’Tis now the season! Idlers all, Epicurean philosophers, Ye men of fashion cynical, Of Levshin’s school ye followers,(67) Priams of country populations And dames of fine organisations, Spring summons you to her green bowers, ’Tis the warm time of labour, flowers; The time for mystic strolls which late Into the starry night extend. Quick to the country let us wend In vehicles surcharged with freight; In coach or post-cart duly placed Beyond the city-barriers haste. [Note 67: Levshin—a contemporary writer on political economy.] V Thou also, reader generous, The chaise long ordered please employ, Abandon cities riotous, Which in the winter were a joy: The Muse capricious let us coax, Go hear the rustling of the oaks Beside a nameless rivulet, Where in the country Eugene yet, An idle anchorite and sad, A while ago the winter spent, Near young Tattiana resident, My pretty self-deceiving maid— No more the village knows his face, For there he left a mournful trace. VI Let us proceed unto a rill, Which in a hilly neighbourhood Seeks, winding amid meadows still, The river through the linden wood. The nightingale there all night long, Spring’s paramour, pours forth her song The fountain brawls, sweetbriers bloom, And lo! where lies a marble tomb And two old pines their branches spread— “_Vladimir Lenski lies beneath, Who early died a gallant death_,” Thereon the passing traveller read: “_The date, his fleeting years how long— Repose in peace, thou child of song_.” VII Time was, the breath of early dawn Would agitate a mystic wreath Hung on a pine branch earthward drawn Above the humble urn of death. Time was, two maidens from their home At eventide would hither come, And, by the light the moonbeams gave, Lament, embrace upon that grave. But now—none heeds the monument Of woe: effaced the pathway now: There is no wreath upon the bough: Alone beside it, gray and bent, As formerly the shepherd sits And his poor basten sandal knits. VIII My poor Vladimir, bitter tears Thee but a little space bewept, Faithless, alas! thy maid appears, Nor true unto her sorrow kept. Another could her heart engage, Another could her woe assuage By flattery and lover’s art— A lancer captivates her heart! A lancer her soul dotes upon: Before the altar, lo! the pair, Mark ye with what a modest air She bows her head beneath the crown;(68) Behold her downcast eyes which glow, Her lips where light smiles come and go! [Note 68: The crown used in celebrating marriages in Russia according to the forms of the Eastern Church. See Note 28.] IX