Unfortunate young swain is fated,
His days may well be filled with gloom,
But life can still be tolerated.
But if in your arms, after years
Of longing, of desire, of tears,
Your bride of but one minute lies
And then becomes another’s prize,
’Tis much too much… Quite frankly, I,
Were such my case, would choose to die!
But poor Ruslan’s alive and tortured
In mind and heart… O’erwhelmed by news,
Just then arrived, of the misfortune,
The Prince, enraged, turns on the youth.
The whole court summoning, “Ludmila…
Where is Ludmila?” thunders he.
Ruslan does not respond. “My children!
Your merits past high hold I… Free,
I beg, my daughter from the clutches
Of evil. I am helpless; such is
Old age’s piteous frailty.
But though I am too old to do it,
Not so are you. Go forth and save
My poor Ludmila, you’ll not rue it:
He who succeeds, shall – writhe, you knave!
Why did you not, wretch, base tormentor,
Know how to guard your young wife better?
Shall have Ludmila for a bride
And half my fathers’ realm beside!…
Who’ll heed my plea?” “I!” says the grieving,
Unhappy groom. “I!” shouts Rogdai,
And echoed by Farlaf his cry
And by Ratmir is. “We are leaving
Straightway, and pray believe us, sire,
We’ll ride around the world entire
If need be. From your daughter parted
Not long will you be, never fear.”
The old prince cannot speak for tears;
His gratitude is mute; sad-hearted,
A broken man, at door he stands
And to them stretches out his hands.
All four the palace leave together;
Ruslan is ashen-faced, half-dead.
Thoughts of his kidnapped bride, of whether
He’ll ever find the maid, with dread
And pain his heart fill. Now the foursome
Get on their restless, chafing horses,
And leaving dust clouds in their wake,
Away along the Dnieper make…
They’re lost to sight, but Prince Vladimir
Stands gazing at the road and tries
To span the distance ever-dimming
As after them in thought he flies.
Ruslan, his mind and memory hazy,
Is mute, lost in a kind of trance;
Behind him, o’er his shoulder gazing,
The picture of young arrogance,
Farlaf rides, hand on hip, defiant.
Says he: “At last! The taste is sweet
Of freedom, friends… When will we meet —
The prospect likes me well – a giant?
Then will blood pour as passions seethe
And victims offer to the sabre.
Rejoice, my blade! Rejoice, my steed,
And lightly, freely prance and caper!”
The Khazar Khan, his pulses racing,
