heat--
But now--what brings you to my feet?--
How mean, how pusillanimous!
A prudent man like you and brave
To shallow sentiment a slave!

XLV

"Oneguine, all this sumptuousness,
The gilding of life's vanities,
In the world's vortex my success,
My splendid house and gaieties--
What are they? Gladly would I yield
This life in masquerade concealed,
This glitter, riot, emptiness,
For my wild garden and bookcase,--
Yes! for our unpretending home,
Oneguine--the beloved place
Where the first time I saw your face,--
Or for the solitary tomb
Wherein my poor old nurse doth lie
Beneath a cross and shrubbery.

XLVI

"'Twas possible then, happiness--
Nay, near--but destiny decreed--
My lot is fixed--with thoughtlessness
It may be that I did proceed--
With bitter tears my mother prayed,
And for Tattiana, mournful maid,
Indifferent was her future fate.
I married--now, I supplicate--
For ever your Tattiana leave.
Your heart possesses, I know well,
Honour and pride inflexible.
I love you--to what end deceive?--
But I am now another's bride--
For ever faithful will abide."

XLVII

She rose--departed. But Eugene
Stood as if struck by lightning fire.
What a storm of emotions keen
Raged round him and of balked desire!
And hark! the clank of spurs is heard
And Tania's husband soon appeared.--
But now our hero we must leave
Just at a moment which I grieve
Must be pronounced unfortunate--
For long--for ever. To be sure
Together we have wandered o'er
The world enough. Congratulate
Each other as the shore we climb!
Hurrah! it long ago was time!

XLVIII

Reader, whoever thou mayst be,
Foeman or friend, I do aspire
To part in amity with thee!
Adieu! whate'er thou didst desire
From careless stanzas such as these,
Of passion reminiscences,
Pictures of the amusing scene,
Repose from labour, satire keen,
Or faults of grammar on its page--
God grant that all who herein glance,
In serious mood or dalliance
Or in a squabble to engage,
May find a crumb to satisfy.
Now we must separate. Good-bye!

XLIX

And farewell thou, my gloomy friend,
Thou also, my ideal true,
And thou, persistent to the end,
My little book. With thee I knew
All that a poet could desire,
Oblivion of life's tempest dire,
Of friends the grateful intercourse--
Oh, many a year hath run its course
Since I beheld Eugene and young
Tattiana in a misty dream,
And my romance's open theme
Glittered in a perspective long,
And I discerned through