sired;
And long internal agitation
Had filled her youthful breast with gloom,
She waited for--I don't know whom!

VII

The fatal hour had come at last--
She oped her eyes and cried: 'tis he!
Alas! for now before her passed
The same warm vision constantly;
Now all things round about repeat
Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet
His name: the tenderness of home
Tiresome unto her hath become
And the kind-hearted servitors:
Immersed in melancholy thought,
She hears of conversation nought
And hated casual visitors,
Their coming which no man expects,
And stay whose length none recollects.

VIII

Now with what eager interest
She the delicious novel reads,
With what avidity and zest
She drinks in those seductive deeds!
All the creations which below
From happy inspiration flow,
The swain of Julia Wolmar,
Malek Adel and De Linar,(31)
Werther, rebellious martyr bold,
And that unrivalled paragon,
The sleep-compelling Grandison,
Our tender dreamer had enrolled
A single being: 'twas in fine
No other than Oneguine mine.

[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin's
time: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famous
Madame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of this
poem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but now
consigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with the
transitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. One
has now to search for the very names of most of the popular
authors of Pushkin's day and rummage biographical dictionaries
for the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet's prime
was but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age he
would have been amongst us still. He was four years younger
than the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson's
popularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.]

IX

Dreaming herself the heroine
Of the romances she preferred,
Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,--(32)
Tattiana through the forest erred,
And the bad book accompanies.
Upon those pages she descries
Her passion's faithful counterpart,
Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.
She heaves a sigh and deep intent
On raptures, sorrows not her own,
She murmurs in an undertone
A letter for her hero meant:
That hero, though his merit shone,
Was certainly no Grandison.

[Note 32: Referring to Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe," "La
Nouvelle Heloise," and Madame de Stael's "Delphine."]

X

Alas! my friends, the years flit by
And