But withered!
Where’s agitation And honourable aspiration
Of youthful passion and of thought, Exalted, tender, bold, prompt?
Where are of stormy love his itchings, The thirst for knowledge and for work,
The fright of shame, of evil word? Where are you, cherished happy dreamings,
The ghosts of unearthly whims, Of sacred poetry dreams?
XXXVII
He, might be, for the world’s welfare Or even for the fame was born;
His lyre, now mute, could dare Alarm a loud peal for long,
For centures to make him known.
On steps of world the bard might go
Upstairs to the highest rate.
But his such sufferable shade,
It may be, with itself has carried Some sacred secret; evil choice
Has mined great life-giving voice, And after funeral sad habit
He’ll never hear hymn of times, The blessing of the future tribes.
XXXVIII, XXX1X
It might he other: he’d he having Some common, plainful, simple lot:
The youthful years would be fading, The soul’s heat would not be hot
In many trends he’d change his habit: Would part with muses, would be married,
In village cuckold but good, In wadded overall with hood
He would have known life quite real, At fourty gout would have had,
Would bore, eat, drink, be ill, he fat, At last in own bed ideal
Among the children would he die At hands of doctors, weepers, wife.
XL
But anyhow, dear reader, Alas! it was young lover’s lot:
The poet, the thoughtful dreamer Was killed by hand of friend for nought!
There is a place not tar from house In which inspired bard could rouse.
Two pines accreted by one root, Beneath are streaming snakes of brook
Which came from neighbouring a valley; The peasants come to take a rest,
The reapers dip the jars for best Arid pleasant clear water daily.
And at the brook in thickened shade Is put a monument just made.
XLI
And near it (when it is raining In spring on corns of near fields),
A shepherd bast gay sandal’s making, Of fishers from the Volga sings.
And young a woman, city dweller All summer in the country spender
Can daily headlong ride full speed; When she alone in the field
At brook the monument is seeing She’s drawing made of leather rein,
The veil on hat she turns away, And superficially is reading
A plain inscription, then she tries To stop the dim in tender eyes.
XLII
And slowly through fields she’s riding, Immersed is deeply in the dream:
For long by fate of Lensky, striking, Unwittingly her soul’s filled
She thinks:
‘Whith Olga what could happen?
Or not for long her heart was shattered
And passed away of tears time?
And where is her sister line?
And fugitive of world and people, For stylish beauties stylish man,
Where is that sullen gloomy crank, The killer of the bard such feeble?’