With smiling face he Lenski hears;

      The poet’s fervid conversation

      And judgment which unsteady veers

      And eye which gleams with inspiration —

      All this was novel to Eugene.

      The cold reply with gloomy mien

      He oft upon his lips would curb,

      Thinking: ’tis foolish to disturb

      This evanescent boyish bliss.

      Time without me will lessons give,

      So meantime let him joyous live

      And deem the world perfection is!

      Forgive the fever youth inspires,

      And youthful madness, youthful fires.

      The gulf between them was so vast,

      Debate commanded ample food —

      The laws of generations past,

      The fruits of science, evil, good,

      The prejudices all men have,

      The fatal secrets of the grave,

      And life and fate in turn selected

      Were to analysis subjected.

      The fervid poet would recite,

      Carried away by ecstasy,

      Fragments of northern poetry,

      Whilst Eugene condescending quite,

      Though scarcely following what was said,

      Attentive listened to the lad.

      But more the passions occupy

      The converse of our hermits twain,

      And, heaving a regretful sigh,

      An exile from their troublous reign,

      Eugene would speak regarding these.

      Thrice happy who their agonies

      Hath suffered but indifferent grown,

      Still happier he who ne’er hath known!

      By absence who hath chilled his love,

      His hate by slander, and who spends

      Existence without wife or friends,

      Whom jealous transport cannot move,

      And who the rent-roll of his race

      Ne’er trusted to the treacherous ace.

      When, wise at length, we seek repose

      Beneath the flag of Quietude,

      When Passion’s fire no longer glows

      And when her violence reviewed —

      Each gust of temper, silly word,

      Seems so unnatural and absurd:

      Reduced with effort unto sense,

      We hear with interest intense

      The accents wild of other’s woes,

      They stir the heart as heretofore.

      So ancient warriors, battles o’er,

      A curious interest disclose

      In yarns of youthful troopers gay,

      Lost in the hamlet far away.

      And in addition youth is flame

      And cannot anything conceal,

      Is ever ready to proclaim

      The love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel.

      Deeming himself a veteran scarred

      In love’s campaigns Onegin heard

      With quite a lachrymose expression

      The youthful poet’s fond confession.

      He with an innocence extreme

      His inner consciousness laid bare,

      And Eugene soon discovered there

      The story of his young love’s dream,

      Where plentifully feelings flow

      Which we experienced long ago.

      Alas! he loved as in our times

      Men love no more, as only the

      Mad spirit of the man who rhymes

      Is still condemned in love to be;

      One image occupied his mind,

      Constant affection intertwined

      And an habitual sense of pain;

      And distance interposed in vain,

      Nor years of separation all

      Nor homage which the Muse demands

      Nor beauties of far distant lands

      Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball

      His constant soul could ever tire,

      Which glowed with virginal desire.

      When but a boy he Olga loved

      Unknown as yet the aching heart,

      He witnessed tenderly and moved

      Her girlish gaiety and sport.

      Beneath the sheltering oak tree’s shade

      He with his little maiden played,

      Whilst the fond parents, friends thro’ life,

      Dreamed in the future man and wife.

      And full of innocent delight,

      As in a thicket’s humble shade,

      Beneath her parents’ eyes the maid

      Grew like a lily pure and white,

      Unseen in thick and tangled grass

      By bee and butterfly which pass.

      ‘Twas she who first within his breast

      Poetic transport did infuse,

      And thoughts of Olga first impressed

      A mournful temper on his Muse.

      Farewell! thou golden days of love!

      ‘Twas then he loved the tangled grove

      And solitude and calm delight,

      The moon, the stars, and shining night —

      The moon, the lamp of heaven above,

      To whom we used to consecrate

      A promenade in twilight late

      With tears which secret sufferers love —

      But now in her effulgence pale

      A substitute for lamps we hail!

      Obedient