Part 14 (1/2)

A hermit's life Oneguine led, At seven in summer rose from bed, And clad in airy costume took His course unto the running brook.

There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spanned His h.e.l.lespont from bank to bank, And then a cup of coffee drank, Some wretched journal in his hand; Then dressed himself...(*)

[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]

XXIX

Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss, The murmuring brook, the woodland shade, The uncontaminated kiss Of a young dark-eyed country maid, A fiery, yet well-broken horse, A dinner, whimsical each course, A bottle of a vintage white And solitude and calm delight.

Such was Oneguine's sainted life, And such unconsciously he led, Nor marked how summer's prime had fled In aimless ease and far from strife, The curse of commonplace delight.

And town and friends forgotten quite.

x.x.x

This northern summer of our own, On winters of the south a skit, Glimmers and dies. This is well known, Though we will not acknowledge it.

Already Autumn chilled the sky, The tiny sun shone less on high And shorter had the days become.

The forests in mysterious gloom Were stripped with melancholy sound, Upon the earth a mist did lie And many a caravan on high Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

A weary season was at hand-- November at the gate did stand.

x.x.xI

The morn arises foggy, cold, The silent fields no peasant nears, The wolf upon the highways bold With his ferocious mate appears.

Detecting him the pa.s.sing horse snorts, and his rider bends his course And wisely gallops to the hill.

No more at dawn the shepherd will Drive out the cattle from their shed, Nor at the hour of noon with sound Of horn in circle call them round.

Singing inside her hut the maid Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night, The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

x.x.xII

Already crisp h.o.a.r frosts impose O'er all a sheet of silvery dust (Readers expect the rhyme of _rose_, There! take it quickly, if ye must).

Behold! than polished floor more nice The s.h.i.+ning river clothed in ice; A joyous troop of little boys Engrave the ice with strident noise.

A heavy goose on scarlet feet, Thinking to float upon the stream, Descends the bank with care extreme, But staggers, slips, and falls. We greet The first bright wreathing storm of snow Which falls in starry flakes below.

x.x.xIII

How in the country pa.s.s this time?

Walking? The landscape tires the eye In winter by its blank and dim And naked uniformity.

On horseback gallop o'er the steppe!

Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keep His footing on the treacherous rime And may fall headlong any time.

Alone beneath your rooftree stay And read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47) Keep your accounts! You'd rather not?

Then get mad drunk or wroth; the day Will pa.s.s; the same to-morrow try-- You'll spend your winter famously!

[Note 47: The Abbe de Pradt: b. 1759, d. 1837. A political pamphleteer of the French Revolution: was at first an emigre, but made his peace with Napoleon and was appointed Archbishop of Malines.]

x.x.xIV

A true Childe Harold my Eugene To idle musing was a prey; At morn an icy bath within He sat, and then the livelong day, Alone within his habitation And buried deep in meditation, He round the billiard-table stalked, The b.a.l.l.s impelled, the blunt cue chalked; When evening o'er the landscape looms, Billiards abandoned, cue forgot, A table to the fire is brought, And he waits dinner. Lenski comes, Driving abreast three horses gray.

”Bring dinner now without delay!”

x.x.xV

Upon the table in a trice Of widow Clicquot or Moet A blessed bottle, placed in ice, For the young poet they display.

Like Hippocrene it scatters light, Its ebullition foaming white (Like other things I could relate) My heart of old would captivate.

The last poor obol I was worth-- Was it not so?--for thee I gave, And thy inebriating wave Full many a foolish prank brought forth; And oh! what verses, what delights, Delicious visions, jests and fights!