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, whispered words not hear?
Does not – come, say – the murmur broken
Of shy reluctance reach your ear?
Anticipation fires the spirit,
O’erjoyed the groom… But lo! – the air
Is rent by thunder, ever nearer
It comes. A flash! The lamp goes out,
The room sways, darkness all about,
Smoke pours… Fear grips Ruslan, defeating
His native pluck: his heart stops beating…
All’s silence, grim and threatening.
An eerie voice sounds twice. There rises
Up through the haze a menacing
Black figure… Coiling smoke disguises
Its shape… It vanishes… Now our
Poor groom, on his brow drops of sweat,
Starts up. By sudden dread beset,
And for his bride – O fateful hour! —
With trembling hand gropes anxiously…
On emptiness he seizes, she
Has by some strange and evil power
Been borne away… He’s overcome…
Ah, if to be love’s martyr some
