On chest he puts his hand, unfortunate, And falls.
His misty, foggy gaze
Expresses death but not the torture.
From mountains descends this way
In sunny rays all sparkling, shining A block of snow hardly sliding.
By instant cool is all filled up To him Onegin hurries up,
He looks, he calls him - all’s for nothing!
He isn’t more… The youngling bard
Has found end untimely hard!
The storm has breathed; his prime such charming
Has withered at the morning dawn., The fire at the altar’s gone.
XXXII
Unmovingly he lay, and queer Was heavy brow’s languid peace.
He under chest was wounded here, The blood yet steaming flew at ease.
A trice ago was he living And his young heart was full of feeling,
Of hope, enmity and love, The blood was boiling, life could laugh.
But like a house all deserted It’s dark and still, and not by chance
It’s mute for ever all at once.
Are shut the shutters, limed are flirted The windows.
The master’s gone God knows where, Tracks are wrong.
XXXIII
It’s nice by epigram audacious To make erroneous foe mad,
It’s nice to see when stubborn gracious He bends his horns to butt is apt,
Unwittingly in mirror’s peeping Ashamed to recognize: he’s beaten;
Its nicer, friends, much more when he Is wailing foolishly: its me!
And much the more it’s nice in silence For him prepare honest grave,
To aim unseen at forehead pale, At distance try to make him silent.
But yet to make him be at rest Of pleasures won’t be the best.
XXXIV
What would you feel if by your pistol Were killed a friend such good and young
Who was unmodest, who by bristle. An answer, other trifles done,
Offended you at bottle badly, Or if yet he, annoyed, quite madly
To challenge you could try like hell? But in your soul can you tell
What would you feel if still, unmoving Your friend on earth is mute at rest
In front of you with signs of death Is stiffening slowly, is cooling,
Is being deaf and dumb at all To sad and desperate your call?
XXXY
In languish of the heart remorses He pressed his pistol in his hand,
At Lensky Eugene looks quite forceless.
‘Well, he is killed’,- the neighbour said.
He’s killed!..
By dreadful exclamation Onegin’s shuddered; slain, impatient
To call some people gets away.
Zaretsky cautiously could lay
On sledge the corpse, all icy, lone, He’s taking home dreadful hoard,
And smelling dead the horses snort And struggle; they with white wet loam
Are wetting iron hard curb-bit, Like shaft they gallop with all speed.
XXXVI
My friends, on bard you’d have a pity: Of hopes rain-bowed at prime
For world has done yet nothing titling, To grow male yet hadn’t time