Or bosom full of languid fire, -

A gust of passion never tore

My spirit with such pangs before.

XXXI.

Another time, so willed it Fate,

Immersed in secret thought I stand

And grasp a stirrup fortunate -

Her foot was in my other hand.

Again imagination blazed,

The contact of the foot I raised

Rekindled in my withered heart

The fires of passion and its smart -

Away! and cease to ring their praise

For ever with thy tattling lyre,

The proud ones are not worth the fire

Of passion they so often raise.

The words and looks of charmers sweet

Are oft deceptive - like their feet.

XXXII.

Where is Oneguine? Half asleep,

Straight from the ball to bed he goes,

Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep

The drum already doth arouse.

The shopman and the pedlar rise

And to the Bourse the cabman plies;

The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,(15)

Crunching the morning snow she treads;

Morning awakes with joyous sound;

The shutters open; to the skies

In column blue the smoke doth rise;

The German baker looks around

His shop, a night-cap on his head,

And pauses oft to serve out bread.

[Note 15: i.e. the milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of Saint Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by the labouring classes.]

XXXIII.

But turning morning into night,