I ask no praise… But stay!
For my reward – I need not seek it —
Is hope: Oh, that some girl should scan,
As only one who’s lovesick can,
These naughty songs of mine in secret!
Prologue
On seashore far a green oak towers,
And to it with a gold chain bound,
A learned cat whiles away the hours
By walking slowly round and round.
To right he walks, and sings a ditty;
To left he walks, and tells a tale…
What marvels there! A mermaid sitting
High in a tree, a sprite, a trail
Where unknown beasts move never seen by
Man’s eyes, a hut on chicken feet,
Without doors, without windows,
An evil witch’s lone retreat;
The woods and valleys there are teeming
With strange things… Dawn brings waves that, gleaming,
Over the sandy beaches creep,
And from the clear and shining water
Step thirty goodly knights escorted
By their Old Guardian, of the deep
An ancient dweller… There a dreaded
And hated tsar is captive ta’en;
There, as all watch, for cloud banks headed,
Across the sea and o’er a plain,
A warlock bears a knight. There, weeping,
A princess sits locked in a cell,
And Grey Wolf serves her very well;
There, in a mortar, onward sweeping
All of itself, beneath the skies
The wicked Baba-Yaga flies;
There pines Koshchei and lusts for gold…
All breathes of Russ, the Russ of old
There once was I, friends, and the сat
As near him ’neath the oak I sat
And drank of sweet mead at my leisure,
Recounted tales to me… With pleasure
One that I liked do I recall
And here and now will share with all…
Canto the First
The ways and deeds of days gone by,
A narrative on legend founded…
In princely banquet chamber high,
By doughty sons and guests surrounded,
Vladimir-Bright Sun holds a fete;
His daughter is the chosen mate
Of Prince Ruslan, and these two linking
In marriage, old Vladimir’s drinking
Their health, a handsome cup and great
To his lips held and fond thoughts thinking.
Our fathers ate ’thout haste-indeed,
Passed slowly round the groaning tables
The silver beakers were and ladles
With frothing ale filled and with mead.
Into the heart cheer poured they, truly…
The bearers, bowing, solemn-faced,
Before the feasters tankards placed;
High rose the foam and hissed, unruly…
The hum of talk is loud, unceasing;
Abuzz the guests: a merry round.
Then through the hubbub, all ears pleasing,
There comes the gusli’s rippling sound.
A hush. In dulcet song and ringing
Bayan, the bard – all hark him well —
Of bride and groom the praise is singing;
He lauds their union, gift of Lel[4].
Ruslan, o’ercome by fiery feeling,
Of food partakes not; from Ludmila
He cannot tear away his eyes;
He flames with love, he frowns, he sighs,
At his moustache plucks, filled with torment
And, all impatience, counts each moment.
Amid the noisy feasters brood
Three youthful knights. In doleful mood
They sit there, their great tankards empty
With downcast eyes, the fare, though tempting,
Untouched; the goblets past them sail;
They do not seem to hear the tale
Of wisdom chanted by Bayan…
The luckless rivals of Ruslan,
Of love and hate a deadly brew
In their hearts hid, the three are too
O’erwrought for speech. The first of these
Is bold Rogdai of battle fame
(’Twas he who Kiev’s boundaries
Stretched with his blade); the next, the vain,
Loud-voiced Farlaf, by none defeated
At festal board, but tame, most tame
Mid flashing swords and tempers heated;
The last, the Khazar Khan Ratmir,
A reckless spirit, aye, and ardent.
All three are pale-browed, glum, despondent:
The feast’s no feast, the cheer’s no cheer.
It’s over, and the teasiers rise
And flock together. Noise. All eyes
Are smiling, all are on the two
Young newly-weds… Ludmila, tearful,
Looks shyly down: her groom is cheerful,
He beams… Now do the shades anew
Embrace the earth, e’er nearer creeping,
The murk of midnight veils the dome…
The boyars, by sweet mead made sleepy,
Bow to their hosts and make for home.
Ruslan’s all rapture, all elation…
What bliss! In his imagination
His bride caresses he. But there
Is sadness in the warmth of feeling
With which, their happy union sealing,
The old prince blesses our young pair.
The bridal couch has long been ready;
The maid is led to it… It’s night.
The torches dim, but Lel already
His own bright lamp has set alight.
Love offers – see – its gifts most tender,
Its fondest wish at last comes true,
On carpets of Byzantine splendour
The jealous covers fall… Do you
The sound of kisses, love’s sweet token,
And its soft,