Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels To cool the cutlets’ seething grease, When the sonorous Bréguet tells Of the commencement of the piece. A critic of the stage malicious, A slave of actresses capricious, Onéguine was a citizen Of the domains of the side-scene. To the theatre he repairs Where each young critic ready stands, Capers applauds with clap of hands, With hisses Cleopatra scares, Moina recalls for this alone That all may hear his voice’s tone. XV Thou fairy-land! Where formerly Shone pungent Satire’s dauntless king, Von Wisine, friend of liberty, And Kniajnine, apt at copying. The young Simeonova too there With Ozeroff was wont to share Applause, the people’s donative. There our Katènine did revive Corneille’s majestic genius, Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out His comedies, a noisy rout, There Didelot became glorious, There, there, beneath the side-scene’s shade The drama of my youth was played.(10) [Note 10: _Denis Von Wisine_ (1741-92), a favourite Russian dramatist. His first comedy “The Brigadier,” procured him the favour of the second Catherine. His best, however, is the “Minor” (Niedorosl). Prince Potemkin, after witnessing it, summoned the author, and greeted him with the exclamation, “Die now, Denis!” In fact, his subsequent performances were not of equal merit. _Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine_ (1742-91), a clever adapter of French tragedy. _Simeonova_, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired from the stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine. _Ozeroff_, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of the period; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. “Œdipus in Athens,” “Fingal,” “Demetrius Donskoi,” and “Polyxena,” are the best known of his tragedies. _Katènine_ translated Corneille’s tragedies into Russian. _Didelot_, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at St. Petersburg.] XVI My goddesses, where are your shades? Do ye not hear my mournful sighs? Are ye replaced by other maids Who cannot conjure former joys? Shall I your chorus hear anew, Russia’s Terpsichore review Again in her ethereal dance? Or will my melancholy glance On the dull stage find all things changed, The disenchanted glass direct Where I can no more recollect?— A careless looker-on estranged In silence shall I sit and yawn And dream of life’s delightful dawn? XVII