Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

To Olga frequently he would Some nice instructive novel read, Whose author nature understood Better than Chateaubriand did Yet sometimes pages two or three (Nonsense and pure absurdity, For maiden's hearing deemed unfit), He somewhat blushing would omit:Far from the rest the pair would creep And (elbows on the table) they A game of chess would often play, Buried in meditation deep, Till absently Vladimir took With his own pawn alas! his rook!

XXI

Homeward returning, he at home Is occupied with Olga fair, An album, fly-leaf of the tome, He leisurely adorns for her.Landscapes thereon he would design, A tombstone, Aphrodite's shrine, Or, with a pen and colours fit, A dove which on a lyre doth sit;The "in memoriam" pages sought, Where many another hand had signed A tender couplet he combined, A register of fleeting thought, A flimsy trace of musings past Which might for many ages last.

XXII

Surely ye all have overhauled A country damsel's album trim, Which all her darling friends have scrawled From first to last page to the rim.Behold! orthography despising, Metreless verses recognizing By friendship how they were abused, Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used.Upon the opening page ye find: Qu'ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes? Subscribed, toujours a vous, Annette; And on the last one, underlined:Who in thy love finds more delight Beyond this may attempt to write.

XXIII

Infallibly you there will find Two hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath, And vows will probably be signed: Affectionately yours till death.Some army poet therein may Have smuggled his flagitious lay. In such an album with delight I would, my friends, inscriptions write, Because I should be sure, meanwhile, My verses, kindly meant, would earn Delighted glances in return; That afterwards with evil smile They would not solemnly debate If cleverly or not I prate.

XXIV

But, O ye tomes without compare, Which from the devil's bookcase start, Albums magnificent which scare The fashionable rhymester's heart!Yea! although rendered beauteous By Tolstoy's pencil marvellous, Though Baratynski verses penned,[47] The thunderbolt on you descend!Whene'er a brilliant courtly dame Presents her quarto amiably, Despair and anger seize on me, And a malicious epigram Trembles upon my lips from spite,— And madrigals I'm asked to write!

XXV