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,

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