Again the free and open streets

Were thronged with crowds intent on self,

And none to give the dead a thought.

The sleek-dressed clerk for office left

His home. The tradesman, unabashed,

His courage kept and oped his vaults

The Neva had despoiled, and schemed

How best he could his neighbour make

Redeem his loss. The cumoered yards

Of boats were cleared:

And Count Chvostoff,

Poet inspired by heavenly muse,

In verse immortal, though unread,

Failed not to sing of Neptune's wrath.

But poor Evjenie, what of him?

His mind was tender, easy touched,

Nor proof against these griefful woes.

The horrid noise of rebel waves

And winds loud echoed in his ears.

Aimless, he wandered here and there,

Strange thougnts revolving in his mind,

He ne'er could solve. A demon dream

Haunted, followed, and possessed him.

A week, a month went by, and he

Still heedless roamed, nor home returned;

The term elapsed, his room was let

To tenant new, poor as himseif,

Nor did he come his goods to fetch,

But soon was lost to world and men.

All day the streets he idly strayed,

And slept at night in wharf or shed,

His food, the crust of bread he begged.

His well-worn cloak in tatters hung