The bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Александр Пушкин

      Ah, if to be love’s martyr some

      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,

      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