Where Yevgeny in his rural home, That idle hermit, strange and gloomy Had spent the winter recently, A neighbour to my lovely Tanya, The young and always gentle dreamer, But where he is no longer found, Although sad memories of him abound. VI. Near hills, which lie in half a circle, We'll make our way to where a stream Around a meadow runs and gurgles, To a river, through a wood of limes. There the nightingale, the Spring's lover, Sings all night long; the wild thyme blows, And sounds of waters sweetly hover ― There is the poet's memorial stone, In the shade of two old crooked pines, And to the traveller the inscription shows: "Valdimir Lensky the poet lies here, Who early found the grave's release At such and such age, in such and such year, Rest, youthful poet, rest in peace". VII. On a sloping pine branch, downward bending Often an early morning breeze Over the peaceful gravestone wending Rocked to and fro a silent wreath. And often, when the sky was darkened, Arm in arm two friends came here, And in the moonlight sat and hearkened, Embraced each other, and shed a tear. But now... forgotten lies the stone; The pathway there is overgrown, And the branch of its old wreath is bare. Alone in its shade, wrinkled with care, The same old shepherd sings, and sits Plaiting his shoes with wooden strips. VIII, IX, X. My poor Lensky. Not long did Olga Grieving for you, weep for your fate. Alas! Young girls keep faith no longer, Their sorrow has an uncertain date. Another came and took her fancy, Another who swamped her very soul With love's sweet lore and flattery. A Cossack who bewitched her utterly; A Cossack she loves with love unending. And now beneath the altar standing, With modest grace under the wedding crown, She stands and blushes, her eyes cast down,
Where Yevgeny in his rural home, That idle hermit, strange and gloomy Had spent the winter recently, A neighbour to my lovely Tanya, The young and always gentle dreamer, But where he is no longer found, Although sad memories of him abound. VI. Near hills, which lie in half a circle, We'll make our way to where a stream Around a meadow runs and gurgles, To a river, through a wood of limes. There the nightingale, the Spring's lover, Sings all night long; the wild thyme blows, And sounds of waters sweetly hover ― There is the poet's memorial stone, In the shade of two old crooked pines, And to the traveller the inscription shows: "Valdimir Lensky the poet lies here, Who early found the grave's release At such and such age, in such and such year, Rest, youthful poet, rest in peace". VII. On a sloping pine branch, downward bending Often an early morning breeze Over the peaceful gravestone wending Rocked to and fro a silent wreath. And often, when the sky was darkened, Arm in arm two friends came here, And in the moonlight sat and hearkened, Embraced each other, and shed a tear. But now... forgotten lies the stone; The pathway there is overgrown, And the branch of its old wreath is bare. Alone in its shade, wrinkled with care, The same old shepherd sings, and sits Plaiting his shoes with wooden strips. VIII, IX, X. My poor Lensky. Not long did Olga Grieving for you, weep for your fate. Alas! Young girls keep faith no longer, Their sorrow has an uncertain date. Another came and took her fancy, Another who swamped her very soul With love's sweet lore and flattery. A Cossack who bewitched her utterly; A Cossack she loves with love unending. And now beneath the altar standing, With modest grace under the wedding crown, She stands and blushes, her eyes cast down,