How dear my princess is, one bows

‘Fore her, to sing her praises anxious:

She is so tender, unpretentious,

So faithful to her marriage vows;

Capricious, yes, but not unduly,

Which makes her only sweeter, truly.

Her ways delight us, they endear

Her to us, leaving us enchanted.

How to compare her with Delphire

Who’s so unfeeling, so flint-hearted!

By fate endowed has been the first

With mien and manner most beguiling;

To hear her speak, to see her smiling

Makes one’s heart throb, with love athirst.

Delphire now, spurs and whiskers added,

Would make a true Hussar. But stay!

Blest is he who at end of day

Has a Ludmila waiting for him

In some lone nook, and from her hears

That he’s her love, that she adores him.

And likewise blest is a Delphire’s

Admirer who is too clear-headed

To court her long and runs away.

But let’s not stray too far. Come, say,

\Vho was it that the dwarf invited

So daringly to fight him? Who

Defiantly the trumpet blew

And by its sound the villain frightened ?-

Ruslan. Afire with vengeance, he

Has reached the midget’s castle. See?

Beneath the palisades he’s halted;

The trumpet’s sound comes storm-like, loud,

The steed paws at the snowy ground;

The prince awaits the dwarf. A bolt of

What seems like thunder deafens him.

A crushing blow! It has descended

Upon his helmet. Though defended

By this his head is, yet with dim,

Dull sight it is he upward gazes

And sees the dwarf above him fly,

A mammoth bludgeon lifted high.

Ruslan bends down, his great shield raises

And waves his sword, but Chernomor

Sweeps upward; then, appearing o’er

The prince again and downward swooping

He flies straight at him, whereupon

The latter feints, his rival duping,

And down the midget falls, straight on

The well-packed snow, with fear nigh frozen.

Ruslan dismounts, and, never pausing,

The space between them neatly cleared,

Grabs the magician by the beard!

The captive grunts and strains, and, heaving

Himself from off the bank of snow,

Sails skyward with our hero, leaving

The knight’s astonished steed below.

They’re ‘neath the clouds, Ruslan still gripping

The beard and swinging in the air.

O’er seas and forests, o’er the bare

And rugged hills, their summits tipping,

The dwarf wings, and the stalwart knight,

Though numb and stiff his hand is growing,

Holds dogged on. The dwarf is quite

Used up by now and winded. Slowing

His progress through the air at length,

Amazed and awed by Russian strength,

He turns to our young knight and slyly

Says to him: “Prince, I’ll do you ill

No more; in faith, I value highly

Young valour such as yours and will

Descend at once-on one condition....”

“Be silent, dastardly magician!”

Ruslan exclaims. “I will not treat

With my beloved bride’s tormentor,

Nor into any dealings enter

With you! This sword-’tis only meet

Will punish you, and this most surel’

All of your wiles will serve you poorly!

Fly to the stars, if you so choose,

And still your whiskers you will lose!”

A horrid fear the wizard seizes,

In vain to free himself he tries,

The prince’s grip is like a vise,

He tweaks the beard, and, gleeful, teases

The dwarf by plucking out the hairs

For two whole days the midget bear

Ruslan, but on the third, a’quiver

With fright, he cries: “Have mercy, pray!

I’ve no breath left at all. Deliver

Me from this plight without delay.

I’m in your hands. Where’er you say

We will alight.” “Aha, you shiver!

Well, then, admit you’re overcome

By Russian strength! And, villain, come,

To my Ludmila quickly take me!”

What is old Chernomor to do?

Obedience is his rival’s due!

And so he’s off, quite ill and shaken

And flying home. Midst hills of ice

He sets the prince down. In a trice

Ruslan the Head’s sword raises briskly

With one strong hand; then, ‘thout delay,

The other using, grasps the whiskers

And cuts them off like so much hay.

“There now,” he tells him, “that will teach you!

Where is that handsome tuft you prize

Your strength and pride, you thieving creature?”

And to his helm the dwarfs beard ties.

He calls his bay who joins him, neighing,

Into a bag the pasty-faced

And half-dead wizard stuffs in haste,

The dancing steed no longer staying,

And starts uphill. The top. They ride

Up to the massive palace portal.

Ruslan-there is no happier mortal-

In hot impatience steps inside.

The throng of Moors and slave girls, seeing

His helm with beard graced, know the knight

To be the victor and are fleeing

Before him, fading out of sight

Like ghosts. Ruslan from hall to hall

Strides all alone; we hear him call

To his young spouse-the echo answers....

Is she not in the necromancer’s

Great castle, then? The garden door

He opens wide, all expectation,

And on walks fast. His eye sweeps o’er

The empty grounds in agitation:

All’s dead, naught stirs, still are the groves,

The leafy arbours and the coves;

The river banks, the slopes-deserted,

The valleys too.... He’s disconcerted,

For nowhere e’en a trace is there

Of her he seeks, nor can he hear

The slightest sound. There passes through him

A sudden chill, the world grows dark

About him, and bleak thoughts come to him:

“Captivity.... of grief the mark....

A moment, and the waves-” These fancies,

How dismal they! His head hung, he

Stands like a rock there movelessly....

His very reason clouds, his senses

Fail him. He’s all ablaze, he flames;

Despairing love’s dark poison surges,

A mighty torrent, in his veins.

Is’t not his lady who emerges

From darkness, is’t not she who clings

To him?... He roars her name, he flings

Himself about, and, frenzied, raving,

His sword in mad abandon waving,

At boulders strikes and makes them roll

Downhill, and hacking, mowing, slashing,

Pavilions to the ground sends crashing,

Reduces grove and lea and knoll

To barren wastes, and tumbles bridges

Into the streams. The distant ridges

Send back the clang, the boom, the din;

Ruslan’s sword sings and whistles. Grim

The scene is: all is devastation;

Insensed and maddened, our young knigt

A victim seeks; on left and right

His sword the air cuts ‘thout cessation....

Then all at once a chance thrust sends

The midget’s magic headdress flying

From off his captive’s brow; so ends

The spell cast on her. ‘Fore him lying,

Enmeshed, Ruslan Ludmila sees.

He does not trust his eyes, he is

O’ercome by happiness, and, falling

At his bride’s feet, tears up the nets,

And with his tears her limp hands wets,

And kisses them, her dear name calling.

But closed her lips are and her eyes,

And sensuous are the dreams she’s seeing

That make her bosom sink and rise.

Fresh sorrow fills our knight’s whole beir

What means this sleep? Is she perchance

To be forever in a trance?...

But hark!-a friend’s voice.... ’Tis the Finn,i

His councillor, who speaks to him:

“Take heart, O Prince! Upon your way

For home set off with fair Ludmila

And, strength of purpose your heart filling,

To love and honour faithful stay.

God’s bolt will strike, defeating malice;

You shall know peace, all will be well.

In Kiev, in Vladimir’s palace,

Your bride will wake, free of her spell.”

Ruslan, much cheered, no longer weary,

Lifts up his calmly sleeping bride,

And down a slope we see him guide

His horse and leave the mountain eyrie.

The midget to his saddle tied,

Across a vale, across a forest

He hurries, by no rival harassed.

In his arms his love rests, a precious

And welcome burden. Oh, how fresh is

Her face! The vernal dawn can be

No more so. ‘Gainst her husband’s shoulder

It rests, all sweet serenity....

The wind born in the barrens boldly

Plucks at her silky golden hair.

She sighs, the roses on her fair

Young cheeks play. Her beloved’s name

She whispers; ’tis her dreams that bring her

His image and her heart inflame;

On her lips love’s avowals linger.

And he-he’s all fond contemplation

(The sight of her his spirit cheers) -

Oh, that sweet smile, those glistening tears,

That lovely bosom’s agitation!...

Meanwhile, by day, by night they journey

Up hill, down dale, but still unspanned

The distance is, still far the land

Which to behold Ruslan is yearning.

The maid sleeps on.... Did our young knight,

By fruitless, unassuaged desire

Worn-for it seems like years-not tire

Of guarding her? Did he delight

In virtuous dreams, immodest longing

Subduing and in no way wronging

His drowsy charge? So told are we

By one, a monk, who put in writing

The story of the prince, inviting

Inquisitive posterity

To profit by’t. And I-I fully

Believe the annalist, for, truly,

What’s love unshared?-An irksome thing

That can but little pleasure bring.

Ludmila’s sleep did not resemble

Yours in the least, nymphs of the mead,

When languid springtime’s call you heed

And in the cooling shade assemble

Of leafv trees.... I well recall

That happy day in early summer,

A tiny glade at evenfall,

And lovely Lida feigning slumber...

That kiss of mine, so light, so shy,

So hurried, young love’s fresh, sweet token,

Could not awake the maid; unbroken

It left her sleep.... But, reader, why

Do I talk nonsense? Why this needless

Remembrance of a love long dead?

Forgot its joys, its pain, its heedless

And trying ways. To speak I’m led

Of those not long from my thoughts gone:

Ludmila, Chernomor, Ruslan.

A vale before them spreads; upon it

Rise clumps of spruces, and a mound

Looms farther out, its strangely round

And very dark and gloomy summit

Against the bright blue sky outlined.

Our youthful knight at once divined

That ’twas the Head before them showin;

The steed speeds on, more restive growing;

Across the plain its great hooves thunder....

And lo!-they’re close, they’re nearly there;

Before them is the nine days’ wonder,

It fixes them with glassy stare.

It is a thing repulsive, horrid:

Its inky hair falls on its forehead;

Drenched of all life, the hue of lead

Its face is, while the huge lips, parted,

And, like the cheeks, of colour bled,

Disclose clenched teeth; over the Head

Its hour of doom hangs. Our brave-hearted

And doughty knight rides up and faces

Its sightless gaze; the midget graces

The horse’s rump. “Hail, Head!” Ruslan

Cries loudly, for the Head to hear him.

“He who betrayed you is undone!

Look! Here he is, none now need fear him!”

These words the Head revivified

And in it roused new, fresh-born feeling.

It looked dow^n at them, and, revealing

All of its anguish, moaned and sighed.

Our hero it had recognized,

And at the midget, nostrils swelling,

Stared, full of venom undisguised.

A fiery red its pale cheeks turned,

And in its death-glazed eyes there burned

A fury fierce and all-compelling.

In towering rage, incensed, confused,

It gnashed its giant teeth, and stuttered,

And smothered imprecations muttered,

And with its slowing tongue abused

Its hated brother.... But the pain,

Prolonged as it had been, was ceasing;

The dark, flushed face turned pale again,

And weaker grew the heavy breathing.

Its eyes rolled back, and soon Ruslan

And magus knew that all was over:

A spasm, and the Head was gone.

The knight rode off at once, much sobered;

As for the dwarf, he did not dare

To breathe, and, all his past strength losing,

To fiends in hell addressed a prayer,

The language of black magic using.

Where a small nameless streamlet wound,

Upon the sloping bank above it,

By dark and shaded forest covered,

There stood, nigh sunk into the ground,

A run-down hut. Thick pine-trees shaded

Its roof. The waters, somnolent,

Licked lazily at a much faded

And worn-down fence of reeds and went

With gentle murmur round it snaking;

The breeze Ые-w softly, only making

A faint sound.... There it was that spread

A vale, and such was its seclusion,

It gave one the distinct illusion

That an unbroken silence had

Here from the birth of Time been reigning.

Ruslan now stopped his horse. The weaning

And peaceful night to morn gave way;

The grove and valley sparkling lay

“Neath veils of haze. His sleeping bride

The prince laid on the grass, and, seating

Himself beside her, close, he sighed

And looked at her, his young heart beating

With dulcet hope. Just then a boat’s

White sail he glimpses, and there float

A fisher’s song above the water

That drowns its gentler voice and sofu

The man has cast his nets, and, bendi

With zeal and promptness to the oar,

His humble vessel now is sending

Straight for the hut perched on the shore,

The good prince shades his eyes and watches:

There now-the boat the green bank touches,

And from the hut there hurries out

A sweet young maid; her hair about

Her shoulders loosely falls, she’s slender

And bare of breast, her smile is tender,

She’s charm itself. The two embrace

And on the bank sit, taking pleasure

In one another, in this place,

And in a quiet hour of leisure.

But whom to his intense surprise

Does Prince Ruslan now recognize

In this young fisherman? Dear Heaven!

It is Ratmir! Yes, it is he,

A man for exploit born, and even

For fame itself, one of his three

Sworn rivals. On this halcyon shore

He turned to fair Ludmila faithless,

And for his new love’s warm embraces

Relinquished fame for ever more.

Ruslan came up to him, astounded;

The recluse khan his rival knew.

A cry, and to the prince he flew

And joyous threw his arms around him

“You here, Ratmir? Lay you no claim

To greater things?” our hero asked hin

“Have you found life like ours too tasking

Thus to reject your knightly fame?”

“In truth, Ruslan,” replied the khan,

“War and its phantom glory bore me;

Behind me have I left my stormy,

Tumultuous years. This peace, this calm,

And love, and pastimes innocent

Bring me a hundred-fold more gladness

My lust for combat being spent,

No tribute do I pay to madness;

Rich am I, friend, in happiness,

And have all else forgot, yes, even

Ludmila’s charms.” “I’m glad, God bless

You for’t, Ratmir, for fate has given

Her back to me....” “You have your bride

With you!” amazed, the young khan cried.

“What luck! I too once longed to free her....

W^here is she, then? I’d like to see her-

But no! I’ll not betray my mate;

Made mine by a forgiving fate,

She wrought this change in me, the fervour

Of eager youth in me revived;

Because I’m hers, because I serve her

I know true love and am alive.

Twelve sirens who professed a longing

For me without regret I spurned;

My heart to none of them belonging,

I left them never to return;

I left their merry home, a castle

That in a shaded forest nestled,

My sword and helm laid down, and foe

And fame forgot. ’Twas, my friend, so

That, peace and solitude embracing,

A kithless hermit I became,

And dwell, to no one known by name,

With her I love....”

Lpon him gazing,

The shepherdess ne er left his side;

Now smiled she sweetly, now she sighed....

On, on, unseen, the hours went racing.

Their hearts by friendship warmed, till night

Set in, o’er all its patterns tracing,

The fisher sat beside the knight....

It’s still and dark. The half-moon’s light,

Pale just at first, is brighter growing.

Time to be off! A cover throwing

With gentle hand o’er his young bride,

Ruslan goes off to mount his steed.

The khan, bemused, preoccupied,

In spirit follows him; indeed,

Good luck in all his daring ventures

He wishes him and happiness

And his proud dreams and past adventres

Recalls with fleeting wistfulness....

Why is it Fortune has not granted

My fickle Lyre the right to praise

Heroic deeds alone? Why can’t I

Of love and friendship, that these days

Are out of fashion, chant? A bard

Of Truth, why must I (God, it’s hard!)

Denounce spite, venom, vice, am fated

In my sincere and artless songs

To bare for those to come the wrongs

By crafty demons perpetrated?

Farlaf, Ludmila’s worthless wooer,

A wretch, still eager to pursue her,

But all his dreams of glory gone,

Out in the wilds lived, isolated

From all mankind and known to none,

And for Nahina’s coming waited.

Nor did he, reader, wait in vain:

For here she is, the ancient dame!

A solemn hour. “You know me, stalwart,”

She says to him. “Now mount, and forward!

Come after me.” And lo!-wdth that

She turns herself into a cat,

And then, the charger saddled, races

Off and away. She’s followed by

Farlaf on horseback. Through the mazes

Of gloomy forests their paths lie.

Clad in night’s haze that never lifted,

The vale lay tranquil, slumber-bound,

And, veiled in mist, the pale moon drifted

From cloud to cloud and lit the mound

With fitful rays. Beneath it seated,

Our hero, staying at her side,

Kept vigil o’er his sleeping bride.

By tristful thought all but defeated

The poor prince was; within him crowded

Dreams, fancies and imaginings;

Beginning gently to enshroud him,

Above him hovered sleep’s cool wings.

His closing eyes upon the sweet

Young maid he tried to fix, but, feeling

Unable this to do, sank, reeling,

By slumber captured, at her feet.

A dream comes to him, bodeful, gloomy:

He seems to see Ludmila, his

Sweet princess, pale-faced and unmoving,

Pause on the brink of an abyss.

She vanishes, and he is standing

Above the dreaded chasm alone,

And from it comes, the spirit rending,

A call for help, a piteous moan....

’Tis she! He jumps, and flies apace,

To pierce the darkness vainly straining.

Through fathomless, night-mantled space,

And then, at long last bottom gaining,

Steps on hard ground.... Vladimir’s palace

Before him towers.... He enters. There is

The old Prince with his grey-haired knights,

His twelve young sons, his guests, all seated

At festive tables. No smile lights

Vladimir’s face. He does not greet him

And seems as wroth as on the dread

And well-remembered day of parting.

All silent stay, no banter starting,

No talk. But there-is not the dead

Rogdai among them, his past rival,

The one that he in battle slew?

Quite unaware of his arrival,

A froth-topped goblet of some brew

He gaily drains. Surprised, Ruslan

Espies Ratmir, the youthful khan,

And others, friends and foes, ringed near him;

The gusli tinkle, old Bayan

Of deeds heroic chants-to hear him

Is strange. Farlaf now enters, leading

Ludmila in. The Prince, receding

Into himself, his grey head bowed,

Says not a word. The silent crowd

Of boyars, princes, knights, concealing

What so disquiets, so dismays

And frightens them, quite moveless stays.

Then, in an instant, all is gone....

A deathly chill o’er his heart stealing,

Ruslan now finds himself alone.

From his eyes tortured tears are flowing

Sleep fetters him, he tries to break

Its leaden chains, but fails, and, knowing

’Tis but a dream, cannot awake.

Above the hill the moon looms pale;

Dark are the forests; in the vale

Dead silence reigns, and there, astride

His steed, we see the traitor ride.

A glade and barrow he has sighted;

Stretched at his love’s feet, on the ground

Ruslan sleeps, and around the mound

His stallion walks. Farlaf, much frightened

Looks on a’tremble. In the mist

The witch is lost. No signal sounding,

The bridle dropping from his fist,

He rides up closer, his heart pounding

And leans across, his broadsword bared,

To cleave the knight in two prepared

Without a fight. His presence scenting,

The stallion whinnies angrily

And paws the ground. But what’s to be,

There is, I fear me, no preventing!

Ruslan hears nothing, for sleep on him,

Weighs heavily, a cruel vise.

Spurred by the wdtch, Farlafs upon him,

And plunging deep his sharp steel thrice

Into his breast, his priceless prey

Lifts up and, weak-kneed, rides away.

The hours flew. Beneath the barrow

The whole night long our hero lay;

The blood from his wounds oozed in narrow,

Unending streamlets.... Dawn arrived,

And with its coming he revived,

Let out a heavy, muffled groan,

About him peered, and, vainly trying

To lift himself and stand, fell prone,

Like one already dead-or dying.

You bid me, O my heart’s desire,

Take up my light and carefree lyre

And chant the lays of old, my leisure

Devoting to a faithful Muse.

Do you not know, then, that I treasure

Love’s raptures more and frankly choose

To spend but little of my time

With that long cherished lyre of mine,

That being now at odds with rumour

And drunk with bliss, I’m in no humour

To welcome toil or harmony’s

Sweet, winsome strains.... By you I breathe,

And though loud are fame’s prideful speeches,

Their sound my ear but faintly reaches.

Of genius the secret fires

Are dead; its thoughts are left behind.

Love, love alone my heart inspires,

Its wild desires invade my mind.

But you-you’d have me sing; my stories

Of loves long past and erstwhile glories

Appeal to you; you wish to hear

Of Prince Ruslan and of Ludmila,

The dwarf, Nahina, Vladimir,

And to the old Finn’s woes a willing

And patient ear are glad to lend.

The tales I spun would sometimes tend

To make you feel a trifle sleepy

Though with a smile you listened e’er.

At other times I was aware

How tenderly-this felt I deeply -

Your loving gaze the singer’s met.

Enamored babbler, I will let

My fingers pass over the lazy

And stubborn strings, and at your feet,

The minstrel’s customary seat,

Strum loudly, my young champion praising.

But where’s Ruslan? Out in the field,

His blood long cold and long congealed,

He sprawls, a raven o’er him swooping,

Upon the grass lie limp and drooping

The whiskers serving to adorn

His helm of steel; mute is his horn.

His golden mane no longer waving,

Around the prince his mount walks gravely,

Head lowered; in his once bright eye

The light has died. Not knowing why

The prince lies so, he is unwilling

To play and waits for him to wake.

In vain! The prince won’t move or take

The sword up: deep his sleep and chilling.

And Chernomor? There, in the bag,

He lies, forgotten by the hag,

And knowing naught, his grudges nurses;

Worn, sleepy, bored to tears, he curses

My youthful hero and his bride....

Then, not a sound his ears assailing

For hours on end, he peeps outside-

A miracle, no less! Words fail him.

For in a pool of blood the knight

Lies dead, and no one is in sight;

Ludmila’s gone, the field’s deserted.

The wizard crows in joy. ‘‘I’m free!”

He cries. “All danger is averted.”

But he is wrong, as we shall see.

Farlaf, by old Nahina aided,

On horseback makes for Kiev; he

Is full of hope and fear. The maiden

Across the saddle lies asleep.

Ahead, the Dnieper, cold and deep,

Already shows, its waters flowing

Mid native leas; the city’s glowing

Gold domes and wooden walls draw near.

Here is the gate! The townsfolk cheer,

And mill about, excitement mounting.

Word to the Prince is sent. Before

The eyes of all, at palace door

We see the knavish youth dismounting.

Meanwhile, Vladimir, called Bright Sun,

Was in his lofty terem sitting,

And, filled with sorrow unremitting,

On his loss brooding. Round him, glum,

His knights and boyars sat, a pompous,

Stone-visaged lot. A sudden rumpus

Is heard without: yells, shouts, a din;

The portal opes. A knight comes in.

Who can he be? Why the intrusion?

All rise. A murmur fills the room,

Grows louder. General confusion.

Ludmila rescued! And by whom! -

Farlaf, of all men! Strange! The Prince,

Changed wholly now of countenance,

Starts from his chair and, heavy-footed

Hastes to his long-lost daughter’s side.

He touches her; she stirs not; muted

Her breathing is. Ruslan’s young bride

Rests in the killer’s arms unfeeling,

The hands of magic her lips sealing,

Its powers holding her spellbound.

His men the aged Prince watch dully

As, anxious-eyed and melancholy,

Farlaf he queries, though no sound

Escapes him.”Aye, the maiden sleeps,”

A finger holding to his lips,

Without a qualm, Farlaf says slyly.

‘T found her, Prince, held by a wily

And wicked goblin captive in

A Murom forest. Bound to win

Was valour, and it did. We battled

For three long days. Above us two

The moon rose thrice; then all was settled:

He fell. The sleeping maid to you

I rushed to bring from that forsaken

And lonely spot. W^hen she’s to waken

And with whose help is only known

To fate, whose ways are dark. Alone

Hope, yes, and patient meditation

Can offer us some consolation.”

Throughout the town there flew ere long

The fateful news, all hearts distressing.

The square filled with a seething throng

Of townsfolk, toward the palace pressing.

A house of grief, it opes its doors

To all, and there the crowd now pours

To see the youthful princess sleeping

On a raised couch clothed in brocade,

The knights and princes o’er the maid

With sombre faces vigil keeping.

Horns, tympans, gusli, tambourines

And trumpets sound. The Prince, grief- worn,

His grey head ‘gainst his child’s feet leans

With silent tears. Beside him, torn

By mute remorse, dismay, self-pity,

Farlaf stands trembling, white of face,

His brashness gone without a trace.

Soon darkness fell, but in- the city

None closed an eye, and all throughout

The night discussed, grouped near their houses,

How it could all have come about,

Some husbands lingering without

And quite forgetting their young spouses,

But when the twin-horned moon on high

Met dawn, its bright rays slowly paling,

There rose throughout a hue and cry,

A din, a clang of arms, a wailing.

A new alarm! And, shaken, all

Come scrambling up the city wall.

A mist the river cloaks. Beyond it

They see white tents, the glint of shields,

Dust raised by horsemen in the field

And moving carts: they are surrounded;

Up on the hilltops campfires flame...

To such scenes Kiev is no stranger;

It’s clear the city is in danger,

The Pechenegs attack again!

While this went on, the Finn, a seer

And ruler of the spirits, waited,

Withdrawn from all the world, to hear

Of happenings anticipated,

Foreseen by him.... Calm, tranquil he:

What is ordained is bound to be.

Deep in the steppe, sun-parched and soundless,

Beyond a chain of hills, the boundless

Realm of wild gales and windstorms, where

The aweless witch will scarcely dare

To walk with the approach of evening,

A vale lies hid that boasts two springs:

One leaps o’er stones and plays and sings,

For it is rich in water living,

The other o’er the valley bed

Flows sluggishly, its waters dead.

All’s silence here, no breezes blowing

That coolness bring; no busy bird

To chatter or to sing is heard;

No age-old pines on sand dunes growing

Are seen to stir; no fawn,, no deer

Drinks of these waters. It is here

On guard two spirits have been standing

Since Time began, the fear commanding

Of all. Before them now the Finn

Appears, two jugs, both empty, bearing;

Their trance is broken, and from him

They flee, to other parts repairing.

He fills the vessels with the pure,

Sweet water ‘fore him softly streaming,

And then is off, to vanish seeming

Into thin air. A second or

Two seconds pass, and in the vale

Where, motionless and deathly pale,

Ruslan lies, he now stands. First he

Dead water o’er the knight sprays, causing

The gaping wounds to heal and rosy

The grey lips turning suddenly;

With living water then he sprays

The comely but still lifeless face —

And death is vanquished, gone its rigor;

Ruslan, full of fresh strength and vigour,

Stands up; life courses in his veins,

The past a ghastly dream remains

Behind him, dim.... O’erjoyed, he faces

The rising day that ‘fore him blazes.

But he’s alone.... Where’s his young bride?..

Of fear a tremor passes through him;

Then his heart leaps, for at his side

He sees the Finn who now says to him:

“It’s as Fate wills. Bliss is in store

For you, my son, but not before

A bloody feast you’ll have attended

And with your sword put down the foe.

You’ll see your bride and gladness know,

Once peace on Kiev has descended.

Here is a ring for you. Her brow

Touch wdth it, and from sleep she’ll waken.

The very sight of you, I vow,

Will leave your foes confused and shaken

And put the lot of them to flight.

Then will maliciousness and spite,

My friend, and all things evil perish.

Be worthy of your love and cherish

Your bride, Ruslan.... And now goodbye...

Beyond the grave will you and I

Meet, not before.” With this he vanished,

And Prince Ruslan, all his fears banished,

O’erjoyed to be to life restored,

Stands with his arms stretched out toward

His friend.... Alas! The grassy lea is

Deserted quite save for the bay

(The dwarfs still in the bag) who whinnies

And rears and shakes his mane. Away

The prince now makes to go, and, springing

Into the saddle, grips the reins.

He’s hale and sound. Across the plains

And woods we see him boldly winging.

And what of Kiev, by the foe

Beleaguered?... There, filled with suspense,

High on its walls and battlements,

The townsfolk crowd. The fields below

Surveying fearfully, they wait

God’s smiting hand, the hand of fate.

Subdued laments come from the houses;

No sound the fear-hushed byways rouses.

Beside his child in earnest prayer

Vladimir kneels, plunged deep in sorrow.

His knights and noblemen and their

Great warrior-host for war prepare:

The bloodv fray’s set for the morrow! ‘

Dawn broke, and down the hills the foes

Poured, armed with swords and spears and bows;

They surged relentless, never slowing,

Wave upon wave across the plains

And toward the city walls came flowing.

The Kiev trumpets started blowing,

And out its men rushed, with the chains

Of the attackers boldly clashing.

The fray begins! In sudden fear,

As death they scent, steeds neigh and rear;

The riders, forward headlong dashing,

In battle meet, their steel swords flashing.

Sent forth in clouds, the arrows hum;

The fields turn red: with blood they run.

A man who’s lost his war-horse faces

A horseman: which of them will smite

The other first? In wild-eyed fright

Across the field a charger races.

Death. Cries for help and battle-calls.

A Pecheneg, a Russian falls.

One’s by an arrow pierced swift-flying;

Another’s maced, his groan unheard;

A foeman’s shield has crushed a third,

And. trampled on, he lies there, dying.

The fray went on till dark set in,

But neither warring side could win....

The slain in mounds lay; blood flowed freely;

Sleep claimed the living, all concealing

From their sight. Through the fearful night’s

Long hours the wounded moaned in pain,

And one could hear the Russian knights

To their God pray and speak His name.

But paler turned the shade of morn,

And in the swiftly-flowing river

The rippling waves seemed made of silver:

Day, thickly cloaked in mist, was born.

The hills and forests slowly brightened;

The skies, by sun their blueness heightened,

Broke free of sleep.... Yet moveless still

The battlefield remained until

The hostile camp awoke abruptly,

A challenge followed the alarm,

And warfare once again erupting,

Old Kiev lost its short-lived calm.

All rush to watch the scene below

And see a knight in flaming mail

Through ranks of foemen blaze a trail,

See him descend on them and mow

Them boldly down-see his sword flash

And thrust and stab and cut and slash....

It was Ruslan. The dwarf behind him,

His horn triumphantly he blows

And like a thunderbolt the foes

Strikes down; where’er it is we find him

Borne bv his steed, the infidels

Row upon row he vengeful fells,

And awing the enthralled beholders,

With whistling sword parts heads from shoulders....

Where’er he passes, bodies strew

The battleground, crushed, headless, dying,

With spears and arrows near them lying

And heaps of armour. Then, anew

The trumpet’s battle call remorseless

Sounds, and behold!-the Slavic forces

To join Ruslan on horseback fly.

A fierce fray follows.... Pagan, die!

The Pechenegs, those savage raiders,

Round up their scattered horses and

In panic flee. The feared invaders

Of Russ. they can no more withstand

The Slavs’ attack; their wild yells carry

Over the dusty field; their hordes,

Cut down by Kiev’s smiting swords,

The fires of the inferno face....

Kiev exults.... And now our daring

Young prince-his horse he sits with grace-

On through its gate rides, proudly bearing

His sword of victory; his lance

Shines star-like, drawing every glance;

The blood is seen to trickle down

His heavy mail of bronze, he’s wearing

A helm whose top the whiskers crown

Of Chernomor. And all about him

There’s noise and gaiety and shouting.

The very air with his name rings....

Toward the Prince’s house on wings

Of hope he flies, and goes inside.

Here now’s the silent chamber where

Sleeps fair Ludmila; at her side

Her father stands, deep lines of care

Etched on his face. There’s no one near him,

No friend to comfort or to cheer him,

For they have all gone off to war....

Farlaf, alone the call of duty

Denying, at the chamber door

Kept vigil; in him deeply rooted

Was an aversion for things martial,

To calm and comfort he was partial,

And very much so. Seeing who

Was there before, him, he surrendered

To fear; his blood froze; speechless rendered,

On to his knees he fell.... He knew

That retribution was his due,

That he was doomed. Ruslan, however,

The magic ring just then recalled

And, faithful to his love as ever,

Her pale brow touched with it. Behold!-

She oped her eyes and sighed in wonder:

Night had been long, too long.... It seemed

That she was still entranced, still under

The spell of something she had dreamed.

And then her vision cleared-she knew him!

And fell into his arms, and to him

Clung lovingly. By joy made numb,

He saw naught, heard naught, his heart raced.

And Prince Vladimir, overcome,

Wept as his dear ones he embraced.

You will have guessed, and without fail,

How ends mv all too drawn-out tale.

Flown was Vladimir’s wrath ungrounded;

Farlaf confessed his guilt; Ruslan,

So happy was he, in him found it

All to forgive; the dwarf, undone,

His powers lost, was added to

Vladimir-Bright Sun’s retinue;

To mark an end to tribulation

A sumptuous feast of celebration

The Prince held in his chamber high,

By friends and family surrounded.

The ways and deeds of days gone by,

A narrative on legend founded.

Thus, the world’s mindless dweller, spending

Life’s precious hours in idle peace,

Its strings my lyre to me lending,

I sang the lore of bygone days.

I sang, the painful blows forgetting

Of fate that blindly o’er us rules,

The wiles of frivolous maids, the petty

And thoughtless jibes of prating fools.

My mind, on wings of fancy soaring,

To parts ethereal was borne,

While all unknown there gathered o’er me

The dark clouds of a mighty storm....

And I was lost.... But vou who always

Watched o’er me in my earlier years,

You, blessed friendship, giving solace

To one whose heart deep sorrow sears!-

You calmed the raging storm, and, heeding

M\ spirit’s call, brought peace to me;

You saved me-saved my treasured freedom,

Of fiery youth the deity!

Far from the social whirl, the Neva

Behind me left, forgotten even

By rumour, here am I where loom

Caucasian peaks in prideful gloom.

Atop high steeps, mid downward tumbling

Cascades and cataracts of stone,

I stand and drink it all in dumbly,

And revel, to reflection prone,

In nature’s dark and savage beauty;

To wounding thought my soul’s still wed,

Within it sadness lives, deep-rooted,

But the poetic fires are dead,

In vain I seek for inspiration:

Gone is the blithe and happy time

Of love, of merry dreams, of rhyme,

Of all that filled me with elation.

Sweet rapture’s span has not been long,

Flown from me has the Muse of song,

Of softly spoken incantation....

 

Eugene Oneguine, the chief poetical work of Russia’s greatest poet, having been translated into all the principal languages of Europe except our own, I hope that this version may prove an acceptable contribution to literature. Tastes are various in matters of poetry, but the present work possesses a more solid claim to attention in the series of faithful pictures it offers of Russian life and manners. If these be compared with Mr. Wallace’s book on Russia, it will be seen that social life in that empire still preserves many of the characteristics which distinguished it half a century ago — the period of the first publication of the latter cantos of this poem.

Many references will be found in it to our own country and its literature. Russian poets have carefully plagiarized the English — notably Joukovski. Pushkin, however, was no plagiarist, though undoubtedly his mind was greatly influenced by the genius of Byron — more especially in the earliest part of his career. Indeed, as will be remarked in the following pages, he scarcely makes an effort to disguise this fact.