cattle from their shed,

Nor at the hour of noon with sound

Of horn in circle call them round.

Singing inside her hut the maid

Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night,

The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

XXXII

Already crisp hoar frosts impose

O'er all a sheet of silvery dust

(Readers expect the rhyme of rose,

There! take it quickly, if ye must).

Behold! than polished floor more nice

The shining river clothed in ice;

A joyous troop of little boys

Engrave the ice with strident noise.

A heavy goose on scarlet feet,

Thinking to float upon the stream,

Descends the bank with care extreme,

But staggers, slips, and falls. We greet

The first bright wreathing storm of snow

Which falls in starry flakes below.

XXXIII

How in the country pass this time?

Walking? The landscape tires the eye