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

But once more pensive and distressed 
Beside his Olga doth he grieve, 
Nor enough strength of mind possessed 
To mention the foregoing eve, 
He mused: "I will her saviour be! 
With ardent sighs and flattery 
The vile seducer shall not dare 
The freshness of her heart impair, 
Nor shall the caterpillar come 
The lily's stem to eat away, 
Nor shall the bud of yesterday 
Perish when half disclosed its bloom!"— 
All this, my friends, translate aright: 
"I with my friend intend to fight!"

XVI

If he had only known the wound 
Which rankled in Tattiana's breast, 
And if Tattiana mine had found— 
If the poor maiden could have guessed 
That the two friends with morning's light 
Above the yawning grave would fight,— 
Ah! it may be, affection true 
Had reconciled the pair anew!

But of this love, e'en casually, 

As yet none had discovered aught; 
Eugene of course related nought, 
Tattiana suffered secretly; 
Her nurse, who could have made a guess, 
Was famous for thick-headedness.

XVII

Lenski that eve in thought immersed, 
Now gloomy seemed and cheerful now, 
But he who by the Muse was nursed 
Is ever thus. With frowning brow 
To the pianoforte he moves 
And various chords upon it proves, 
Then, eyeing Olga, whispers low: 
"I'm happy, say, is it not so?"— 
But it grew late; he must not stay; 
Heavy his heart with anguish grew; 
To the young girl he said adieu, 
As it were, tore himself away.

Gazing into his face, she said: 

"What ails thee?"—"Nothing."—He is fled.

XVIII

At home arriving he addressed
His care unto his pistols' plight,
Replaced them in their box, undressed
And Schiller read by candlelight.

But one thought only filled his mind,

His mournful heart no peace could find,
Olga he sees before his eyes
Miraculously fair arise,
Vladimir closes up his book,
And grasps a pen: his verse, albeit
With lovers' rubbish filled, was neat
And flowed harmoniously. He took
And spouted it with lyric fire—
Like D[elvig] when dinner doth inspire.

XIX

Destiny hath preserved his lay. 
I have it. Lo! the very thing! 
"Oh! whither have ye winged your way, 
Ye golden days of my young spring?

What will the coming dawn reveal? 

In vain my anxious eyes appeal; 
In mist profound all yet is hid. 
So be it! Just the laws which bid 
The fatal bullet penetrate, 
Or innocently past me fly.

Good governs all! The hour draws nigh 

Of life or death predestinate. 
Blest be the labours of the light, 
And blest the shadows of the night.

XX