Alexander Pushkin
The Lay of the Wise Oleg

Wise Oleg to the war he hath bouned him again,
The Khozars have awaken'd his ire;
For rapine and raid, hamlet, city, and plain
He gives over to falchion and fire.
In mail of Byzance, with his host in the rear,
The Prince pricks along on his faithful destrer.

From the darksome fir-forest, to meet that array,
Forth paces a gray-haired magician:
To none but Perun did that sorcerer pray,
Fulfilling the prophet's dread mission:
His life he had wasted in penance and pain: —
And beside that enchanter Oleg drew his rein.

"Now rede me, enchanter, beloved of Perun,
The good and the ill that's before me;
Shall my foes find a cause for rejoicing right soon
When the earth of the grave is piled o'er me
Unfold all the truth; fear me not; and for meed,
Choose among them — I give thee my best battle-steed."

"Oh, enchanters they care not for prince or for peer,
And gifts are but needlessly given;
The wise tongue ne'er stumbleth for falsehood or fear,
'Tis the friend of the councils of Heaven!
The years of the future are clouded and dark,
Yet on thy fair forehead thy fate I can mark:

"Remember now firmly the words of my tongue
The warrior delighteth in glory;
On the gate of Byzantium thy buckler is hung,
Thy conquests are famous in story;
Thou holdest dominion o'er land and o'er sea,
And the foe views with envy thy great destiny:

"Not the rage of the deep with its treacherous wave,
At the stroke of the hurricane-hour —
Not the knife of the coward, the sword of the brave,
To undo thee shall ever have power:
Within thy strong harness no wound shalt thou know,
A guardian attends thee where'er thou dost go.

"Thy steed fears not labor, nor danger, nor pain,
His lord's lighten accent he heareth,
Now still, though the arrows fall round him like rain,
Across the red field he careereth;
He fears not the winter, he fears not to bleed
Yet thy death-wound shall come from thy good battle-steed!"

Oleg smiled a moment, but yet on his brow,
In his eye, thought and sorrow were blended;
In silence he leaned on his saddle and slow
The Prince from his courser descended;
And as though from a friend he were parting with pain,
He strokes his broad neck and his dark flowing mane.

"Farewell then, my comrade, fleet, faithful, and bold!
We must part — such is Destiny's power:
Now rest thee — I swear, in thy stirrup of gold
No foot shall be set, from this hour.
Farewell! we've been comrades for many a year —
My squires, now I pray ye, come take my destrer.

"The softest of carpets his horse-cloth shall be:
And lead him away to the meadow;
On the choicest of corn he shall feed daintily,
He shall drink of the well in the shadow."
Then straightway departed the squires with the steed,
And to valiant Oleg a fresh courser they lead.

Oleg and his comrades are feasting, I trow;
The mead-cups are merrily clashing:
Their locks are as white as the glimmering snow
When the sun on the grave-mound is flashing:
They talk of old times, of the days of their pride,
And the frays where together they struck side by side.

"But where," quoth Oleg, "is my good battle-horse?
My mettlesome charger — how fares he?
Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course?
His age and his freedom how bears he?"
They answer and say: on the hill by the stream
He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream.

Oleg bent his head and in thought knit his brow:
"What hath all thy magic effected?
A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou:
Thy counsels I should have rejected.
My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee."
Then the bones of his charger Oleg wished to see.

Oleg rode with Igor the Prince at his side,
Behind him his spearmen were serried;
And there on a slope by the Dnieper's swift tide
Lay the bones of his charger, unburied:
They are washed by the rain, the dust o'er them is cast,
And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast.

Then the Prince set his foot on the courser's white skull;
Saying: "Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory!
Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full:
At his funeral feast, red and gory,
'Tis not thou 'neath the axe that shall redden the sod,
That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood.

"And I am to find my destruction in this?
My death in a skeleton seeking?"
From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss,
Crept forth, as the hero was speaking:
Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring;
And the Prince shriek'd aloud as he felt the keen sting.

The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around;
At Oleg's mighty death-feast they're ringing;
Prince Igor and Olga they sit on the mound;
The warriors the death-song are singing:
And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride,
And the frays where together they struck side by side.

Translated by Thomas Budd Shaw