For you, the sovereigns of my soul,

Fair ladies, for yourselves alone,

These tales from my hand unroll,

In golden hours of leisure sown;

The whispered fables of past ages,

Shall here fill every playful line.

Receive these eloquent few pages!

For which I ask no praise; for mine

Is but sweet hope; my heart content

If some young girl shall, furtively,

Peruse, her mind on love intent,

These errant songs; or such as she.

Three is a green oak by the bay,

And on the oak a chain of gold:

A learned cat, both night and day,

Circles upon that chain, of old:

And to the right – he spins a song,

And to the left – a tale of wrong.

What marvels there!

The wood-sprite rides,

Among the leaves the mermaid hides;

While on deep paths of mystery

Strange unknown creatures leave their spoor;

For huts on hen’s legs you can see,

That lack a window or a door;

Wood and valley vision-brimming:

There at dawn the waves come washing

Across the sands and silent shore,

And thirty noble knights appear

One by one, from those waters clear,

Attended there by their tutor;

While a king’s son who’s riding near

Makes a fierce king his prisoner;

A wizard carries through the sky

A knight, past all the people there,

Over the forests, seas, they fly;

A princess pines there in a cell,

Served by a brown wolf, long and well;

While, with Baba Yaga inside,

A mortar gives that witch a ride;

As King Koschei grows ill with gold.

It’s Russia! – Russian scents unfold!

And I was there, and I drank mead,

I saw the green oak by the sea,

I sat there while the learned cat

Told its stories; here’s one that

I remember, and now, unfurled,

The tale I’ll tell to all the world…

Of deeds performed in ages past,

Things wrought in legendary days.

In his high hall, midst guests amassed,

His fierce sons at his side always,

Sat Vladimir, the Bright Sun, feasting;

His fair daughter he was wedding

To Prince Ruslan, brave and fair,

And from a heavy cup, held there,

To their health, sweet mead was drinking.

Our ancestors ate slowly, they

Long passed the silver bowls around.

They ladled out the wine, that day,

And steaming cups of ale they downed.

Into their hearts they poured good cheer,

Foam hissing at the goblet’s rim,

Watching the butlers, prompt, appear,

With vessels filled all to the brim.

In one great hubbub all confounded,

The guests their joyful circle made;

On high a pleasing voice then sounded,

The zither’s fleeting music played.

A hush – all listened as Bayan,

That noble singer, praised the pair,

Ludmila’s charms, the bold Ruslan,

Love’s joining of the brave and fair.

Yet, consumed by ardent feeling,

Ruslan, eating not, nor drinking,

From his ‘dear heart’ turns not his eyes,

He burns with passion, frowns and sighs.

Tugs his moustache and, impatient,

Counts the passing of each moment.

At one table, midst the feasting,

Three grave young knights are sitting,

Despondent, and with gloomy brows;

Neglectful of the fare, the ale,

They neither eat, nor drink, nor rouse,

Forget the cups, the brimming pail.

They do not seem to hear Bayan,

Embarrassed, they lower their eyes,

These three are rivals of Ruslan,

A deadly brew of love and hate,

Within their hearts’ depths, they disguise.

The first: Odin-Rogdai, the brave,

That, with his sharp blade, once gave

A greater breadth to Kiev’s fields;

The second, Farlaf, loud and vain,

In feasting first, but, then again,

With the sword the one who yields;

The last one, passionate at heart,

The young Khazar, Khan Ratmir.

Sullen and pale, they brood apart,

And from the feast they take no cheer.

The feast is done. The feasters rise,

And mingle, while all turn their eyes

Towards the newly-weds, the bride

Lowering her gaze, in modesty,

As if her heart quaked inwardly,

The groom all smiling at her side.

Night’s shadows now embrace the earth,

And, close to midnight, silence reigns;

The sleepy boyars cease their mirth,

Mead-fuddled, bow, then take the reins.

The groom’s delighted, all elation,

Clasping, in imagination,

Caressing, his shy virgin bride;

While the Grand Duke moves to bless

Their union, with fond tenderness,

And sorrow that he seeks to hide.

And now the girl, without delay,

Off to the marriage bed they light;

Dimmed the lamps, yet, many a ray

Of Love’s lamp now warms…the night.

Gifts of love are here made ready,

Its sweetest hopes are now found true;

Jealous robes, that tumble sweetly

Byzantine carpets now must woo…

Do you not hear the loving whisper?

And the sound of their sweet kiss?

And then an interrupted murmur,

A last shyness? Expectation

Fills the groom with true delight,

When, at this moment of elation…

Harsh thunder sounds… a flash of light,

The lamp expires, and smoke pours out,

All’s darkness, all things sway about,

While the soul of Ruslan freezes….

Then dread silence, all noise ceases,

A strange voice rings out, loudly, twice,

A dreadful form the darkness seizes,

One blacker than a foggy haze,

Then once again the tower is still.

The groom starts up, despite his will,

Upon his brow the sweat like ice.

Trembling, with chill hand, he strays,

Questioning the darkness where

Naught’s to be found but empty air…

And never a sign of his dear heart!

The emptiness he grasps at; she,

His Ludmila, snatched suddenly,

Borne away through some evil art.

Oh, if you must find martyrdom

Bearing a passion, hopelessly;

Though to a life of sadness come,

My friends, not all is misery;

Yet if, after long years, pining,

I embraced my love a moment,

After tears, desire, and longing,

Only to find her, in an instant,

Lost forever…my friends, then I

Would, willingly, prefer to die!

Ruslan was simply most unhappy.

What would the Grand Duke have to say?

Hearing the news, brought suddenly,

His son-in-law he sought to flay.

He summoned him, convened the court:

‘Where is Ludmila?’ overwrought,

He cried, with dread and fiery brow,

Ruslan replied not. ‘Friends and kin!

I think of your past deeds, who now

Will pity an old man, seek, and win

My child, by following after?

For their success shall not prove vain –

Yes, wail you wretch! And forever

Cry how you failed her, live in pain! –

Her rescuer a bride shall gain,

And my forefathers’ realm also,

Friends, kin, who’ll answer to my plea?...

‘I’, the sad groom said, ‘I shall go!’

‘I’, ‘I’, – with Rogdai, cried loudly –

Farlaf, and the joyful Ratmir.

‘We will saddle our horses now,

Happy to seek both far and near.

You’ll not be parted long, we vow.

Fear not: the princess we’ll pursue.’

His gratitude was great, in tears,

He stretched his hands to them, anew,

Full of sorrow, bowed by his years.

Swiftly, the four knights departed,

Ruslan despondent, and half-dead,

Tormented, near broken-hearted,

Thinking of her whom he had wed.

Mounting their eager steeds, all four,

Race now along the Dnieper’s shore,

Leaving a dust-cloud in their wake,

Are soon, upon the course they take,

Lost to sight, while long he’ll stand,

The Grand Duke, gazing into space,

Bare, empty fields on either hand,

As his sad thoughts pursue the chase.

Ruslan was silent, full of care,

His reason and his memory dim,

While, haughtily, glancing there,

Over his shoulder, after him

Sped Farlaf, but a pace or so

Behind, crying: ‘Friends, now that I

Taste freedom, well if I should spy

Some fierce giant!  The blood will flow,

Love many a victim shall afford,

Many through jealousy must bleed,

For passion’s sake. Rejoice my sword,

Rejoice, rejoice, my eager steed!’

The Khazar Khan who seemed, already,

To clasp Ludmila for his pains,

In thought, upon his saddle fairly

Danced, youth pulsing in his veins,

The light of hope gleamed in his eye.

Onwards, he makes his stallion fly.

Now rearing his fine steed, teasing,

Now urging his brave mount uphill,

Now leaving him to his prancing.

Rogdai, gloomy, silent, fearing

Some unknown fate, now feels the chill

Of his jealousy far more than

All the rest; his anguished gaze

Now often fixed upon Ruslan,

A dark and dreadful cast displays.

To the same road the rivals keep,

All that day, while the sky is light,

To where the Dnieper’s banks are steep,

And, from the east, shade fills the night.

Mist pours down to veil the river;

Their weary steeds have need of rest.

Where their road crosses another

Below the mountain, it seems best

To part: ‘To fate,’ the riders cry,

Let us entrust ourselves.’ And so,

Each steed, unspurred now, by and by,

Choosing a path, meanders slow.

What then, my Ruslan, all distraught,

Alone, in silent desolation?

It seems Ludmila, all you sought,

Was but a dream; a lost elation.

Your visor raised upon your brow,

The reins loose in your powerful hand,

Your ride amid the dark fields now,

And neither faith nor hope command,

Both ebbing there, within your soul.

Yet there’s a cave he makes his goal –

A light there; he dismounts, to stand

Before it, and then moves to enter

That slumbering vault, old as nature.

Despondently he walks, to where

An aged man is seated; clear

His eye, and calm his quiet gaze,

Grey with years his tangled hair.

The lamplight falls about him there;

Over the ancient book it plays,

In which he reads. ‘Welcome, my son!’

With a smile, he now greets Ruslan,

‘Twenty long years are past and done;

Faded now, but an aged man,

Here I have waited, patiently,

For this day that I long foresaw;

Bound now by fate’s unyielding law,

Come, sit here, and attend to me.

Ruslan, Ludmila’s lost to you,

The strength of your great spirit, too

Has waned, and yet these ills will pass.

Though evil chance plagues you, alas,

With faith and hope yet, bravely fight

Against all woes; with manly art,

Advance – though in the dark of night –

With shining blade, and valiant heart.

Ruslan, seek out the one who’s wronged you,

The dreaded sorcerer, Chernomor,

Lodged in his mountain fastness, who

Has snatched away young girls before.

No man as yet has entered there,

Nor even set his gaze thereon,

But you shall end this ill affair,

And penetrate his hold; lay on,

And slay the wretch with your own hand.

No more I’ll say, where all’s amiss:

Your fate now, you must understand,

Depends on your own will in this.’

Our knight knelt at the old man’s feet,

And kissed his right hand, joyfully,

A fairer world he seemed to greet,

His heart forgot its misery.

He felt restored: yet, suddenly,

The blood again drained from his face…

‘Your sorrow’s cause is plain to me,’

The old man said: ‘And yet your case

Is not so sad, your woe I’ll banish.

You fear the sorcerer’s ill passion;

Be calm; no harm shall he accomplish,

She need fear naught in his dread prison.

He draws the stars down from the sky,

He whistles, and the moon must tremble,

Yet he must still see time go by;

His art is weak, though he’d dissemble.

A jealous guardian at her door,

Who keeps her under lock and key,

Yet, impotent, he’ll do no more

Though his captive owns to beauty.

He wanders near her cell, in silence,

Cursing the harshness of his lot…

But, fair knight, the light goes hence,

Let peace and rest not be forgot.’

On a bed of moss, Ruslan lies,

By the embers of a dying fire,

Seeking forgetfulness, he sighs,

Tossing and turning, with desire…

Tis all in vain! He yet must speak:

‘Sick at heart, though sleep I seek,

Father, my mind: it will not rest.

Life wearies me; what shall I do?

Ill dreams torment your sorry guest.

Converse with me: who then are you,

Blessed confidante of fate? Forgive

The bold nature of my question:

And why in this waste do you live?

Engage me yet in conversation.’

The old man answered him like this,

Sighing; ‘I have forgot, dear son,

My distant home, a land of mist.

Finnish by birth, why, I was one

Who tended to my neighbour’s sheep,

In lonely vales to which we keep,

And in my carefree youth I knew

The dense oak-groves, the running streams,

The stony caverns, and the few

Pleasures that fill a poor man’s dreams.

My days in solitude I spent –

There came an end to my content.

Near our village, there lived a girl,

Named Naina; in all this world,

No sweeter flower of solitude,

Existed, none was lovelier.

One morning I came upon her,

For, playing on my pipe, I viewed

Her by a stream, as there I grazed

My flocks in a grassy meadow.

Young and beautiful, she raised

Her hands to wreathe a garland so,

And my fate was sealed forever…

Ah, knight – for it was Naina!

As my reward, I felt the blaze

Of passion for my daring gaze,

For love had set my soul on fire,

Heavenly joy that lifts us higher,

And all the pangs of deep desire.

Six months passed, and, full of fear,

I opened up my heart, drew near,

Cried: ‘How I love you, Naina!’

Yet my timid words she ever

Scorned, displayed a look of pride;

Vainly flaunting her charms anew,

Indifferently, she replied:

‘Well, shepherd boy, I love not you!’

Now all things seemed strange to me,

Gloomy the native oak-trees’ shade,

The shepherds’ frolics in the glade,

Naught could ease my melancholy,

Sunk deep in dark despondency;

To leave Finland was my mission,

And risk the dangers of the ocean;

To sail, and with a band of brothers,

Attempt thus to achieve high fame,

Naina’s fresh attention claim,

Swore it, in the style of lovers.

I found bold fishermen, and we

Took to the waves, to seek for gold,

Shores where all once lived peacefully

Now saw the steel flash bright and cold,

The warring vessels clashing loudly.

Thus, full of hope, I sailed away,

Midst my countrymen, fought fiercely,

Many the foes that we did slay,

Till the snow, the waves, ran redly.

Our fame, it spread; until, I say

Foreign kings feared our arrival,

Their proud squadrons fled, that day,

The northern blades dealing trouble.

Fiercely we fought, cheerfully too

We shared the spoils, and sat down

To feast with men we conquered, who

Ate with us, and with never a frown.

Yet, my heart lost to Naina,

Below the sound of feasts and war,

I yet longed for her, as ever,

Seeking still my native shore.

‘Friends,’ I cried, ‘tis time to leave,

Hang our chain-mail neath an eave

Of some fine hut, in peace of mind!’

The oars now stirred; our battles past,

Leaving a trail of fear behind,

We sailed forth, Finland’s shores to find,

And proudly anchored – home at last!

Fulfilled, was my enduring dream,

Fulfilled, was all my deep desire!

The moment shone with lightning-fire,

Sweet meeting’s bright and ardent gleam!

At the feet of my proud beauty,

I laid my sword, stained and bloody,

Corals, and pearls, and shining gold.

Drunk with passion, I stood dumbly,

Surrounded by her throng of wholly

Envious friends, no longer bold,

But rather, now, turned prisoner.

Yet full of scorn, my love forgot,

She, in her indifferent manner,

Cried: ‘Hero fine, I love you not!’

Why speak, dear son, of things that I

Now lack the strength to remember?

Here, in solitude, where I sigh,

The spirit numbed, the grave closer,

Sadly, my sorrows I recall,

And at the thought of times gone by,

Heavy the tear that’s born to fall

To my grey beard, from out my eye.

But, listen! In my homeland there,

Amidst wild fishermen, is where,

In the wastes, strange arts folk ply.

Beneath the trees’ eternally

Silent roof, in the forest deep,

Grey-haired sorcerers, secretly,

Upon the highest wisdom keep

Their minds directed; they foresee

All; and such is their potency

That all to come, as all long past,

Is subject to them, utterly;

Love itself, and the grave at last.

And, I, who sought love avidly,

Determined that, nevertheless,

I’d rouse love in proud Naina

By magic, spite all woefulness.

Thus, the forest’s dark interior

I hastened freely to embrace.

Immured in solitude, I learned

The sorcerer’s art, till I had earned,

Through unseen years in that place,

Dread knowledge of fair Nature’s power;

Came long-sought momentary grace:

To magic now I might aspire.

‘The crown of love and love’s desire,

Naina, now is mine’, I cried,

Thinking to gain the goal denied,

But fate it was that won the day,

My stubborn enemy alway.

Filled with youthful hope, and dreams,

Roused by my desire, I, swiftly,

Cast a spell, and summoned to me,

Midst the forest’s shadowy gleams,

Dark spirits, till lightning, briefly,

Magically, the gloom did greet,

And with a whirlwind there did meet…

Earth shuddering beneath my feet.

And, on the forest floor before me,

A crone, grey-haired, I now did see,

A hump-backed form, in my retreat,

With trembling head, yet eyes alight

Oh, my Naina twas, brave knight!...

With silent dread I now measured

That wretched form with my eyes,

My doubt I scarcely could disguise,

And cried: ‘Is this my treasured

Darling? Naina can this be you?

Naina where is all your beauty?

What power changed you utterly,

And formed you, terribly, anew?

How long then since I left the light,

And parted from my dear, my soul;

How long?’… ‘Full forty years, all told,’

The crone replied, eyes glittering bright,

‘Seventy years are mine this day.

What then? … Tis thus the years speed by:

Your spring is done with now, I say –

As is my own, life drains away –

And we are old now, you and I.

Yet listen, friend, it matters not,

If fickle youth’s forsaken you,

If I am grey, and crooked too,

My liveliness my charms forgot,

If I am not what I was then,’

And, muttering, she spoke again:

‘For (tis my secret), nonetheless,

A witch am I, a sorceress!

And so, she was indeed, and I,

I stood there dumb and motionless;

For all my knowledge won thereby,

A perfect fool was I, no less.

And then the horror! For my spell

Had worked on my grey-haired goddess

Successfully, yet far too well;

Fresh passion stirred within her breast.

Her dread mouth twisted in a smile;

In graveyard tones, yet free of guile,

She mumbled out her love for me.

Imagine then my agony!

I trembled, and gazed at the ground;

Despite her coughing, still I heard

A deep, a passionate note sound:

‘Well now, dear friend, I, in a word

Find that this heart of mine was born

For tenderness, both night and morn;

My feelings wake, for love I burn,

For all love’s passion and desire…

Come to my arms, for you I yearn…

Dear friend, I’m dying of love’s fire…’

And thus, she peered at me, Ruslan,

With passionate and lustful eye,

While plucking hard at my caftan

With skinny hands. I thought to die.

Closing my eyes tight shut from horror,

Dreadful it was to linger there,

Till I could bear the place no longer,

Broke free, and ran in deep despair.

She cried: ‘O you, of love unworthy!’

Pursuing: ‘you disturbed me, truly,

Stole my pure, my innocent days!

You won Naina’s love, and yet

You scorn her; faithlessly forget;

Such are the hearts of men always!

All breathe their treason, and none stays.

Alas, I blame myself; the monster

Had seduced me, passionate ever.

Wretched traitor! Now, shame and grief

Are mine! Yet, tremble heartless thief!

Thus, we parted. Since then, in brief,

I’ve lived a solitary creature,

With disappointment in my heart,

Finding solace deep in Nature,

In peace, and in the subtle art. 

Now, the grave is summoning me,

Yet those emotions linger on,

The witch has them in memory;

There, the flame of passion gone

Has turned from ire to enmity.

A black and evil-loving spirit,

She’ll hate you as she hates me, friend;

And yet, to all grief there’s a limit,

All earthly sorrows have their end.’

Our brave knight listened, eagerly,

To the old man’s tale, open-eyed;

No lapsing into sleep, while, swiftly,

Night on its peaceful way did glide;

Deep thought his mind thus occupied,

Until the dawn shone clear and bright…

And then, in gratitude, the knight

Embraced the old man, with a sigh,

And, hopeful, left him, by and by.

He leapt into the saddle; tightly

Gripped tween his strong legs his steed,

And, with a whistle, spurred him lightly:

‘Be with me in my hour of need,

Father!’ he cried, as, glancing round,

He galloped o’er the empty ground.

‘Farewell!’ the old sage shouted twice,

‘Forgive your bride; by love be bound;

Forget not this old man’s advice!’

You, rivals in destruction’s story,

Among yourselves know naught of peace,

Pay tribute to a sombre glory,

And revel in your foe’s decease!

Let all folk turn to ice before you,

By gazing on your dreadful feast,

For none will heave a sigh for you,

Nor folk regret you in the least.

And you, the knights of Parnassus,

Bring not scorn on your profession,

With all your quarrels, all your fuss;

Swear away, but with discretion,

Bold foes, but of a different kind.

Rivals in love, you too, remain

At ease together, should you find

You can so do! Fair peace, maintain.

Trust me, my friends; whom fate may deign

To grant a girl’s heart as his prize,

Should smile, amidst a world of pain:

He’s foolish, sinful, otherwise.

Now Rogdai the Bold, in torment,

Chilled by an ill presentiment,

Who, into the wastes, had ridden,

Far from the other three, intent

On solitary thought, went, hidden

Amid the woods, in discontent.

The Evil Spirit gave him pain,

Brought dark confusion to his soul,

He muttered, ever and again:

‘To slay, despite all, is my goal!...

Ruslan! Beware, for you shall die…

Your bride will shed a bitter tear…’

Then, suddenly, he gave a cry,

And back upon his tracks did steer.

All this while Farlaf the valiant

Had spent his time deep in pleasant

Slumber, that whole morn till noon;

Then, by a stream, sat in the shade,

To calm his spirit, and in tune,

With silence, dined there in the glade.

Suddenly he saw a rider,

Towards the spot the horseman made,

And Farlaf a moment later

Leaping to the saddle swiftly

Abandoning his meal, his spear,

His helm, his chain-mail, all his gear,

Fled without a glance, abruptly.

‘Halt, you coward!’ the unknown knight,

Cried out to Farlaf, now in flight,

‘Come, your fine head I’ll sever, sir!

Let me but meet with you, you cur!’

Farlaf who’d recognised the voice

Of his bold rival Rogdai, fled

All the faster, such was his choice,

Fearing the man would strike him dead.

So, will the hare run, in its haste,

Laying its ears back in the chase,

Over the fields, in leaps and bounds,

Flying in terror from the hounds.

Where this fell pursuit now passed

The winter snows, melted at last,

Had caused a muddy stream to flow,

That gnawed at the earth’s depths below.

Farlaf’s steed rushed at the torrent,

With flying tail and mane, intent

On leaping the moat before it,

Biting down harder on the bit:

But its timid rider now fell,

Head over heels, into the mud,

Unable sky from earth to tell,

Ready to die there in the flood.

Rogdai flew towards the ravine;

His cruel blade in his fell hand.

‘Die, coward! Die!’… And then his keen

Blade he stayed for, you understand,

He saw it was Farlaf there; anger,

Amazement, and sheer vexation,

Showed in his face; thereafter,

Grinding his teeth, in frustration,

He hastened swiftly from the place,

Fuming, his head now lowered… though

Barely able to hide a trace

Of laughter at himself, also.

As, on a mountain track, he rode,

An old woman, beside the way,

Humpbacked, her hair completely grey,

With her staff showed him the road,

Pointing northwards: ‘You’ll find him there!’

Rogdai, feeling elation flare,

Flew on, his speed unabated,

To where certain death awaited.

And our Farlaf? In the ditch he lay,

Not daring to breathe, wondering

If he was dead, or still living,

Hoping his rival was far away.

The old woman’s voice, suddenly,

Rang out above him: ‘Come,’ said she,

‘Stand up, well done, all’s quiet now,

You’ll meet no other foe, I vow.

A steed I’ve brought for you to ride;

On your feet; hear what I confide.’

The knight, embarrassed I’ll allow,

Now crawled from out the muddy moat.

He looked around, and sighed: ‘At least

No bones, are broken!’ as the yeast

Of life returned; and cleared his throat.

‘Believe me!’ the old woman said,

Ludmila will prove hard to find,

She’s far away, as good as dead;

You’ll not attain her, to my mind.

It’s dangerous to roam the earth,

Nor will it bring you happiness,

So, follow my advice, seek mirth

And comfort back at home; success

Would be to live near Kiev quietly,

Free, there, from all anxiety;

Toward your native village wend.

Ludmila won’t escape us, friend!

With this the crone vanished, swiftly.

Impatient to be gone, our hero

Now chose upon his way to go.

Forgetting the princess, and glory,

He headed home; though you may know

Deep among the oak woods every

Slightest sound, a bird in flight,

A tinkling stream, gave him a fright.

Meanwhile Ruslan rides far afield;

The forest wilds, the empty places,

But one habitual thought they yield,

Of Ludmila, her sweet embraces.

He murmurs ‘Will I find you, true

Bride of my soul? Oh, where are you?

To view your gaze, so bright and clear;

And, your sweet conversation, hear?

Were you destined for this sorcerer?

For his foul prison, dark and cold,

Your bloom lost, as his prisoner,

A mournful virgin, faded, old?

Or shall some bold rival of mine,

Succeed? …. Why no, you are too fine:

My head is on my shoulders still,

My faithful sword yet serves my will.’

One evening, Ruslan was riding

Along a steep and rugged shore,

The waters, below him, gleaming,

As if at peace for evermore.

When, suddenly, an arrow whirred

Above his head; close by, he heard

The clang of chain-mail, and the pound

Of horse’s hooves across the ground,

‘Halt! Halt’ There came a thunderous shout.

He turned then, as the cry rang out.

A fierce rider, shrilly whistling,

Over the open field there flew,

With his lance raised high; and, bristling,

Ruslan turned, to meet him. Nearing,

The other cried: ‘Friend, I’ll slay you;

Come, my sharp blade you shall meet;

Look for your bride beneath my feet.’

His anger saw Ruslan redden,

He’d recognised that strident voice…

But my friends…What of our maiden?

To leave the knights must be our choice,

For a while; we’ll find them later.

For, surely, it’s high time we sought

The fair princess, and gave a thought,

To Chernomor, the sorcerer.

A confidante of errant fancy,

Immodest too, occasionally,

I’ve told how that gentle beauty,

Ludmila, vanished so swiftly,

Snatched away from poor Ruslan,

Amidst the fog on either hand.

Unhappy bride! When newly-wed,

Torn thus from out the marriage bed.

That villain soared with you on high,

Fled in a whirlwind through the air,

Through clouds of smoke, the gloomy sky,

Sped with you to his mountain lair.

There, you found yourself, now voiceless,

Your senses lost, your memory,

Trembling, immured in misery,

In that sorcerer’s dread fortress.

So, in high summer, frequently,

From my threshold, I would see

The rooster, the henhouse sultan,

Chase some fearful mate. He ran

Through the yard, in his passion, 

With his wings embraced the hen,

While on high, in ruthless fashion,

The grey kite circled slyly; then

That ancient thief of the poultry,

Would fall like sudden lightning,

All the yard’s inmates frightening,

And swoop on them, disastrously.

To the heavens the villain soars,

Grasping the prey in savage claws,

Bearing it to some dark crevasse.

In vain the rooster sees them pass,

He whom fear and sorrow freeze;

The bird cries out to his mistress;

Only a few feathers, weightless,

Drift downwards, slowly, on the breeze.

Until the morn, the young princess

Lay lost in deep oblivion,

As by some dreadful nightmare stunned,

Until, at last, from sleep’s excess

She woke, but not to see the sun,

Possessed by fear and restlessness,

Her spirit seeking for someone

Most dear, now that the night is done.

‘Where are you, love?’ she softly cries,

Calls louder, but her question dies,

About the room she casts her eyes:

‘Ludmila, whose is this chamber?’

Amidst the pillows set about her,

She lies beneath the downy covers,

A canopy high overhead;

Fine curtains veil the feather bed,

Tasselled, woven in rich colours;

Bright brocades are everywhere,

And precious gems, winking, blazing;

Fragrant perfumes fill the air,

That golden censers are raising.

Enough…I need not tell you more;

Scheherazade, long before,

Has forestalled me, in describing

A house of magic; though, I’m sure,

However fair the house we sing,

Without true love, naught’s in the thing.

Three maidens of wondrous beauty,

In garments both fine and lovely,

Now glided in, with scarce a sound,

And all bowed deeply to the ground.

One maid came closer, silently,

Then, with ethereal fingers,

Plaited the princess’ braids, for she

Knew that fair art which yet lingers.

A diadem of pearls she set

Upon that brow, pallid as yet.

A second maid approached and hers

Was a face blowed low, in modesty;

Now she clothed Ludmila, swiftly,

In an azure silk gown that fell

Over her slender form; as well

As a veil, fair and fine as mist,

That the shoulders barely kissed,

Crowning the gold hair of that belle;

Envious the soft veil that kisses

Charms worthy of heaven above;

Then shod her feet, the princess’s,

In dainty shoes all might approve.

The third maid brings the princess

A sash encrusted o’er with pearls,

The while a singer for the guest

Many a pleasant song unfurls.

But neither her bright jewellery,

Her gown, nor the pearls about her,

Nor those songs of sweet flattery

Can raise her spirits, or amuse her;

To view her beauty, and attire,

In vain, the mirror draws her eye;

Her fixed gaze, with ne’er a sigh,

To silent longing does aspire.

Those, to whom the truth is dear,

That read the secrets of the heart,

Are – when a maid neglects to peer

Into her glass, sits sad, apart,

Not even glancing, on occasion,

In spite of habit, and of reason,

At her own image – soon agreed,

Her sorrow must be great indeed.

Now Ludmila, alone once more,

Uncertain what to do, I’m sure,

Wandered to a trellised window,

Gazing down at the scene below,

On empty fields, and clouds anew,

Where all seemed dead, and snow lay deep,

And softly carpeting the view,

Clothing every mountain steep

Above white silent plains, the sombre

Land wrapped in eternal slumber.

No smoke trail from a chimney there,

No snow-bound traveller to be seen,

None blew a sounding horn, to share

Their joy with all that barren scene.

Only, with a low dull whistling,

A fierce blast of wind, went whirling,

Making the cold bare forest sway,

Etched, far, against the sky’s chill grey.

With tears of despair, Ludmila

Covers all her face in horror.

Ah! What awaits her, heaven knows!

Now, through a silver door she goes,

Sweet music sounding as she enters,

She finds herself among the splendours,

Of gardens, bounded, captivating,

Finer than those owned by Armida,

Those Solomon had in his keeping,

Or our great Prince of Taurida.

Before her, they sway and rustle,

Magnificent in all their beauty,

Palm trees, laurels moving gently,

And a row of fragrant myrtle,

Proud crowns of cedars, tall and fine,

And golden orange trees in line,

Reflected where the waters shine;

The hills, the groves, the forest pine,

Revivified by spring’s new wine.

The winds of May blow cool and fresh,

Across the bright enchanted vale,

As in the branches’ trembling mesh,

There sings a Chinese nightingale;

And diamantine fountains play,

With pleasing sounds amid the grass, 

Rare statues glistening in the spray,

As if they breathe; were Phidias,

Graced by Pallas and Apollo,

To gaze upon them it must follow

His chisel would fall from his hand,

Consumed with envy he would stand.

Hemmed in by marble barriers,

Pure waterfalls descend as planned,

In pearly arcs, like crystal tears,

While some sweet plashing stream appears,

From forest shade, to soothe the land.

Shelters of peace and coolness, fair,

The brave pavilions flicker brightly,

Through the green leaves, here and there,

As blossoms fall on pathways lightly.

Yet, inconsolably, Ludmila,

Walks on and on, sees not a thing,

This conjured luxury glides by her,

She’s saddened now by everything,

Wandering the paths unknowing,

About the magic gardens going,

Such bitter tears weeping freely, 

On unforgiving skies now gazing,

With gloomy eyes. Then, suddenly,

Her gaze grows sharper; less forlorn,

To her lips she brings a finger;

It seems a dread intent is born,

The fatal path lies open to her:

Between two cliffs, both tall and sheer,

There hangs a bridge, tis set on high;

With heavy sadness she draws near;

She views the torrent flowing by,

The sounding water, cold and deep;

She sobs aloud, she beats her breast,

For death alone might bring her rest,

And yet she shrinks back from the steep,

And wanders on, her thoughts oppressed.

Soon, my beautiful Ludmila,

Longing to rest her weary feet,

Dries her tears, and looks about her,

Her heartfelt thought, a wish: to eat!

She sits upon the grass beneath her,

And suddenly, above her seat,

A canopy’s rustling shelter

Spreads a coolness and, in a trice,

Before her is a sumptuous dinner,

The gleam of crystal; some device

Brings a harp’s tones to her arbour;

The captive princess wonders greatly,

Yet all the while thinks, secretly,

‘Far from my love, a prisoner I,

Why not escape this fate, and die?

Villain, whose disastrous passion

Serves to torment, yet seeks to please,

I fear not your power, your mission;

Ludmila’s suffering she may ease!

I need no tent, no wondrous feat,

No tedious music, wine nor meat –

I shall not dine; naught shall I hear,

I’ll die, at once, without a tear!’

She thought – and then began to eat. 

The princess rose and, in a trice,

The tent, and every strange device…

Was gone; she heard the harping cease,

And, as before, all was at peace.

Ludmila, now alone once more,

Wandered on from grove to grove,

While floating in the deep azure,

The moon, the queen of night, did rove,

Below her, mist the hills did keep

The far slopes quietly covering.

The princess was inclined to sleep,

And some sudden power, arising,

Gentler than a breeze in spring,

Raised her tenderly in the air,

And to the palace then did bring

Her, laying her on her bed there.

Midst the scent of evening roses,

On that sad couch she reposes.

The three fair maids appear once more,

And fuss around her as before,

Undressing her, with movements sure.

And yet they leave a faint impression

Of a quiet reproach to fate,

That might some true heart agitate,

That’s filled with secret compassion.

But let us hasten on; the princess

Is tended to with gentle care,

Delightful in her sweet undress,

Robed in a snow-white silk affair,

She lies down, to rest her there.

Then with a sigh the maidens bow,

Wishing to leave the princess now;

Thus, they quietly close the door,

What does our captive? As before!

She trembles like a leaf, in fear;

Dares not breathe, lest ghouls appear;

Her limbs grow cold, and dim her eyes,

Sleep flies at once beyond her sight,

Yet, straining, with her gaze she tries

To pierce the darkness of the night…

She hears her heart fluttering quite…

And hesitates…the silence murmurs,

A sound of footsteps approaching,

She hides her face beneath the covers –

And instantly – what fear encroaching! –

A flare of light illuminates

The gloom with its sudden brightness,

The door flies open, there she waits;

The sound of marching feet abates;

Proud, silent Moors then, in a line,

With glittering sabres, pair by pair,

Enter decorously; they bear

A long grey beard upon the fine

Pillows that they hold; while, proudly,

A hump-backed dwarf enters, gravely,

To whom the beard’s attached; a tall

Cap clothes his head, and covers all

His shaven pate in house and hall.

The fellow now draws near the bed,

And, as he does so, lowers his head.

With this, the princess leaps at him,

Snatches the hat as he draws near,

Catches it, falling, by the rim,

And, as she does so, shrieks with fear,

Raising her hand close to his ear,

While, stunned, the Moors stir not a limb.

The dwarf he writhed, her cries to hear,

The princess turned even paler;

He raised both his hands to cover

His two ears, and turned to run,

But fell, entangled in his beard,

Rose, and then fell again; not one

Of the Moors in his wits appeared,

But running to him, where he sat,

Each gripped the sorcerer by the arm,

And, failing to retrieve the hat,

Bore him off, to seek peace and calm.

But what of our knight; our hero?

Do you, dear friends, recall the fight?

Quick, dear Orlovsky, go borrow

A pencil, sketch their duel by night!

Neath the moon’s shimmering glow,

The two fight fiercely, I may say,

Hearts full of anger, blow on blow,

Their lances now hurled far away;

Their swords are splintered from the fray;

With blood their chain-mail is spattered

Both their shields are pierced and shattered….

The brave knights grapple, by and by,

Black dust thrown high into the sky,

As their steeds themselves engage,

The combatants, twined, motionless,

Clasp each other; tis war they wage,

Yet glued to their saddles, no less,

Their limbs squeezed near to excess.

Rigid now, locked tight together,

Swift fiery blood runs through each vein,

Yet breast to breast, they toil in vain…

But both weaken now, and waver,

One soon must fall – and, suddenly,

With iron hand, our knight, tears free,

Ousts from the saddle his tired foe,

In his arms he lifts him, wholly,

And hurls him to the waves below,

‘Die then, my envious rival, go,

Drown deep!’ he cries maliciously.

You dear reader, recalled aright,

The foe brave Ruslan sought to conquer;

Twas Rogdai, eager for the fight,

The hope of Kiev, fierce admirer

Of Ludmila; that valiant knight,

Following Ruslan’s tracks before,

Had found him by the Dnieper’s shore;

Overtook him, yet his strength,

In the fight, had waned at length,

Deserted him, and midst the wave

He met his end, though bold and brave.

A beguiling mermaid grasped him;

To her chilly breast she clasped him,

While, greedily, she kissed the knight;

Downwards, laughingly, she drew him,

Then, gripping him, sank out of sight.

Yet, often, in the night, thereafter,

His vast ghost, wandering inland,

Or silent, rising from the water,

Appalled some lonely fisherman.