Part 20 (1/2)

XXVIII

”Advance!”-- Indifferent and sedate, The foes, as yet not taking aim, With measured step and even gait Athwart the snow four paces came-- Four deadly paces do they span; Oneguine slowly then began To raise his pistol to his eye, Though he advanced unceasingly.

And lo! five paces more they pa.s.s, And Lenski, closing his left eye, Took aim--but as immediately Oneguine fired--Alas! alas!

The poet's hour hath sounded--See!

He drops his pistol silently.

XXIX

He on his bosom gently placed His hand, and fell. His clouded eye Not agony, but death expressed.

So from the mountain lazily The avalanche of snow first bends, Then glittering in the sun descends.

The cold sweat bursting from his brow, To the youth Eugene hurried now-- Gazed on him, called him. Useless care!

He was no more! The youthful bard For evermore had disappeared.

The storm was hushed. The blossom fair Was withered ere the morning light-- The altar flame was quenched in night.

x.x.x

Tranquil he lay, and strange to view The peace which on his forehead beamed, His breast was riddled through and through, The blood gushed from the wound and steamed Ere this but one brief moment beat That heart with inspiration sweet And enmity and hope and love-- The blood boiled and the pa.s.sions strove.

Now, as in a deserted house, All dark and silent hath become; The inmate is for ever dumb, The windows whitened, shutters close-- Whither departed is the host?

G.o.d knows! The very trace is lost.

x.x.xI

'Tis sweet the foe to aggravate With epigrams impertinent, Sweet to behold him obstinate, His b.u.t.ting horns in anger bent, The gla.s.s unwittingly inspect And blush to own himself reflect.

Sweeter it is, my friends, if he Howl like a dolt: 'tis meant for me!

But sweeter still it is to arrange For him an honourable grave, At his pale brow a shot to have, Placed at the customary range; But home his body to despatch Can scarce in sweetness be a match.

x.x.xII

Well, if your pistol ball by chance The comrade of your youth should strike, Who by a haughty word or glance Or any trifle else ye like You o'er your wine insulted hath-- Or even overcome by wrath Scornfully challenged you afield-- Tell me, of sentiments concealed Which in your spirit dominates, When motionless your gaze beneath He lies, upon his forehead death, And slowly life coagulates-- When deaf and silent he doth lie Heedless of your despairing cry?

x.x.xIII

Eugene, his pistol yet in hand And with remorseful anguish filled, Gazing on Lenski's corse did stand-- Zaretski shouted: ”Why, he's killed!”-- Killed! at this dreadful exclamation Oneguine went with trepidation And the attendants called in haste.

Most carefully Zaretski placed Within his sledge the stiffened corse, And hurried home his awful freight.

Conscious of death approximate, Loud paws the earth each panting horse, His bit with foam besprinkled o'er, And homeward like an arrow tore.

x.x.xIV

My friends, the poet ye regret!

When hope's delightful flower but bloomed In bud of promise incomplete, The manly toga scarce a.s.sumed, He perished. Where his troubled dreams, And where the admirable streams Of youthful impulse, reverie, Tender and elevated, free?

And where tempestuous love's desires, The thirst of knowledge and of fame, Horror of sinfulness and shame, Imagination's sacred fires, Ye shadows of a life more high, Ye dreams of heavenly poesy?

x.x.xV

Perchance to benefit mankind, Or but for fame he saw the light; His lyre, to silence now consigned, Resounding through all ages might Have echoed to eternity.

With worldly honours, it may be, Fortune the poet had repaid.

It may be that his martyred shade Carried a truth divine away; That, for the century designed, Had perished a creative mind, And past the threshold of decay, He ne'er shall hear Time's eulogy, The blessings of humanity.