Each morning, as I rise from sleep,

To God I give my thanks, truly,

That in our day He seeks to keep

Us from the likes of sorcery.

And then our marriages are safe –

All honour, all glory to them! –

New-wedded husbands need not chafe,

Such dark designs won’t undo them.

Yet there are spells still, I rue them,

Other charms; there’s no debate,

That smiling lips, and eyes of blue,

And voices sweet, shall be our fate –

O, my friends! Believe them never!

Their poisons will intoxicate,

I fear them, and choose quiet, as ever.

O, Genius of Poetry,

O Bard of things visionary,

Of love’s mystery, devils, dreams;

Dweller in hell and paradise,

Of my inconstant muse, it seems,

The confidante, defence likewise;

O, Northern Orpheus, who redeems

All things in my playful story,

Forgive me still, though I aspire,

To follow you, your wayward lyre,

In sweet deceit, to win mere glory.

For have you not heard Zhukovsky

Sing, my friends, of how a villain

Sold his soul, sinning utterly,

His daughters’ souls too, one by one,

To the devil, and how through prayer,

Fasting, faith, and charity,

And true repentance, in full share,

Found a patron, wise and saintly;

How he died, how his twelve daughters

Fell, into an enchanted sleep.

What delight and fear they brought us,

Those visions rising from the deep,

Wondrous scenes, in darkest night,

Black demons, and heaven’s anger,

The sinner severed from the light,

The virgin beauty of each daughter.

We wept with them, and wandered there,

Around that castle, steeply walled,

And while they slept, could not but care

For them as they lay, still, enthralled.

On Vadim then we called in prayer,

And when the twelve awoke, the blessed,

Then to their father’s place of rest

We accompanied them, relieved.

Well then, perchance? ...we were deceived!

Shall I, alone, speak what is true?

Young Ratmir had spurred on his way,

Southwards, impatient to pursue

Before the sun was lost from view,

Ludmila, Ruslan’s bride; yet day

Now faded and the sky grew black;

He tried to pierce the mist, in vain,

Before him, that obscured his track,

And covered all the distant plain,

And veiled the river at his back,

The last light lost in gilded trees.

Past darkened cliffs he quietly goes;

He gazes round, but nowhere sees

A place to offer him repose.

But now he rides into a vale,

Espies a castle built on high,

Its towers dark above the dale;

Its battlements reach to the sky.

And on the wall a maid doth glide,

Moves like a lone swan on the tide,

Lit by the last pale twilight ray,

Her song nigh lost in some quiet bay,

Deep within the silent valley:

‘On darkening fields, the night falls swiftly;

A cold wind rises, late the hour.

Too late, young traveller, to journey!

Take welcome refuge in our tower.

By day we feast, and we make merry;

All is true bliss and peace by night.

Come then, and join us, here alight,

Come, young traveller, with us tarry!

Here, you’ll find there’s many a beauty;

Sweet gentle speech, and kisses bright.

Come now, ascend the secret height,

Come, young traveller, with us tarry!

For you, at dawn, we’ll drink a bevvy;

A cup of wine, ere you take flight.

Come now, ascend the tranquil height,

Come, young traveller, with us tarry!

On darkening fields, the night falls swiftly;

A cold wind rises, late the hour.

Too late, young traveller, to journey!

Take welcome refuge in our tower.’

She beckons to him, ever-singing;

The warrior rides beneath the wall:

To the gate her singing brings him,

Fair maidens greet him, blushing all.

Gentle voices rise about him,

He’s surrounded, cannot stray,

Captivating glances bind him;

And now his steed is led away.

The young man enters the palace,

The swarm of hermitesses passes

Round him, one his helm removes,

One his armour, another proves

Quite equal to his sword and shield;

Now his steel cladding for the field,

Must be replaced with lighter clothing.

But first the warrior is led

To a Russian bath, all steaming.

From silver tubs the water’s fed,

Vaporous waves softly plashing,

And cooler founts gently splashing.

Rich rugs parade their luxury;

The warrior lies down to rest,

With all their subtle warmth he’s blessed,

While, with gaze lowered, silently,

Each charming, and half-naked maid

Ministers to him, tenderly,

All crowd around him, grant their aid,

Plying sweet service, gracefully.

For over him one maiden waves

Birch branches, from which the vapour

Draws a fragrance; another laves

The knight’s weary limbs, all over,

With dew culled from spring’s fresh roses,

Cooling them; while her work closes

With perfuming his curly hair.

And Ratmir, filled with pure delight,

Forgets Ludmila, lost to sight,

And all her wished-for beauty, there;

He languishes, in sweet desire,

His roving glance more brightly glows,

He melts with longing, heart afire,

And, filled with expectation, glows.

Soon, from his bathing, brave Ratmir,

Now dressed in velvets, doth appear,

And to a rich feast sits him down,

The lovely maids all gathered round.

No Homer, I; in sounding verse,

He sang of warriors, hardy souls,

Their splendid banquets did rehearse,

The chiming cups, the foaming bowls.

A follower of Parny, I,

Would rather praise, with careless lyre,

Bare shoulders in the night, a sigh,

A loving kiss, its tender fire!

Lit by the moon the fortress towers;

I see a distant chamber; there,

His lonely dreams his only fare,

Our knight now sleeps away the hours;

His brow, his cheek, are all aflame,

His lips half-parted, yield deep sighs,

As if sweet kisses he would claim,

While gazing into loving eyes.

Low moans oft from his lips depart,

And, as if in dream, he tightly

Presses the covers to his heart,

While the clear moon glitters brightly;

And in deep silence, now, the door

Creaks open, and across the floor

A maid is passing– gliding lightly,

Gleaming, in the gentle moonlight.

Begone winged dreams, fly from his brow!

Wake Ratmir, for your time is now!

Waste not the precious hours of night!...

She draws near; outspread he lies,

Slumbering in voluptuous bliss;

The quilt slips down, he moans and sighs,

His brow the covers hotly kiss.

Breathless, unmoving, she, like one

Both pure and chaste, seemingly

An Artemis, stands silently,

Gazing on her Endymion;

Yet on the bed she sets a knee,

Then leaning o’er the sleeping one,

And trembling inwardly, with this

Bows down her face and thus, I deem,

With a mute and passionate kiss,

Wakes the warrior from his dream…

But now the virgin lyre, my friends,

Has fallen silent in my hands;

Its tune Ratmir no more commands –

My timid voice, grown weaker, ends,

A song I dare no longer sing:

Ruslan to mind we here should bring,

Ruslan, the peerless, and the true,

Hero, and faithful lover too.

Full wearied by that stubborn fight,

Beneath the Head he lies, asleep,

And sweet it was to rest that night.

Yet early dawn now fills the deep

And glowing heavens with its light.

Clear is the air; a playful ray

Gilds his locks and brow with gold,

Ruslan rises, mounts; on its way

His steed darts, eager now, and bold.

And time runs on; it’s harvest day;

Soon yellow leaves fall from the trees,

In woods, the chilling autumn breeze

Has silenced the birds, completely.

And heavy clouds of sombre mist

Along the chill vales wind, discreetly;

Winter is near, the bare hills kissed

With cold, while our Ruslan, bravely,

Continues on his northward track,

And meets with obstacles at every

Pace; hurls some hero on his back;

With some witch or giant must fight;

And sees, as in enchanted dream,

Veiled by the mist, the subtle gleam

Among the trees, one moonlit night,

Of mermaids in the branches swaying,

Each, on her lips, a subtle smile,

Beckoning slyly to him, saying,

To him, not one word the while…

And yet no secret charms could win him,

Desire slumbered deep within him;

None such can harm the fearless knight,

He heeds them not, he seeks the light,

Ludmila, everywhere, is with him.

She, still invisible, meanwhile,

Protected by the magic hat,

And free of the sorcerer’s vile

Advances, dreams of this and that.

As silent, sad, our fair Ludmila,

Walks the gardens, she, as ever,

Longs for her love, and heaves a sigh,

Or thinks of Kiev’s fields afar,

To which her lonely heart would fly;

Her father, brothers, to mind’s eye,

She brings, and wonders how they are,

And her old nurse, and naught can mar

Such thoughts – forgot captivity,

And separation! Yet we see,

Her soon reverting from illusion,

And then our fair princess we own,

Is once again mired in confusion,

Wandering, silent and alone.

Meanwhile the lovesick sorcerer’s men,

Search all the day, and search again,

Throughout the castle and the park,

Looking for the lovely captive;

Afraid to rest, or prove inactive,

Yet seek in vain, until the dark.

Ludmila merely toyed with them.

In some faery grove they’d see her,

For, hatless, she’d appear to them.

A cry of ‘Here! Here!’ she’d utter,

And they’d race after her, en masse.

But then – invisible once more –

On silent feet, their ranks she’d pass,

And flee them, as she had before.

Hour after hour, they would find

Traces of her errant wandering:

Plucked from out the branches’ rustling,

The golden fruits she’d leave behind,

They’d hear the stream’s water tinkling,

Or note crushed grasses, where she’d dined:

And knew then, how she drank and ate,

Midst birch groves, or neath some cedar;

To shelter, nightly, was her fate,

While tears expressed her sorry state –

Calling to her spouse, Ludmila

Languished ever, yawning sadly,

And rarely before dawn, rarely,

Leaning her head against a tree,

She’d doze a little, and be free

Of woe and weariness; yet she,

Ere darkness fled, and it grew light,

Made for the water, falling bright

From some high place, to bathe her eyes:

And, once, the dwarf, to his surprise,

Seated, early, at his window,

Observed a spray of water rise

As if flung from the fall below,

By unseen hand, towards the skies.

Until nightfall, now here, now there,

Ludmila wandered, full of care,

Through the gardens, in her longing,

And oft they’d hear the rise and fall,

Of her sweet voice, in the evening,

Gather threads from a Persian shawl,

Or some fair garland of her making,

Or a tear-stained handkerchief, all

But the fair one they were seeking.

Choked with anger and frustration,

Tormented by his jealous passion,

The sorcerer devised a plan;

To catch Ludmila was his mission.

So, the lame blacksmith, Vulcan,

Fair Aphrodite’s spouse, began

To forge a net, his wife to snare,

And to the gods’ mocking laughter

Exposed her gentle form as, after

Her deeds with Mars, she rested there…

One day the princess, sat quietly,

Within a marble gazebo,

Suffering from ennui, full weary,

Gazing on the flowering meadow,

As the branches gently swayed.

Suddenly, she hears, the maid,

A voice calling out: ‘Dear friend!’

And sees the faithful Ruslan nigh,

His face, his form, yet dim his eye,

And pale his face, blood doth descend

From his pierced thigh. ‘Tis you, Ruslan!’

She cries, heart fluttering, and lo,

Flies to him, like some swift arrow.

Here…bleeding…all pale and wan?’

Reaching him, she clasps him tight

Yet finds…the vision vanishes!

Horror! Tis but some ghostly knight,

And she ensnared in silken meshes.

The hat has fallen from her brow;

‘She’s mine!’ the cry; he sees her now,

The sorcerer, stands, before her eyes.

She falls, quite senseless, to the ground,

And yet a dream comes to surround

The maid, within its wings she lies.

What fate attends on our princess!

O, dreadful sight, the dwarf it seems

With brazen hand seeks to caress

Ludmila’s charms, the while she dreams!

Is he to know the taste of bliss?

Yet, high, some horn rings out…at this

He turns; a challenge then? With dread

The sorcerer pales; confused, once more

He sets the hat upon her head;

The horn sounds, louder than before!

And, shouldering his beard, he goes,

To meet, it seems, with unknown foes.

Ah! How sweet is my princess!

The maid I like the best of all;

Sensitive, modest to excess,

And to her marriage vows no less

True; capricious? – not to recall,

Just sweeter for her liveliness.

She knows how to win us, truly,

Enchants us with her charm, alway;

Must one not contrast that, hourly,

With our Delfira’s harshness, say?

The first the lovely gift was sent

Of so delighting hearts and eyes;

Her speech, her smile, both realise

In me love’s passion and intent;

While, for spurs and whiskers meant,

The latter’s a Hussar in disguise!      

Blessed the lover who at evening

Finds a fair Ludmila waiting,

Naming him her heart’s true friend;

Yet twice-blessed he who, in the end,

Shuns Delfira, swiftly fleeing,

And far from her his way does wend;

While best of all is not to meet her.

Yet – naught of this is to the matter!

Who’s trumpet call is it that sounds;

Who challenges the dwarf to fight?

Who’s dealt that sorcerer a fright?

Ruslan, it is, whose call resounds,

Echoing through the castle grounds;

Beneath the battlements he waits,

The horn much like a storm doth blow,

His steed is champing, at the gates,

And with its hooves it churns the snow.

The prince is poised yet, suddenly,

A thunderous blow strikes his steel helm,

Dealt by some hand, invisibly,

Destined to well-nigh overwhelm;

Ruslan half-stunned, lifts up his head,

And spies a mace above, on high –

For Chernomor soars through the sky;

The dwarf indeed would see him dead.

Ruslan crouches, thrusts up his shield,

Waves his sharp sword, and scorns to yield;

The dwarf flies upward to the clouds,

Vanishes there among mist-shrouds,

Then plunges at the prince once more.

Yet Ruslan, with his sweeping blade,

Strikes the sorcerer to the floor;

Dismounts, the blow received, repaid,

And runs to grasp him by the beard;

The sorcerer struggles, groans, and then

With Ruslan clutching him, tis feared –

The steed bemused – flies off again;

Into the clouds the dwarf soars still;

The hero’s borne, beyond his ken, 

Over the mountains bare and chill,

Grasping the beard hard, with a will,

His arms aching, interminably;

Over the gloomy forest, high,

Over the mountain range they fly,

Over the dark depths of the sea,

Ruslan clinging, as they speed by.

Weakening, awed by Ruslan’s strength,

The dwarf turns, slyly, to Ruslan,

‘Prince, I’ll harm you not!’ at length,

He cries: ‘Honour to you, brave man!

I’ll forgive you, your blow forget,

And so, descend, though we’re ill met,

Though upon one condition only…’

‘Silence, sorcerer!’ cried the knight,

‘Ruslan deals not with wizardry,

With one whom torment yields delight.

Never will there be contract made!

The thief must fall to my steel blade.

Up to the stars, go soar in flight,

Yet lose your beard to darkest night!’

The sorcerer feels his courage fade,

With silent sorrow, deep frustration,

He tugs his beard in consternation,

Trying to win his freedom so:

But Ruslan will not let him go,

Teasing and tweaking, with elation.

Two whole days the dwarf flies, slowly,

And on the third he cries for mercy:

‘Oh, sir knight, but show compassion,

For I can scarcely breathe: no more,

My life is yours; my fate is sure;

I will descend where’er you say.’

‘Ah, you tremble! With scant delay,

Submit yourself to my command!

My fair Ludmila I demand.’

And Chernomor, humbly, obeys;

He sets off homewards with the knight;

And, in an instant, they have sight

Of his dread fortress through the haze.

There Ruslan took his sword in hand,

And with his free hand grasped the beard,

And much like grass in meadow-land,

Clean through the length of hair he sheared.

‘There now!’ he cried, dismissively,

‘Where, thief, is all your beauty? Gone,

With all your powers!’ Then, securely,

His helm he tied the beard upon;

And whistling, he called up his steed;

The horse flew to him, magically,

The sorcerer, half-dead indeed,

He thrust in a sack, cheerfully,

And fearing to waste a moment, soared

Through the air to the mountain-top,

And, with the dwarf secure aboard,

Into the palace, and there did stop.

Spying the beard, upon his helmet,

To mark his victory, proudly set,

The crowds of Moors that he now met,

The throngs of slave-girls, fled away,

From hall to mighty hall he strode,

Called ‘Ludmila!’, from bay to bay,

Seeking his spouse in that abode;

Hearing naught there but the echo

Of his voice, from empty reaches,

That never a trace of her bestow;

His eagerness scant patience teaches.

He enters the garden by a door –

Gazes around, but finds her not,

Anxious, determined but unsure –

All seems dead, mute every spot,

Silent groves and chill gazebo,

The river banks, its placid flow,

In meadow, valley, no Ludmila,

No sign, no sound of her, ever.

The prince, seized as if by fever,

Feels a chill, his eyes grow duller,

In his mind dark thoughts arise:

‘Grief…captivity,’ he sighs,

‘A moment… the water there…’

Sad fancies, and he bows his head,

In silent longing, filled with dread,

Still as a stone; while woe and care

Consume his mind, his heart on fire,

Tormented by despair, desire.

The shade it seems of his princess

Clings to him, and seeks his kiss…

And in his passion’s wild excess,

He rages round the park, at this,

Cries out, to Ludmila calling,

Great rocks from the hillside falling,

As he attacks them with his sword;

Cracks the gazebo, fells the trees,

Sends the bridges crashing downward,

And turns to wastes the shrubberies!

Far off the echoes ring abroad,

As thunderous noises fill the breeze;

Eagerly, he seeks a victim,

Swings right and left to land a blow –

When suddenly there before him,

Ludmila lies; by flailing so

He’s knocked the hat quite off her brow…

No more invisible, she’s there,

Chernomor’s cap dislodged somehow,

And in full sight the young and fair…

Vanished is all her magic power,

Dispelled by the hero of the hour!

He’s freed Ludmila from the snare,

And, scarce believing his own eyes,

Intoxicated, joy his share,

Falls at her feet, in sheer surprise;

He tears the net, you may depend,

From his most true and faithful friend,

With tears of love, to her doth bend;

And yet the maid seems to slumber,

Her eyes and lips sealed together,

Some secret dream doth her attend.

Fixed is Ruslan’s gaze, his fears

Torment him, rooted to the spot…

When suddenly a voice he hears

The Finn’s voice comes, to ease his lot:

‘Take heart, dear prince! Be on your way,

Bear home the sleeping Ludmila;

Strength of heart be your mainstay,

Be faithful now to love and honour.

For Heaven’s righteous bolt will fall,

Peace shall reign, and love shall bless –

In shining Kiev, your princess

Will rise from sleep, no more in thrall

To her strange dream; so ends distress.’

Ruslan, in happier frame of mind,

In his arms now takes his bride,

Leaves the heights, and goes to find

His steed, and then prepares to ride

And leave the fortress far behind.

With the dwarf in his sack, they go

Down to the valley-floor below;

There in his arms Ludmila lies,

Fresh of face, as the dawn in spring,

Her braid coiled in a golden ring,

On the hero’s shoulder, she sighs,

As through her hair the breezes stray,

A soft glow o’er her cheeks doth play

A rose she seems, to Ruslan’s eyes.

How oft, as he rides on his way,

Her breast heaves, in her deep slumber!

How oft she breathes her lover’s name,

Murmuring in a languid whisper!

Love, and her dreaming, bring that same

Image to her… and, as she sleeps,

He feels her breathe, he sees her smile,

Or her blind tears flow as she weeps,

While he rides on, mile after mile…

Along each vale, o’er mountain height,

He journeys on, both day and night;

Ne’er halting, to his road he keeps.

And does the young prince, languishing,

Aflame with unassuaged desire,

And in great torment, never tire

Of his role, in closely guarding

His slumbering princess like this;

But smothering his deep longing,

Rests content, chastely dreaming,

And in that only seeks his bliss?

So, the wise monk writes, when telling

The story of our prince, and his

Has proved the text that kept alight

The legend of our noble knight:

And I believe it; love unshared

Is merely passion, dull, impaired:

In mutual pleasure lies delight.

When languid spring the heart enthralled,

Your sleep did not, fair shepherdesses,

Resemble those of our princess’s…

As on one evening, now recalled,

My lovely Lida, slyly scheming,

Beneath a birch tree, in the glade,

Seemed untroubled in her dreaming,

At rest within the forest’s shade…

Ah, that first kiss of love, conveyed,

So shyly, lightly, shall not fade;

So gentle it broke not her dream,

So placid did her slumber seem…

What nonsense; it exists no more!

Why seek such love to remember?

Of joy and sorrow, but an ember

Glows, of what died long before.

And I must seek – in its December –

Ruslan, his bride, and Chernomor.

The steppe stretches out around them,

Where clumps of spruce trees appear;

And there’s a tall mound standing clear,

With darkened summit, before them,

Outlined against the bright blue sky.

Ruslan sees now, there sits the Head;

His steed, with greyhound’s pace, draws nigh;

The wonder of wonders seems dead,

Yet looks on them with silent gaze,

A forest of black hair hangs o’er

The mighty brow, a tangled maze,

The face is lifeless, charms no more,

Tis pallid, like a lump of lead;

Vast lips apart, as if in dread,

Huge teeth set in a fleshy bed…

While over that near-cadaver,

The judgement hour already looms.

Ruslan flies to it, with Ludmila,

While at his back the dwarf still fumes.

‘Noble Head, all hail!’ he cries,

I return, and bring the traitor!

The miscreant’s our prisoner!

With this, the Head revivifies;

Ruslan’s cry has roused a feeling

Now it wakes, as if from dreaming;

The Head looks all about, and groans,

Sighs, loudly, in its dreadful woe….

On seeing the proud knight, it moans,

And spies its brother there also.

Its nostrils flare, a crimson hue

Spreads o’er its cheeks, and from the eyes

A flame of fiery anger too,

Beams out its fury to the skies.

With gnashing teeth, to its brother

In language harsh, and icy cold,

A fierce reproach it seeks to utter,

As if some passing-bell has tolled…

Suddenly, its speech seems fainter,

The face grows pale, the eyeballs roll:

Soon now it will no longer suffer,

For death frees that tormented soul…

And then the prince, and Chernomor,

See it shudder; it breathes no more,

Extinguished like some fading coal.

The Head remains there, unmoving.

The knight rides silently away;

The dwarf, behind the saddle, trembling,

And clinging there as best he may,

While, in some vile tongue, invoking

The demons to whom sorcerers pray.

On the sloping, shaded margin

Of some nameless little river,

Amidst the pine-trees, dark within,

And sheltering in a glade therein,

A hut stood; there slow-moving water,

Bathed its reed fence, while the breeze

Made scarce a murmur through the trees;

A place of calmness, solitary

In aspect, yet not melancholy,

Built some unknown soul to please.

The place its secrecy maintained,

The forest round it dark and deep,

As if a silence bound to keep

That from the world’s creation reigned.

Ruslan halted there, close by it.

It was the very dawn of day;

The valley, glowing in the quiet,

Amidst the mists of morning lay.

He set the princess on the grass,

He sat beside here then, and sighed,

In deep despondency, alas,

Yet sweet hope lingered there, inside.

When, suddenly, he saw sailing,

Down the quietly-flowing river,

A boat, while the sound of singing

Floated to him on the water.

His net upon the surface cast,

A fisherman leaned on his oar,

Back to his hut he came at last,

And landed on the wooded shore.

There, a young maid ran outside;

The prince observed her, silently,

Quite captivating, sweet was she,

Nor sought her smiling face to hide;

Admired her loosely hanging hair,

Her slender form; her smiling gaze,

Her neck, and both her shoulders bare,

Her beauty such as garners praise.

The pair met again with pleasure,

And sat beside the cool water,

Bent upon an hour of leisure,

Deep in love with one another.

Yet who has our brave Ruslan,

Recognised in this fisherman?

Who then is he, the happy lover?

Tis Ratmir, one born for glory,

For great deeds retold in story,

In love and war his rival; he

Had yet found new serenity,

Ludmila, glory, both forgot,

A calm existence now his lot,

Embracing his love, tenderly.

The prince approached them, while Ratmir

On seeing Ruslan, gave a cry,

Welcoming him, as he drew near…

And Ruslan clasped him; eye to eye,

‘What do I witness here? he sighed,

‘Why have you quit the warrior life,

The sword that you once glorified?’

‘Enough, my friend, enough of strife,’

Ratmir replied, ‘my soul is weary

Of fame and glory, and the fight,

Such are phantoms, vain and empty,

Mere ghosts that cannot bear the light.

Love is the glory that shines bright,

And peace proves dearer to the heart.

No more athirst for war’s madness.

Rich in my new-found happiness,

Why from these oak-woods should I part?

All else I have put by forever,

Even my longing for Ludmila.’

‘I’m glad of that, my good Ratmir,

For Ludmila I’ve brought with me.’

‘Is it so? Then good news I hear,

And you have set the princess free…

And she is with you? Where is she?

May I? – Yet, no, I’ll not betray

My friend, who proves so very dear,

For she’s the one who, day by day,

Transforms me, as you see here.

She is my life, my joy, my truth!

True love she has revived in me,

Restored to me my long-lost youth,

Granted me peace, and certainty.

For I was promised happiness,

By twelve fair maidens, all in vain;

Twelve sirens, each a sorceress,

Who offered me what brought but pain;

For her, I quit their fortress ward,

Guarded by oak-trees, and forgot

Battle and glory, helm and sword,

Chose love and peace, here, as my lot.

A recluse, tranquil and unknown,

I dwell, delight my only goal,

Beside my friend, my love, my own,

Who is the light, now, of my soul!’

The sweet shepherdess made no move,

But listened quietly at his side;

She smiled sweetly, or she sighed,

Fixing her gaze upon her love.

There, the fisherman and the knight,

Their hearts and souls upon their lips,

Sat, on the shore, while it was light –

Till night achieved the day’s eclipse.

Dark grew the woods below the hill;

Time for our hero to depart!

The moon arose, and all was still;

Cloaking the maiden, his dear heart,

As she slept, in a robe, Ruslan,

Went to mount his faithful steed;

Ratmir followed; a thoughtful man

Silent, preoccupied indeed,

Yet wishing the prince victory,

Love, and glory, and happiness…

Recalling, involuntarily,

His proud youth, with quiet sadness.

Why has destiny not fated

My fickle lyre only to sing

Of fine deeds, to things (outdated),

To love, to friendship music bring?

Why, poet of sad truth, must I

Sing vice, and malice, with a sigh,

For future generations tell

Of secret doings, and rehearse

The treachery that now befell,

Our noble pair, in truthful verse?

Farlaf, still seeking the princess,

Though of her love all unworthy,

Having lost his chance at glory,

Hid, waiting for the sorceress;

And in a solemn hour she came,

Naina, yes, that very same,

That seer who some foul witch begat,

Crying: ‘You must know me, surely?

Saddle a horse, then; follow me!’

And then…she turned into a cat;

The horse was saddled; just like that,

Off she went; he followed closely,

Through the oak-woods, deep and gloomy.

Veiled by clouds of mist, the valley

Slumbered quietly, in the night,

While the moon slid, silently,

From cloud to cloud, then cast its light

On a hill, thus, brilliantly,

Illuminating it, outright,

While, beneath it, Ruslan, sitting,

Troubled by his endless longing,

Kept vigil o’er his sleeping bride.

There he pondered, deep in thought,

Dreams on dreams, a rising tide,

Flowing through him, all unsought,

As cool wings above him brought

Slumber; soon his eyes grew dim,

Till, at the maiden’s feet, falling,

Sleep, in an instant, conquered him.

Now a sinister dream he dreams:

Within it, sees that bride of his,

Pale and motionless; she seems,

Poised on the brink of an abyss…

When, suddenly, she vanishes,

He stands alone above the deep…

But, then, a voice – tis hers no less,

Calls, seeking aid… and in his sleep,

He plunges, careless of his life;

Into the dark, pursues his wife…

But then, recovering from his fall,

Sees Vladimir, in his great hall,

Surrounded by his grey-haired knights,

With his twelve sons, seated by him,

And a crowd of guests, as he alights,

At phantom tables, dining nigh him.

Yet the old prince is full of ire,

As full as on that day of parting,

And all sit silent, round their sire,

And not a one of them is moving.

No cheerful noise, none are at ease,

No bowl from which to drink anew…

While there, among the guests, he sees, 

The face of Rogdai, whom he slew,

Drinking from a frothing cup;

As if alive, he sits; the dead man,

Cheerful, quaffing, ne’er looks up,

To meet the stunned gaze of Ruslan.

And Ratmir’s there, midst friends and foes;

The voice of Bayan rising, clear,

Accompanied by the zither, flows,

Chanting of heroes and good cheer.

Now Farlaf enters, with Ludmila,

The old man chooses not to stand,

But bows his head, sadly, to her;

Princes, boyars, on either hand,

All of that noble crowd, are silent;

Then, all vanishes, they are gone!

A mortal cold, in an instant,

Grips the prince, who yet sleeps on.

Sad tears he sheds, weeps bitterly;

He stirs: thinks, then, that he but dreams!

Yet languishes, tormented clearly;

And, still, he cannot break, it seems,

The spell that holds him, securely.

A pallid moon lights the mountain;

The trees are embraced by darkness,

Pure silence grips the vale, again…

Farlaf, the traitor, makes his ingress.

There, lies an open patch of ground,

His fearful heart now skips a beat,

He sees, ahead, the gloomy mound,

Ruslan asleep, at Ludmila’s feet,

The prince’s steed circling round.

The witch has vanished in the mist,

His fearful heart begins to pound.

The bridle falls from his slack fist,

And yet he quietly draws his blade,

As he prepares to slay the knight,

With but the one blow, shrewdly made…

He rides closer, but scent and sight,

Rouse the charger; its enemy

It senses, stamps, yet all in vain!

Ruslan hears naught; the dream, tis plain,

Still weighs upon him, dreadfully!...

Stirred by the witch to seek his gain,

Farlaf now plunges the cold steel,

Three times into our hero’s breast…

And with the spoils of his ill quest,

Away, into the dark, doth wheel.

Beneath the mountain, till dawn-light,

Ruslan lay there, insensible.

The hours passed, an endless trickle

Of blood flowed from the wounded knight.

Yet, at day-break, he woke in pain,

When, uttering a heavy groan,

He tried to rise; but flesh and bone

Proving unequal to the strain,

Like one who’s dead, lay still again.

You tell me, oh, my gentle friend,

To tune my light and carefree lyre,

Take up the story, for your pleasure,

And my priceless hours of leisure

Devote now to the faithful Muse…

And yet you well know that I choose,

Quite drunk on bliss now, to forget

Those barbs that forced me to defend

My toil, not seek the tale to end,

Though the fond notes linger yet.

Intoxicated with delight,

I’ve lost the habit; for tis you

For whom I breathe, tis you, my light,

And glory I no longer woo!

The hidden fires of genius,

Invention, and sweet thought, have died,

Love and pleasure now are, thus,

The dreams that in my mind reside.

But you who loved my little story,

You command me now, as ever,

Relishing both love and glory,

My Ruslan, and my Ludmila,

Vladimir, and Chernomor,

Naina, and the faithful Finn, 

All who sought your ear to win;

Though, listening, as I held the floor,

You sometimes dozed, with a smile,

As o’er the words I would linger,

Yet oft, most tenderly, awhile,

I found your gaze dwelt on the singer…

Enamoured, I’ll take up the idle

Strings, and, seated at your feet,

Give a slight tug to the bridle,

And our young hero’s tale complete.

Yet what say I? Where is Ruslan?

Sprawled, as if dead, on the field.

His blood congealed where it ran,

While the crows, above him, wheeled.

The armour’s still, the horn calls not,

The crested helm lies there forgot!

Yet round the prince, still, stride by stride,

His charger goes, bowed low his head,

The proud fire in his eyes has died,

His golden mane seems dull as lead!

He waits for his master to arise,

Spiritless, his circling slow;

But in chill sleep our Ruslan lies,

His sword and shield, as yet laid low.

And Chernomor? He’s in the sack,

Forgotten by the witch, Naina,

Still strapped there to the charger’s back,

Knowing naught, and even meaner

Than before; both bored and angry;

Cursing the prince and his princess,

Hearing naught, he peeks out, slyly,

To find – a miracle no less!

He sees the hero lying dead;

A pool of blood beneath his head;

Ludmila gone, the vista empty,

And quivers now with joy, instead,

And thinks it’s over, and he’s free!

And yet he’s wrong as we shall find.

Meanwhile, aided by Naina,

With the slumbering Ludmila,

Farlaf rides on, Kiev in mind:

His heart is full of hope and fear,

Ahead the Dnieper, cold and clear,

Flows through its familiar fields,

He spies the golden-domed city,

Soon the gate an entrance yields;

The people cheer him, joyfully,

And their Ludmila, whom he shields;

They run to tell Prince Vladimir,

That, all unknown, our traitor’s here.

Meanwhile, the Bright Sun, Vladimir,

Sat brooding on his vanished dear,

His spirits neath a heavy pall,

In his great mansion, languishing,

His knights and boyars, nobles all,

Gloomily, about him, sitting.

When, suddenly, he hears loud cries,

A wondrous din, the door’s flung wide,

A knight appears, the nobles rise,

Murmuring at the noise outside.

And then there is confusion merely:

‘Ludmila here! And Farlaf…truly?’

The old Prince rises from his chair,

With altered face; he sees her there,

And, treading heavily, makes haste

To embrace his troubled daughter,

Seeks to kiss the young and chaste

Maid, tenderly, that doting father.

And yet the maiden pays no heed,

Clasped in traitorous arms, indeed,

Lost in enchanted sleep, she lies,

As at the aged Prince, they gaze

While restless and confused, he sighs,

And stares at the knight, in a daze.

Finger to his lips pressed, slyly

‘She’s asleep.’ – Farlaf, the wily,

Says – ‘Not long ago I found her,

Near Murom, in the forest waste;

The evil goblin there I faced,

Who as his captive had bound her;

Long we fought, for thrice the moon

Above the battlefield rose, bright;

The goblin fell, and in her swoon

I bore the princess from the fight;

And who shall rouse her from her dreams?

And when shall this fair sleeper wake?

Who knows? – Fate’s laws lie hid, it seems!

Yet consolation we should take

From hope; be patient, for her sake.’

At once, the fateful rumour flies

Throughout the halls and, everywhere,

Folk gather swiftly, in surprise,

Till seething crowds o’er-flow the square;

The house of grief throws wide its doors

To all, through which that throng now pours,

To where the princess lies, asleep,

On her high bed of rich brocade;

The princes and the knights, ranked deep,

Surround the place, and guard the maid.

They show their sadness; trumpets sound,

Tambourines, horns, harps; drums pound;

The old Prince weeps, and clasps her feet,

While Farlaf, mute, white as a sheet,

Trembling, silently repentant,

His brashness now anxiety,

Is likewise on the maid attendant.

Night fell, but none in the city

Closed an eye, for one and all

Gathered together, talked about

All that had happened in the hall,

Wives forgotten, the men without.

But when the horned moon on high

Sank, and vanished from the sky,

All Kiev stirred; then many a cry

Rang out, a clang of arms; they fly

To the walls; there Kiev gazes…

Tents gleaming in the field, they spy,

Beyond the river’s sunlit hazes,

Shields, lances, armour brightly shine,

Far off, more riders, line on line

Of carts raise black dust in the air,

No sign of fresh assault is lacking;

All this is scarce a new affair –

The Turkic Pechenegs attacking!

Meanwhile the mighty seer, the Finn,

Who o’er the spirits power could win,

Midst the wastes, awaited, quietly,

The day that he had long foreseen,

When fate would bring, inevitably,

All that must flow from what had been.

Deep in the steppe’s parched wilderness,

Beyond the farthest mountain chain,

Home of the winds’ wild blusteriness,

Where the sorcerer’s gaze shall gain,

Though late the hour, no entrance there,

There lies a wondrous vale; a pair

Of rock-born springs, it boasts: the one

Leaps o’er the stones, a living thing,

Gone splashing down the dale, in fun,

The other’s waters dead, scarce flowing;

All’s quiet around, the winds asleep,

Absent that chill breeze of the spring,

The ranks of pine-trees silence keep;

No bird flies, no deer stands drinking.

Here, two spirits have their dwelling,

At the very heart of stillness,

Guardians of the wilderness,

Present since the world’s beginning…

The hermit now before them stands,

Two empty pitchers in his hands;

Their trance is broken and, in fear,

They flee the place, disturb their dream;

He, stooping to the waters, clear,

Dips each jar in a different stream,

And then has vanished in thin air,

But, in an instant more, is stood

Where Ruslan in the valley there,

Lies still and silent, bathed in blood;

The aged seer bends o’er the knight,

Laves him with the dead stream’s flow,

The prince’s flesh, healed, shines with light,

His body yields a wondrous glow.

Then, upon the wounded hero,

He sprinkles the living water,

And Ruslan rises, full of vigour;

New life is his, fresh strength; and, lo!

He looks clear-eyed upon the day;

Vanishing, like an evil dream,

The past disperses on its way,

A cloud’s brief shadow on the stream.

Yet where’s Ludmila? He’s alone!

A tremor of fear runs through him.

A voice, in a familiar tone,

That of the Finn, carries to him:

‘Your fate will be as I have shown!

Bliss is in store for you, my son.

Though first your sword must strike the foe,

For, now, a blood-stained feast awaits;

Yet you shall find your love, e’en so

And peace shall crown fair Kiev’s gates;

Touch this ring to her brow, and lo!

You’ll free her from the evil spell;

At sight of you your foes will fear,

Malice and wrath shall disappear,

All dark intrigue you will dispel,

Malice will die, and peace shall bless.

Prove worthy, both, of happiness!

Farewell brave knight for many a day!

Beyond the grave…your hand I press…

We two shall meet again, I pray!’

Intoxicated with delight,

Ruslan now feels restored to life,

Stretching his arms out, to the light,

Yet sees no sign there of his wife.

Not one trace does the wasteland yield!

He stands alone, on the empty field,

But for his steed, that rears and neighs,

With the dwarf behind, in his sack;

Ruslan soon leaps astride its back,

Ready for action, fit to blaze–

No faith or effort shall he lack –

Through fields and oak-woods, on his track.

What meanwhile of Kiev the Fair,

Besieged, and under savage threat?

Folk now crowd the battlements there,

Upon the field their gaze is set;

Despondently, they must await,

Heaven’s judgement upon them all;

The rest, within, bemoan their fate,

Silent the streets; no cry or call.

Vladimir, in sorrowful prayer,

Kneels beside his sleeping daughter,

While his brave warriors prepare,

To meet the foe, and seek their share

Of noble deeds, amidst the slaughter.

The dawn light shines; the enemy

Pour from the high hills, endlessly;

In force, they cross the silent plain,

Faster with every yard they gain,

And flow towards fair Kiev’s wall;

The trumpets sound the battle-cry;

Out of the gates brave horsemen fly;

Towards the foe speed one and all,

Ready to conquer or to fall.

Now scenting death, the chargers rear,

Bright swords beat on steel battle-gear;

While, through the air, fierce arrows hum;

The field runs red; yet on they come!

The riders rush to meet, headlong,

Then tangle, in one furious throng;

Here, straight towards the foe men steer;

There, breaking ranks, fall back in fear;

Some knight on foot unseats a rider;

Through the field runs his lone charger:

The noise of battle fills the sky;

Here Pechenegs, there Russians die;

Now toppled by an iron mace,

Struck now by a steel dart in the face;

Crushed by a shield, a broken reed,

Or trampled by some maddened steed…

They fought until the fall of night;

Yet neither side met with defeat!

Men slept – none now could keep his feet –

Beside the corpses from the fight;

And long their sleep; though oft a groan

Arose, from where the dying lay;

While now some foe was heard to moan,

And now some Russian voice to pray.

But daybreak turned the shadows paler;

Cold dawn crept doubtful, from the east,

Turning the waves to flowing silver,

As through the mist, the light increased.

The hills and forests brightened then,

The heavens woke; yet not those men,

All motionless, immersed in sleep,

The ranks at rest, the silence deep.

When, suddenly, the dream broken,

The warriors now rudely woken,

The enemy stirred, in wild alarm,

As a fierce battle-cry rang out,

Swiftly re-arming, at the shout;

Here was some foe to do them harm;

In a jostling crowd, the Kievites too,

Gathered quickly, and sought a view

Of the battlefield between them,

And saw a knight wreaking mayhem,

In shining armour, as if ablaze,

Darting here, there, amidst the haze;

From his charger, slashing, stabbing,

Trampling the host, his horn blowing…

Ruslan it was, like God’s lightning,

Striking the infidels, on sight,

The dwarf, in his sack, benighting,

As the enemy camp took fright.

Wherever his bright sword alights,

Wherever his charger passes by,

He slays whoever’s in his sights,

Heads part from shoulders, and men die.

Soon, with a shout, the ranks engage,

And, in the blink, now, of an eye

Heaps of blood-stained bodies lie

On the trampled field’s gory stage,

Headless dead and wounded living,

Spears, arrows, mail; the trumpets sound,

The Russian horsemen come flying,

The Pechenegs can but give ground!

Summoning their scattered horses,

Facing disaster now, their forces

Powerless against this Slavic foe,

The savage raiders turn and flee,

Before the remorseless enemy,

Who deal them blow on fearful blow,

Sending them to the fires of hell;

Kiev rejoices…straight to the city,

Now conqueror of the infidel,

Waving the sword of victory,

Our hero rides, with gleaming lance,

And bloodied mail; as he speeds by,

His shining helm draws every glance –

Chernomor’s beard waves there, on high;

On wings of hope, he flies along

Through noisy crowds, to the Prince’s hall.

Revived by the excited throng,

And filled with joy, amidst them all,

He enters the silent mansion,

Where lost in dream, our Ludmila,

As yet still slumbers on and on,

While at her feet stands her father,

Prince Vladimir, immersed in thought.

Saddest and loneliest, at his court,

Many a tear he’s forced to yield,

His friends drawn to the battlefield.

Yet, shunning glory, Farlaf is there,

Far from the warring enemy,

Guarding the doorway to that pair,

Disdainful of war’s anxiety.

The moment he recognised Ruslan,

His blood froze and, speechless, the man

Fell to his knees, in dire confusion…

Dire treason calls for retribution!

But Ruslan flew to his sleeping bride,

Recalling the gift that he did bring,

And, as he stood there, at her side,

He touched her sweet face with the ring…

Then, wondrously, the young princess,

Opened, instantly, her bright eyes!

And marvelling at the strangeness

Of that long sleep, looked in surprise

All about her, and far beyond him,

As though her dream still lingered yet,

And then her sight grew clear…she knew him!

And so, in deep embrace they met.

Granted new life, his soul on fire,

Prince Ruslan scarcely heard or saw,

While mute with joy, her aged sire,

Embraced the beloved pair once more.

And the end of my long story?

That, dear friend, you must surely guess!

Vladimir’s anger faded swiftly;

Farlaf knelt to him, to confess,

Before Ruslan and Ludmila,

His shame at his sad villainy;

The Prince forgave him; while, forever

Robbed of his powers of sorcery,

Chernomor joined his retinue;

And so, they feasted there, anew,

In Vladimir’s hall while, in praise,

Wise Bayan sang such tales as last,

Of deeds performed in ages past,

Things wrought in legendary days.

Thus, to the world indifferent,

In peace, and quiet indolence,

I sang, my lyre obedient,

A tale lost to ancient silence.

I sang – forgot my grievances

At blind fate, my old enemy,

The treasonous idle glances,

The foolish gossip aimed at me.

Borne upon the wings of fancy,

My mind flew beyond the world,

While, unseen, dark clouds around me,

A mighty storm its powers unfurled!

And I was lost…but you, the sacred

Guardian of my early days,

O Friendship – you who comforted

My troubled soul, with tender gaze! –

You brought me, then, calmer weather,

Brought peace, once more, to my heart,

You granted freedom from the tether,

Freedom, that fuels youth’s fiery art.

Far from the shores of the Neva,

The Caucasus’ high peaks I view,

At every stony cliff, and boulder,

Dumb feeling grips my heart anew,

At Nature, wild, and melancholy,

My soul immersed in languid thought,

Lost as ever in her beauty –

Yet my poetic fires are naught;

In vain I seek the lost elation:

Past, now, the time of poetry,

Of love, of joyful dreams, for me,

The time of heartfelt inspiration!

The days of rapture were not long,

Vanished the goddess, now, of song,

The Muse of murmured incantation…