So will a rabbit, danger scenting,
Stop short, and, to escape attempting,
Ears folded, by great leaps and bounds
O’er lea, wood, mound, run from the hounds.
Where passed the chase in all its glory
Spring had the snows of winter hoary
Into great, muddy torrents thawed,
And these at earth’s breast ceaseless gnawed.
Farlaf’s horse, now a wide ditch facing,
His tail shook mightily, and, bracing
Himself, in his teeth took the bit
And leapt across, nor was a whit
The worse for it. Not so his timid
And far less nimble rider who
Rolled down, head over heels, on to
The mud, and lay there, floundering in i
And waiting to be slain.... Rogdai
Storms up, a wrathful vision. “Die,
Poltroon!” he roars, and his swwd raises,
But then is brought up short; his gaze is
Fixed on his foe. Farlaf! Dismay,
Surprise, vexation, rage display
Themselves on his face. His teeth grinding
He swears aloud. We see him riding
Away in haste, inclined to laugh
Both at himself and at Farlaf.
Soon on a pathway upward winding
He met a hag with snowy hair,
A feeble, bent old thing. “Go there!”
She quavered, “That’s where you will find him!”
And with her staff she pointed north.
Rogdai felt cheered; nay, more-elated.
Quite unaware that death awaited
Him up ahead, he started forth.
And our Farlaf? Upon his bed
Of mud we see him breathless lie.
“Where has my rival gone? Am I
Alive,” he asks himself, “or dead?”
Then suddenly from overhead
A voice comes-it is hoarse, deep-soundins
“Rise, stalwart mine, all’s calm around you,”,
The crone says. “Here’s your charger; you
Need fear, good youth, no dangers new.”
At this the knight crawled slowly out
And looked around him in some doubt.
Relieved, he uttered sighing deeply:
“I do believe I got off cheaply....
The Lord be thanked! No broken bones!’
“Ludmila’s far away,” the crone’s
Next words were, “and though we be tempted
To try and find her, to attempt it
Is most unwise.... No, no,” she drones,
“We’ll not succeed: too many hurdles,
And, all in all, to roam the world is
A rather risky enterprise;
You’d soon regret it. I advise
You to go straightway home to Kiev;
On your estate your days you’ll spend
In ease, behind you danger leaving -
Ludmila won’t escape us, friend!”
With this she vanished, and our knight,
The flame of love well-nigh extinguished
And dreams of martial fame relinquished,
Set off for home. ‘Twas not yet night,
But any noise however slight,
A rustling leaf, a bird in flight,
A brook’s song put him in a sweat.
But let us now Farlaf forget
Across a wood we see him ride....
In thought he lovingly embraces
His only love, his fair young bride.
“My wife,” he cries, “my own Ludmila,
Will e’er I find you, dear one, will I
Your gaze full of enchantment meet
And hear your tender voice and sweet?
Say, is it in a wizard’s power
You are, and is the early bloom
Of youth to fade? Are you to sour
And wither in a dungeon’s gloom?...
Or will one of my rivals seize you
And bear you off?-Nay, love, rest easy:
My head is on my shoulders still,
And this my sword I wield with skill.”
One day at dusk Ruslan was riding
Along a steep and rocky shore,
The stream below in shadow hiding,
When with a whine an arrow o’er
His head flew, and behind him sounded
The clang of mail, the heavy pounding
Of hooves, a horse’s piercing neigh.
“Halt!” someone shouted. “Halt, I say!”
The knight glanced round: far out afield,
With spear raised high and ready shield,
A rider galloped whistling shrilly.
Ruslan, his heart with anger filling,
His steed turned speedily about
And charged toward his grim assailant
Who met him wdth a brazen shout:
“Aha, I’ve caught you up, my gallant!
First taste of steel, then seek your fair!”
Now, this Ruslan could little bear;
He recognized the voice and hated
The sound of it. “How dares he! I’ll-”
But where’s Ludmila? For a while
Let’s leave the two men; we have waited
Quite long enough, ‘tis time to turn
To our dear maid now and to learn
How she, one lovely past comparing,
Has at her captor’s hands been faring.
A confidant of wayward fancy,
Not always modest have I been,
And this my narrative commencing,
Dared to describe the night-cloaked scene
In which our fair Ludmila’s charms
Vere from her husband’s eager arms
Whisked off. Poor maid! When, quick as lightening,
The villain with one movement mighty
Removed you from the bridal bed,
And like a whirlwind, skyward soaring,
Through coils of smoke charged on, ahead
Toward his kingdom’s mountains hoary,
You swooned away, but all too soon
Recovered from that welcome swoon
To find yourself, aghast, dumfounded,
By lofty castle walls surrounded.
Thus-it was summer-at the door
Of my house lingering, Г saw
The sultan of the henhouse chasing
One of his ladies, and moved by
Hot passion, with his wings embracing
The flustered, nervous hen.... On high
Л grey kite hovered, old marauder
Of poultry-yards; in rings o’erhead
He slowly sailed, unseen; then, boldly,
With lightning speed, dropped down, a dread
And ruthless foe, his plans death-dealing
Laid earlier.... Up soars he, sealing
The fate of his poor, helpless prey.
Clutched in his talons, far away
He bears her to the safety of
A dark crevasse. In vain, with fear
And hopeless sorrow filled, his love
The rooster calls: he sees her airy
And weightless fluff come drifting near,
By swift, cool breezes downward carried.
Like some dread dream, oblivion
Ludmila chains. She cannot rise
And, in a stupor, moveless lies....
The soft, grey light of early dawn
Revives her, deep within her rouses
Unconscious fear and restlessness;
Sweet thoughts of joy her heart possess,
For surely her beloved spouse is
Nearby!... “Where are you, dear one? Come!
She whispers, and-is stricken dumb.
W^here is your chamber, my Ludmila?
Poor, luckless maiden, you lie pillowed
Upon a lofty feather-bed;
On silken cushions rests your head;
The canopy that floats above y
ou
Is tasselled, rich, and like the cover,
Patterned most prettily. Brocade
Is everywhere, and winking, blazing
Gems likewise. From fine censers made
Of gold rise balmy vapours hazy....
But ‘tis enough! This pen of mine
Must fly description-by another
Was I forestalled: Scheherezade.
And no house, be it e’er so fine,
Affords you any pleasure, mind you,
Unless your love is there beside you.
Just then, in garments clad air-thin,
Three comely maidens tiptoed in.
With bows for the occasion suited
Ludmila mutely they saluted,
Then one, of footstep light, drew n’
And with ethereal fingers plaited
Her silken locks, a way, I hear,
Of dressing hair that has outdated
Long since become. Upon her head
Л diadem of fine pearls setting,
She then withdrew. With softest tre
The second maid approached; ‘thout letting
Herself glance up, all modesty,
In sky-blue silk Ludmila she
Gowned quickly, and her golden tresses
Crowned with a mis-like veil that fell
About her shoulders. There-how well
It shields her, with what grace caresses
Charms for a goddess fit; her feet
Encased are in a pair of neat
And dainty shoes. The third maid brings her
A pearl-incrusted sash; unseen,
A gay-voiced songstress ballads sings her....
But neither shoes, nor gown, nor e’en
The pearly sash and diadem
The princess please; no song delights her,
Indifferent she stays to them;
In vain the looking-glass invites her
To eye her new-found finery
And revel in its wealth and splendour -
The sight seems almost to offend her:
Her gaze is blank; sad, silent she.
Those who love truth and like to read
The heart’s most secret book, must know
That should a lady, plunged in woe,
In spite of habit or of reason,
Oblivious of time or season,
Into a mirror through her tears
Forget to peek-well, then she is
In a most grievous state, indeed.
Ludmila, left alone again,
Uncertain what to do, beneath
A window stands and through the pane
Drear, boundless reaches, wondering, sees.
On carpets of eye-dazzling snow
Her gaze rests; filled is she with sadness....
Before her all is stark white deadness;
The peaks of brooding mountains show
Above the silent plains, and, sombre,
Seem wrapt in deep, eternal slumber:
No wayfarer plodding slowly past,
No smoke from out a chimney trailing,
No hunter’s horn resounding gaily
Over the snow-bound, endless waste....
Only the rebel wind’s wail dismal
At times disrupts the calm abysmal,
And etched against the sky’s bleak grey,
The nude and orphaned forests sway.
Despairing, tearful, poor Ludmila
Her face hides in her hands, unwilling
To think of what may be in store....
She pushes at a silver door
Which opens with a sound most pleasing;
Before her, with their beauty teasing
The eye, spread gardens that surpass
King Solomon’s in loveliness,
And e’en Armide’s and those that to
Taurida’s prince belonged. The view
Is one of trees, green arbours forming
And swaying gently; in the air
Of myrtle floats the sweet aroma;
Palms line the paths, and bays; with their
Proud crowns the mighty cedars boldly
The heavens brush; agleam with golden
Fruit are the orange groves; a pond
Mirrors it all.... The hills beyond,
The vales and copses by the blaze of
Spring are revived; the wind of May
Sweeps o’er the spellbound leas in play
In song melodious and gay
A nightingale its sweet voice raises;
Great fountains upward, to the sky,
Send sprays of gems, then down, enwreathing
The statues that, alive and breathing,
Around them stand. If Phidias’ eye
On these could rest, he, though by Pallas
And by Apollo taught, would, jealous,
His magic point and chisel drop....
In swift and fiery arcs that shatter
‘Gainst marble barriers which stop
Their headlong downward plunge and scatter
The tiny motes of pearly dust,
The waterfalls cascade, while just
A few steps farther out, in nooks
By thick trees shadowed, rippling brooks
Plash sleepily.... The vivid greenness
Is by the whiteness here and there
Flecked of the lightly-built pavilions
That offer shelter from the glare....
And roses, roses everywhere!...
But comfortless is our Ludmila,
What round her lies she does not see;
The magic garden does not thrill her
With all its sensuous luxury....
She walks all over, where she’s going
Not caring; more-not even knowing,
But weeping copious tears, her eye
Fixed sadly on the merciless sky....
Then suddenly her gaze grows brighter
And to her lip her hand flies lightly:
Despite the sparkle of the morn
A frightening thought in her is born....
The dread way’s open: death waits for her -
Above a torrent, there before her,
A bridge hangs ‘twixt two cliffs. Forlon
She looks upon the foaming stream,
Her tears grow ever more abundant,
She strikes her heaving breast-’twould ;
She is about to jump-but no,
We see her pause ... and onward go.
Time passes, and Ludmila, weary,
(Too long has she been on her feet)
Feels her tears drying as the cheering
Thought comes that yes, it’s time to eat.
She drops down on the grass, looks round her,
And lo!-a tent’s cool walls surround her....
The gleam of crystal! A repast
Is set before her, unsurpassed
In choice of food. The gentle sound of
A harp steals near. But though at this
She marvels, our young princess is
Still not at peace, still sorrow-hounded.
“A captive, from my love torn, why
Should I not end it all and die?”
Thinks she. “Oh, villain, you torment me
Yet humour me: such is your whim,
But I ... I scorn you and contempt
Your wily ways. This feast you sent me,
This gauzy tent wherein I sit,
These songs, a lovelorn heart’s outpouring,
Which, for all that, are rather boring,-
In faith, I need them not a whit!
‘Tis death I choose, death!” And repeating
The word again, the maid starts... eating.
Ludmila rises; in a twinkling
Gone are the tent and rich repast;
The harp is silenced, not a tinkling
Disturbs the calm.... On walks she, past
The greening groves and round them wanders,
&
nbsp; While high above the wizard’s gardens
The moon appears, of night the queen,
And in the heavens reigns supreme.
From every side soft mists come drifting
And on the hilltops seek repose.
Our princess feels inclined to doze,
And is by some strange powers lifted
As gently as by spring’s own breeze
And carried through the air with ease
Back to the chamber richly scented
With rose oil, and put down again
Upon the couch where, grief-tormented,
She lay before. And now the same
Three youthful maidens reappear
And, round her bustling, they unfasten
Hooks and the like of them and hasten
To take her raiments off. They wear
An anxious look; of mute compassion
Their aspect leaves a faint impression
And of a dull reproach to fate.
But let’s not tarry more: ‘tis late,
And fair Ludmila is by tender
And skillful hands by now undressed.
Robed in a snowy shift that renders
Her charms more charming still, to rest
She lays her down. The three maids, sighing,
Back out with bows, the door is shut.
What does our captive?-Lies there, but
Shakes leaf-like, and, sleep from her flying,
Feels chilled and dares not breathe. Her gaze
Bedimmed by fear, she moveless stays
And tense, with all her being trying
To penetrate the voiceless gloom,
The numbing stillness of the room;
Her heart throbs wildly, fitfully,
An agitated, endless thru nming....
The silence seems to whisper; she
Hears someone to her bedside coming
And in her pillows hides, and oh!-
The horror of it-footsteps.... No!
It cannot be, she must be dreaming.
The door swings open; there’s a flare
Of light, and silent, pair by pair,
file of Moors, their sabres gleaming,
Steps in with even, measured stride.
A look most grave and solemn wearing,
On downy pillows they are bearing
A silver beard. Puffed up with pride,
A pose assuming grand and stately,
Behind it marches in sedately
A hunchbacked dwarf, chin high. It is
To him the beard belongs. On his
Clean-shaven pate a tall, close-fitting
Tarbush. wound round with cloth, is sitting.
He nears her, and Ludmila, led
By shock and fright, flies off her bed
And at him, and his cap she clutches,
And lifts a shaking fist, no doubt