Above this urn, to fate submissive, A wreath mysterious could swing.
It happened: late at time of leisures Two girl-friends, both yet teen-agers
Were in the dimmish light of moon Embraced, were weeping at the tomb.
But now...
Tomb-stone is gloomy, Is lost, and last of feet the prints
Decayed...
The branch has no wreath; Beneath, alone, grey and puny,
The shepherd’s singing as before And makes bast sandal more and more.
VIII, IX, X
My poor Lensky! badly pining Not very long was weeping she.
Alas! young bride, if she were trying, To sadness loyal couldn’t be.
Some other now drew attention, Some other managed with invention
By love her grief to lull to sleep, Some uhlan could her flattered keep;
That uhlan’s loved by all her soul… At altar now does she stand
With wreath, ashamed, his hand in hand, With drooping head, as if yet lone,
With fire in the drooping eyes, Unwittingly she slightly smiles.
XI
Behind the grave my Lensky poor To deaf eternity was used.
Was he, the youth, a singer gloomy By fatal treachery confused?
Or sleeping over the Lethe The poet is quiet, easy,
Him nothing there can alarm, The world for him is shut dud dumb?
Yes! just indifferent oblivion Behind the grave for all us waits.
Of loos, friends and lover-maids The voice is fading.
All yet living
The heirs of estate, all cross, Obscenely disputes try to force.
XII
The ringing voice of Olga, though, From Larin’s soon forever went:
That uhlan, slave of lot his own, With her should come to regiment.
And sadly shedding hitter tears To part with Olga mother nears
And seems to be yet hardly live: But Tanya simply couldn’t cry,
She deathly pale was looking round And all her face was greatly sad
When to the porch to part all went. At parting all they fussed about
Around carriage of the young; To see them off Tatyana flung.
XIII
For long as if through fog she one Could follow them all with eyes...
And now Tanya is alone Alas! for long-time friend she sighs,
Her young and dear, pretty, charming, Her confidante, her near darling
Is brought a long way off by fate, They must for ever separate.
Like shade she aimlessly is hiking And comes into deserted park...
And everywhere finds some mark... But none relief she is yet finding
For tears her, by will suppressed - Her heart is torn in half at breast,
XIV
And in the solitude severe Her passion’s heating yet much more,
And of Onegin, far from here, Her heart reminds much more to her.
For him she never will he waiting; In him she always must be hating
The killer of his brother-bard; The bard is dead... and that is hard,
But he’s forgotten, and to other His bride has given all herself...
Of bard the memory itself Like smoke at blue sky is rather...
For him two hearts, I can believe, Yet are in grief...
What for to grieve?