In saddle dances, for in thought
He is the fair young maid embracing
Whose love he has for so long sought.
The light of hope is in his eye,
Now does he make his stallion fly,
Now forces him, the good steed teasing,
To rear, now gallops him uphill,
Now lets him prance about at will.
Rogdai is silent; with increasing
Unease his heart fills; dark thoughts chill
And burden him; he is tormented
By jealousy, and, all calm gone,
With hate-glazed eye, like one demented,
Stares sullenly at Prince Ruslan.
Along a single road the rivals
Rode on all through the day until
From east poured shades that night’s arrival
Bespoke… The Dnieper, cold and still,
Is wrapt in folds of mist… The horses
Have need of rest… Not far away
A track lies that another crosses.
“’Tis time to part,” the riders say.
“Let us chance fate.” So ’tis decided;
Each horse is given now its head,
And, by the touch of spur unguided,
Starts off and moves where ’twill ahead.
What do you in the hush of desert
Alone, Ruslan? Sad is your plight.
Was’t all a dream – the bride you treasured,
The terrors of your wedding night?
Your helmet pushed down to your brow
Your strong hands limp, the reins let loose,
O’er woods and fields astride your steed
You ride, while faith and hope recede
And leave you well-nigh dead of spirit.
A cave shows ’fore the knight; he nears
And sees a light there. His feet lead
Him straight inside. The dark and broad
Vaults seem as old as nature. Moody,
Distraught Ruslan is… In the cave
A bearded ancient, his mien grave
And quiet, sits. A lamp is burning
Near him, a book lies on his knee;
Engrossed in it, its pages he
With careful hand is slowly turning.
“I bid you welcome, knight! At last!”
Says he in greeting, smiling warmly.
“Here have I twenty long years passed
Of my old age, and grim and lonely
They’ve been… But now has come the day
For which, foreseeing it, I waited.
To meet, we two, my son, were fated,
Now sit and hear me out, I pray…
Ludmila from you has been taken;
You flag, you droop, by hope forsaken
And faith itself… ’Tis wrong! For brief
With evil and its partner, grief,
Will be, I promise, your encounter.
Take heart; with strong, sound spirit counter
The blows of fortune, banish woe,
And, sword aloft held, northward go!
‘‘He who has wronged you, O my daring
Young stalwart, is old Chernomor.
A wizard, he is known to carry
Young maids off to the hills. ’Tis for
