Their memory lingers still and seems

To agitate me in my dreams.

XXVIII

When, where, and in what desert land,

Madman, wilt thou from memory raze

Those feet? Alas! on what far strand

Do ye of spring the blossoms graze?

Lapped in your Eastern luxury,

No trace ye left in passing by

Upon the dreary northern snows,

But better loved the soft repose

Of splendid carpets richly wrought.

I once forgot for your sweet cause

The thirst for fame and man's applause,

My country and an exile's lot;

My joy in youth was fleeting e'en

As your light footprints on the green.

XXIX

Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks,

Are admirable, my dear friend,

But yet Terpsichore bespeaks

Charms more enduring in the end.

For promises her feet reveal

Of untold gain she must conceal,

Their privileged allurements fire

A hidden train of wild desire.

I love them, O my dear Elvine,(14)

Beneath the table-cloth of white,

In winter on the fender bright,

In springtime on the meadows green,

Upon the ball-room's glassy floor

Or by the ocean's rocky shore.

[Note 14: Elvine, or Elvina, was not improbably the owner of the seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote an ode, "To Her," which commences thus:

"Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand," and so forth.]

XXX

Beside the stormy sea one day

I envied sore the billows tall,

Which rushed in eager dense array

Enamoured at her feet to fall.

How like the billow I desired

To kiss the feet which I admired!

No, never in the early blaze

Of fiery youth's untutored days

So ardently did I desire

A young Armida's lips to press,

Her cheek of rosy loveliness

Or bosom full of languid fire,—

A gust of passion never tore

My spirit with such pangs before.

XXXI

Another time, so willed it Fate,

Immersed in secret thought I stand

And grasp a stirrup fortunate—

Her foot was in my other hand.

Again imagination blazed,

The contact of the foot I raised

Rekindled in my withered heart

The fires of passion and its smart—

Away! and cease to ring their praise

For ever with thy tattling lyre,

The proud ones are not worth the fire

Of passion they so often raise.

The words and looks of charmers sweet

Are oft deceptive—like their feet.

XXXII

Where is Oneguine? Half asleep,

Straight from the ball to bed he goes,

Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep

The drum already doth arouse.

The shopman and the pedlar rise

And to the Bourse the cabman plies;

The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,(15)

Crunching the morning snow she treads;

Morning awakes with joyous sound;

The shutters open; to the skies

In column blue the smoke doth rise;

The German baker looks around

His shop, a night-cap on his head,

And pauses oft to serve out bread.

[Note 15: i.e. the milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of St. Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by the labouring classes.]

XXXIII

But turning morning into night,

Tired by the ball's incessant noise,

The votary of vain delight

Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,

Late in the afternoon to rise,

When the same life before him lies

Till morn—life uniform but gay,

To-morrow just like yesterday.

But was our friend Eugene content,

Free, in the blossom of his spring,

Amidst successes flattering

And pleasure's daily blandishment,

Or vainly 'mid luxurious fare

Was he in health and void of care?—

XXXIV

Even so! His passions soon abated,

Hateful the hollow world became,

Nor long his mind was agitated

By love's inevitable flame.

For treachery had done its worst;

Friendship and friends he likewise curst,

Because he could not gourmandise

Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies

And irrigate them with champagne;

Nor slander viciously could spread

Whene'er he had an aching head;

And, though a plucky scatterbrain,

He finally lost all delight