But borne in spirit far away Tattiana gazes on the moon, And starting suddenly doth say: “Nurse, leave me. I would be alone. Pen, paper bring: the table too Draw near. I soon to sleep shall go— Good-night.” Behold! she is alone! ’Tis silent—on her shines the moon— Upon her elbow she reclines, And Eugene ever in her soul Indites an inconsiderate scroll Wherein love innocently pines. Now it is ready to be sent— For whom, Tattiana, is it meant? XXII I have known beauties cold and raw As Winter in their purity, Striking the intellect with awe By dull insensibility, And I admired their common sense And natural benevolence, But, I acknowledge, from them fled; For on their brows I trembling read The inscription o’er the gates of Hell “Abandon hope for ever here!”(38) Love to inspire doth woe appear To such—delightful to repel. Perchance upon the Neva e’en Similar dames ye may have seen. [Note 38: A Russian annotator complains that the poet has mutilated Dante’s famous line.] XXIII Amid submissive herds of men Virgins miraculous I see, Who selfishly unmoved remain Alike by sighs and flattery. But what astonished do I find When harsh demeanour hath consigned A timid love to banishment?— On fresh allurements they are bent, At least by show of sympathy; At least their accents and their words Appear attuned to softer chords; And then with blind credulity The youthful lover once again Pursues phantasmagoria vain. XXIV Why is Tattiana guiltier deemed?— Because in singleness of thought She never of deception dreamed But trusted the ideal she wrought?— Because her passion wanted art, Obeyed the impulses of heart?— Because she was so innocent, That Heaven her character had blent With an imagination wild, With intellect and strong volition And a determined disposition, An ardent heart and yet so mild?— Doth love’s incautiousness in her So irremissible appear? XXV O ye whom tender love hath pained Without the ken of parents both, Whose hearts responsive have remained To the impressions of our youth, The all-entrancing joys of love— Young ladies, if ye ever strove The mystic lines to tear away A lover’s letter might convey, Or into bold hands anxiously Have e’er a precious tress consigned, Or even, silent and resigned, When separation’s hour drew nigh, Have felt love’s agitated kiss With tears, confused emotions, bliss,— XXVI