Its fondest wish at last comes true,

On carpets of Byzantine splendour

The jealous covers fall.... Do you

The sound of kisses, love's sweet token.

And its soft, whispered words not hear?

Does not-come, say-the murmur broken

Of shy reluctance reach your ear?

Anticipation fires the spirit,

O'erjoyed the groom... But lo!-the air

Is rent by thunder, ever nearer

It comes. A flash' The lamp goes out,

The room sw^ays, darkness all about,

Smoke pours.... Fear grips Ruslan, defeating

His native pluck: his heart stops beating...

All's silence, grim and threatening.

An eerie voice sounds twice. There rises

Up through the haze a menacing

Black figure.... Coiling smoke disguises

Its shape.... It vanishes.... Now our

Poor groom, on his brow drops of sweat,

Starts up. by sudden dread beset,

And for his bride-O fateful hour!-

With trembling hand gropes anxiously..

On emptiness he seizes, she

Has by some strange and evil power

Been borne away.... He's overcome....

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,