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

Time flies! a genial air abroad, 
Winter resigned her empire white, 
Oneguine ne'er as poet showed 
Nor died nor lost his senses quite.

Spring cheered him up, and he resigned 

His chambers close wherein confined 
He marmot-like did hibernate, 
His double sashes and his grate, 
And sallied forth one brilliant morn— 
Along the Neva's bank he sleighs, 
On the blue blocks of ice the rays 
Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn, 
The snow upon the streets doth melt— 
Whither along them doth he pelt?

XXXIX

Oneguine whither gallops? Ye 
Have guessed already. Yes, quite so! 
Unto his own Tattiana he, 
Incorrigible rogue, doth go.

Her house he enters, ghastly white, 

The vestibule finds empty quite— 
He enters the saloon. 'Tis blank! 
A door he opens. But why shrank 
He back as from a sudden blow?— 
Alone the princess sitteth there, 
Pallid and with dishevelled hair, 
Gazing upon a note below.

Her tears flow plentifully and 

Her cheek reclines upon her hand.

XL

Oh! who her speechless agonies 
Could not in that brief moment guess! 
Who now could fail to recognize 
Tattiana in the young princess!

Tortured by pangs of wild regret, 

Eugene fell prostrate at her feet— 
She starts, nor doth a word express, 
But gazes on Oneguine's face 
Without amaze or wrath displayed: 
His sunken eye and aspect faint, 
Imploring looks and mute complaint 
She comprehends. The simple maid 
By fond illusions once possest 
Is once again made manifest.

XLI

His kneeling posture he retains— 
Calmly her eyes encounter his— 
Insensible her hand remains 
Beneath his lips' devouring kiss.

What visions then her fancy thronged— 

A breathless silence then, prolonged— 
But finally she softly said: 
"Enough, arise! for much we need 
Without disguise ourselves explain. 
Oneguine, hast forgotten yet 
The hour when—Fate so willed—we met 
In the lone garden and the lane?

How meekly then I heard you preach— 

To-day it is my turn to teach.

XLII

"Oneguine, I was younger then, 
And better, if I judge aright; 
I loved you—what did I obtain? 
Affection how did you requite?

But with austerity!—for you 

No novelty—is it not true?— 
Was the meek love a maiden feels. 
But now—my very blood congeals, 
Calling to mind your icy look 
And sermon—but in that dread hour 
I blame not your behaviour— 
An honourable course ye took, 
Displayed a noble rectitude— 
My soul is filled with gratitude!

XLIII