But now, with rack and ruin sated And weary of her insolence And uproar, Neva, still elated With her rebellious turbulence, Stole back, and left her booty stranded And unregarded. So a bandit Bursts with his horde upon a village To smash an slay, destroy and pillage; Whence yells, and violence, and alarms, Gritting of teeth, and grievous harms And wailing’s; then the evildoers Rush home; but dreading the pursuers And sagging with the stolen load They drop their plunder on the road. Meanwhile the water had abated And pavements now uncovered lay; And our Evgeny, by dismay And hope and longing agitated, Sore-hearted to the river sped. But still it lay disquieted And still the wicked waves were seething In pride of victory, as though A flame was smoldering below; And heavily was Neva breathing Like to a horse besprent with foam Who gallops from the battle home. Evgeny watches, and descrying By happy chance a boat, goes bluing To hail the ferryman; and he, Unhired and idle, willingly Convoys him for a threepence, plying Through that intimidating sea. The old tried oarsman long contended With the wild waters, hour by hour, Sunk in the trough, the skiff descended Mid rollers, ready to devour Rash crew and all – at last contriving To make the farther shore. Arriving, Evgeny – evil is his lot! — Runs to the old street, – and knows it not. All, to his horror, is demolished, Leveled or ruined or abolished. Houses are twisted all awry, And some are altogether shattered, Some shifted by the seas; and scattered Are bodies, flung as bodies lie On battlefields. Unthinkingly, Half-fainting, and excruciated, Evgeny rushes on, awaited By destiny with unrevealed Tidings, as in a letter sealed. He scours the suburb; and discerning The bay, he knows the house is near; And then stops short, ah, what is here? Retreating, and again returning, He looks – advances – look again. ‘Tis there they dwelt, the marks are plain; There is the willow. Surely yonder The gate was standing, in the past; Now, washt away! No house! – O’ercast With care, behold Evgeny wander Forever rounds and rounds the place, And talk aloud, and strike his face With his bare hand. A moment after, He breaks into a roar of laughter. The vapors of the night came down Upon the terror-stricken town, But all the people long debated The doings of the day, and waited And could not sleep. The morning light From pale and weary clouds gleamed bright On the still capital; no traces Now of the woes of yesternight! With royal purple it effaces The mischief; all things are proceeding In form and order as of old; The people are already treading, Impassive, in their fashion, cold, Through the cleared thoroughfares, inheeding; And now official folk forsake Their last night’s refuge, as they make Their way to duty. Greatly daring, The huckster now takes heart, unbarring His cellar, late the prey and sack Of Neva, – hoping to get back His heavy loss and wasted labor Out of the pockets of his neighbor. The drifted boats from each courtyard Are carried. To a certain bard, A count, a favorite of heaven To one Khvostov, the theme was given To chant in his immortal song How Neva’s shores had suffered wrong. But my Evgeny, poor, sick fellow! — Alas, the tumult in his brain Had left him powerless to sustain Those shocks of terror. For the bellow Of riotous winds and Neva near Resounded always in his ear; A host of hideous thoughts attacked him, A kind of nightmare rent and racked him, And on he wandered silently; And as the week, the month, went by, Never came home. His habitation, As time ran out, the landlord took, And leased the now deserted nook For a poor poet’s occupation. Nor ever came Evgeny home For his belongings; he would roam, A stranger to the world; his ration A morsel tendered in compassion Out of a window; he would tramp All day, and on the quay would camp To sleep; his garments, old and fraying, Were all in tatters and decaying. And the malicious boys would pelt The man with stones; and of the felt The cabman’s whiplash on him flicking; For he had lost the skill of picking His footsteps, – deafened, it may be, By fears that clamored inwardly. So, dragging out his days, ill-fated, He seemed like something mistreated, No beast, nor yet of human birth, Neither
