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

But not at present, though sincerely I on my chosen hero dote; Though I'll return to him right early, Just at this moment I cannot.Years have inclined me to stern prose, Years to light rhyme themselves oppose, And now, I mournfully confess, In rhyming I show laziness.As once, to fill the rapid page My pen no longer finds delight, Other and colder thoughts affright, Sterner solicitudes engage, In worldly din or solitude Upon my visions such intrude.

XLI

Fresh aspirations I have known, I am acquainted with fresh care, 

Hopeless are all the first, I own, Yet still remains the old despair.Illusions, dream, where, where your sweetness? Where youth (the proper rhyme is fleetness)? And is it true her garland bright At last is shrunk and withered quite?And is it true and not a jest, Not even a poetic phrase, That vanished are my youthful days (This joking I used to protest), Never for me to reappear— That soon I reach my thirtieth year?

XLII

And so my noon hath come! If so, I must resign myself, in sooth; Yet let us part in friendship, O My frivolous and jolly youth.I thank thee for thy joyfulness, 

Love's tender transports and distress, For riot, frolics, mighty feeds, And all that from thy hand proceeds—I thank thee. In thy company, With tumult or contentment still Of thy delights I drank my fill, Enough! with tranquil spirit I Commence a new career in life And rest from bygone days of strife.

XLIII

But pause! Thou calm retreats, farewell, Where my days in the wilderness Of languor and of love did tell And contemplative dreaminess;And thou, youth's early inspiration, Invigorate imagination And spur my spirit's torpid mood! 

Fly frequent to my solitude, Let not the poet's spirit freeze, Grow harsh and cruel, dead and dry, Eventually petrify In the world's mortal revelries, Amid the soulless sons of pride And glittering simpletons beside;

XLIV

Amid sly, pusillanimous Spoiled children most degenerate And tiresome rogues ridiculous And stupid censors passionate; Amid coquettes who pray to God And abject slaves who kiss the rod; In haunts of fashion where each day All with urbanity betray, Where harsh frivolity proclaims Its cold unfeeling sentences; 

Amid the awful emptiness Of conversation, thought and aims— In that morass where you and I Wallow, my friends, in company!

END OF CANTO THE SIXTH 

CANTO THE SEVENTH

Moscow

Moscow, Russia's darling daughter, Where thine equal shall we find?' DmitrieffWho can help loving mother Moscow? Baratynski (Feasts)A journey to Moscow! To see the world! Where better? Where man is not. Griboyedoff (Woe from Wit)

I