Alexander Pushkin

Eugene Onegin (Russian Literature Classic)


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      He felt the laudable desire

      From mere vacuity of mind

      The wit of others to acquire.

      A case of books he doth obtain —

      He reads at random, reads in vain.

      This nonsense, that dishonest seems,

      This wicked, that absurd he deems,

      All are constrained and fetters bear,

      Antiquity no pleasure gave,

      The moderns of the ancients rave —

      Books he abandoned like the fair,

      His book-shelf instantly doth drape

      With taffety instead of crape.

      XXXIX

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      Having abjured the haunts of men,

      Like him renouncing vanity,

      His friendship I acquired just then;

      His character attracted me.

      An innate love of meditation,

      Original imagination,

      And cool sagacious mind he had:

      I was incensed and he was sad.

      Both were of passion satiate

      And both of dull existence tired,

      Extinct the flame which once had fired;

      Both were expectant of the hate

      With which blind Fortune oft betrays

      The very morning of our days.

      XL

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      He who hath lived and living, thinks,

      Must e’en despise his kind at last;

      He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks

      From shades of the relentless past.

      No fond illusions live to soothe,

      But memory like a serpent’s tooth

      With late repentance gnaws and stings.

      All this in many cases brings

      A charm with it in conversation.

      Oneguine’s speeches I abhorred

      At first, but soon became inured

      To the sarcastic observation,

      To witticisms and taunts half-vicious

      And gloomy epigrams malicious.

      XLI

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      How oft, when on a summer night

      Transparent o’er the Neva beamed

      The firmament in mellow light,

      And when the watery mirror gleamed

      We called to mind our youthful days —

      The days of love and of romance!

      Then would we muse as in a trance,

      Impressionable for an hour,

      And breathe the balmy breath of night;

      And like the prisoner’s our delight

      Who for the greenwood quits his tower,

      As on the rapid wings of thought

      The early days of life we sought.

      XLII

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      Absorbed in melancholy mood

      And o’er the granite coping bent,

      Oneguine meditative stood,

      ’Tis silent all! Alone the cries

      Of the night sentinels arise

      The sudden rattling of a car.

      Lo! on the sleeping river borne,

      A boat with splashing oar floats by,

      And now we hear delightedly

      A jolly song and distant horn;

      But sweeter in a midnight dream

      Torquato Tasso’s strains I deem.

      XLIII

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      Ye billows of blue Hadria’s sea,

      O Brenta, once more we shall meet

      And, inspiration firing me,

      Your magic voices I shall greet,

      Whose tones Apollo’s sons inspire,

      Possess my love and sympathy.

      The nights of golden Italy

      I’ll pass beneath the firmament,

      Hid in the gondola’s dark shade,

      Alone with my Venetian maid,

      Now talkative, now reticent;

      From her my lips shall learn the tongue

      Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.