Евгений Онегин / Eugene Onegin

The riot of the world and glare

Still sovereigns of his spirit were,

And by a sweet delusion he

Would soothe the doubtings of his soul,

He deemed of human life the goal

To be a charming mystery:

He racked his brains to find its clue

And marvels deemed he thus should view.

VIII

This he believed: a kindred spirit

Impelled to union with his own

Lay languishing both day and night —

Waiting his coming – his alone!

He deemed his friends but longed to make

Great sacrifices for his sake!

That a friend’s arm in every case

Felled a calumniator base!

That chosen heroes consecrate,

Friends of the sons of every land,

Exist – that their immortal band

Shall surely, be it soon or late,

Pour on this orb a dazzling light

And bless mankind with full delight.

IX

Compassion now or wrath inspires

And now philanthropy his soul,

And now his youthful heart desires

The path which leads to glory’s goal.

His harp beneath that sky had rung

Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,

And at the altar of their fame

He kindled his poetic flame.

But from the Muses’ loftiest height

The gifted songster never swerved,

But proudly in his song preserved

An ever transcendental flight;

His transports were quite maidenly,

Charming with grave simplicity.

X

He sang of love – to love a slave.

His ditties were as pure and bright

As thoughts which gentle maidens have,

As a babe’s slumber, or the light

Of the moon in the tranquil skies,

Goddess of lovers’ tender sighs.

He sang of separation grim,

Of what not, and of distant dim,

Of roses to romancers dear;

To foreign lands he would allude,

Where long time he in solitude

Had let fall many a bitter tear:

He sang of life’s fresh colours stained

Before he eighteen years attained.

XI

Since Eugene in that solitude

Gifts such as these alone could prize,

A scant attendance Lenski showed

At neighbouring hospitalities.

He shunned those parties boisterous;

The conversation tedious

About the crop of hay, the wine,

The kennel or a kindred line,

Was certainly not erudite

Nor sparkled with poetic fire,

Nor wit, nor did the same inspire

A sense of social delight,

But still more stupid did appear

The gossip of their ladies fair.