XLIII

2 0 00

XLIII

Bouyànoff, wrathful cousin mine,

Unto the hero of this lay

Olga and Tania led. Malign,

Onegin Olga bore away.

Gliding in negligent career,

He bending whispered in her ear

Some madrigal not worth a rush,

And pressed her hand⁠—the crimson blush

Upon her cheek by adulation

Grew brighter still. But Lenski hath

Seen all, beside himself with wrath,

And hot with jealous indignation,

Till the mazurka’s close he stays,

Her hand for the cotillon prays.