XXXIII

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XXXIII

Eugene, his pistol yet in hand

And with remorseful anguish filled,

Gazing on Lenski’s corse did stand⁠—

Zaretski shouted: “Why, he’s killed!”⁠—

Killed! at this dreadful exclamation

Onegin went with trepidation

And the attendants called in haste.

Most carefully Zaretski placed

Within his sledge the stiffened corse,

And hurried home his awful freight.

Conscious of death approximate,

Loud paws the earth each panting horse,

His bit with foam besprinkled o’er,

And homeward like an arrow tore.