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

But Lenski madrigals ne'er wroteIn Olga's album, youthful maid,To purest love he tuned his noteNor frigid adulation paid.What never was remarked or heardOf Olga he in song averred;His elegies, which plenteous streamed,Both natural and truthful seemed.Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise[48]In amorous flights when so inspired,Singing God knows what maid admired,And all thy precious elegies,Sometime collected, shall relateThe story of thy life and fate.

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 tookHis course unto the running brook.There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spannedHis Hellespont from bank to bank,And then a cup of coffee drank,Some wretched journal in his hand;Then dressed himself…[49]

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.

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