He lies, upon his forehead death,

And slowly life coagulates -

When deaf and silent he doth lie

Heedless of your despairing cry?

XXXIII.

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.

XXXIV.

My friends, the poet ye regret!

When hope's delightful flower but bloomed

In bud of promise incomplete,

The manly toga scarce assumed,

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?