His soul’s warmed with inspiration By lady’s greetings, friendly kind.
Concerns of heart he was ignoring, He future hopes was adoring,
And of the world new lustre, noise Fulfilled his wit with future joys.
By honeyed dream he was amusing The doubts of his own heart;
For him the aim of life was smart Quite puzzling riddle, much alluring,
He puzzled over effect, In it could miracles suspect.
VIII
He did believe, that soul dear Will join enevitably him,
That she, delightless in the near, Is daily waiting just for him;
And he was sure: friends are ready To suffer all for him already,
Will never tremble their hand To beat the slander off a man;
That there are by fate selected Of people dear sacred friends;
That their friendship never ends; By unreflected rays effected,
It will sometime all us illume, Will gift the world some blessed perfume.
IX
Regret, resentment, being sorry, Some pure love to every boon,
Some sweetish torture of the glory His blood excited very soon.
With lyre, while abroad residing, In Goethe’s, Shiner’s places hiking,
By their poetic light He own soul did ignite.
Of art high muses fine impressions He, happy, never put to shame,
In songs could proudly retain For all his life exalted passions
And impulses of virgin dream, And grand simplicity in him.
X
He sang of love, for love was loyal, His song was clear like the noon,
Like thoughts of simple lady’s soul, Like dreams of child, or like the moon
In deserts of the heaven’s districts, The goddess of the sighs and secrets.
He sang of partings and of griefs, Of something, foggy misbeliefs,
And of romantic finest rose. He sang of countries: far away
In them in stillness of the day He real tears could expose;
He sang of how life could fade; All that in his teenage he made.
XI
The one was Eugene in these deserts, Who could evaluate his gifts.
But landlords of the country’s peasants Were never liked by him at feasts;
The noisy talks he was escaping; All their prudent talk, such raving,
About haying and of wine, Of kennels, of relation’s lint, -
Could never show shining passion, Nor sparks of poetic light,
Nor sharpness, nor some sign of mind, Nor of communal life succession;
But talk of their dear wives By absent wit him always strikes.
XII
He’s handsome, rich, of fair manner. And neighbours said: he needs a bride.
Such custom’s known everywhere: To marry daughters every tried
To have half-Russian neighbour dear; As quickly as he can appear
They speak to him of no more, But being bachelor is bore;
Him call to sit to samovar, And Doonya quickly gives him tea,
They whisper her, You, Doonya, see!
Then bring to Doonya some guitar,
And she is squeaking (dear me!): In gold chamber visit me!...
XIII
But Lensky, having no wishes Of marriage ties the weight to have,
To Eugene sent his hearty greetings: Some hints on nearness he gave.