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

Here I remark all poets are 
Love to idealize inclined; 
I have dreamed many a vision fair 
And the recesses of my mind 
Retained the image, though short-lived, 
Which afterwards the muse revived.

Thus carelessly I once portrayed 

Mine own ideal, the mountain maid, 
The captives of the Salguir's shore.[23] 
But now a question in this wise 
Oft upon friendly lips doth rise: 
Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore?

To whom amongst the jealous throng 

Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?

LII

Whose glance reflecting inspiration 
With tenderness hath recognized 
Thy meditative incantation— 
Whom hath thy strain immortalized?

None, be my witness Heaven above! 

The malady of hopeless love 
I have endured without respite. 
Happy who thereto can unite 
Poetic transport. They impart 
A double force unto their song 
Who following Petrarch move along 
And ease the tortures of the heart— 
Perchance they laurels also cull— 
But I, in love, was mute and dull.

LIII

The Muse appeared, when love passed by 
And my dark soul to light was brought; 
Free, I renewed the idolatry 
Of harmony enshrining thought.

I write, and anguish flies away, 

Nor doth my absent pen portray 
Around my stanzas incomplete 
Young ladies' faces and their feet.

Extinguished ashes do not blaze— 

I mourn, but tears I cannot shed— 
Soon, of the tempest which hath fled 
Time will the ravages efface— 
When that time comes, a poem I'll strive 
To write in cantos twenty-five.

LIV

I've thought well o'er the general plan, 
The hero's name too in advance, 
Meantime I'll finish whilst I can 
Canto the First of this romance.

I've scanned it with a jealous eye, 

Discovered much absurdity, 
But will not modify a tittle— 
I owe the censorship a little.

For journalistic deglutition 

I yield the fruit of work severe. 
Go, on the Neva's bank appear, 
My very latest composition! 
Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows— 
Misunderstanding, words and blows.

END OF CANTO THE FIRST

CANTO THE SECOND The Poet

"O Rus!"

Horace

I

The village wherein yawned Eugene 
Was a delightful little spot, 
There friends of pure delight had been 
Grateful to Heaven for their lot.

The lonely mansion-house to screen 

From gales a hill behind was seen; 
Before it ran a stream. Behold! 
Afar, where clothed in green and gold 
Meadows and cornfields are displayed, 
Villages in the distance show 
And herds of oxen wandering low; 
Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade, 
A thick immense neglected grove 
Extended—haunt which Dryads love.

II