A passionate desire to bend

And, sobbing at your feet, to blend

Entreaties, woes and prayers, confess

All that the heart would fain express -

Yet with a feigned frigidity

To arm the tongue and e'en the eye,

To be in conversation clear

And happy unto you appear.

So be it! But internal strife

I cannot longer wage concealed.

The die is cast! Thine is my life!

Into thy hands my fate I yield!

XXXII.

No answer! He another sent.

Epistle second, note the third,

Remained unnoticed. Once he went

To an assembly - she appeared

Just as he entered. How severe!

She will not see, she will not hear.

Alas! she is as hard, behold,

And frosty as a Twelfth Night cold.

Oh, how her lips compressed restrain

The indignation of her heart!

A sidelong look doth Eugene dart:

Where, where, remorse, compassion, pain?

Where, where, the trace of tears? None, none!

Upon her brow sits wrath alone -

XXXIII.

And it may be a secret dread

Lest the world or her lord divine

A certain little escapade

Well known unto Oneguine mine.

'Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he flee

Cursing his own stupidity,