Drawn by a huge black mound, and-hark!-

A fearsome snore comes from't. Our hero

Undaunted by it, rides up nearer:

The strange mound seems to breathe. Ruslan,

Quite unperturbed, looks calmly on.

Not so his steed, who balks at making

Another step and stands there quaking

With bristling mane and twitching ear

In quite ungovernable fear.

But now the pale orb born to range

The sleepy skies, lights up the nightly,

Mist-covered plain and mound more brightly,

A sight revealing wondrous strange.

Can pen describe the like?... A Head,

A living Head is there! In slumber

Its eyes are shut, it snores, is dead

To all the world, but every rumble,

Each breath and wheeze that from it comes

The helmet stirs and sends the plumes

That reach the shadowed heights a'swaying.

Above the gloomy plain and greying,

The wasteland's guard, in all its chill

And frightful splendrousness it towers,

An aw^esome hulk, part of the still

And fearful night, possessed of powers

Weird, menacing.... Ruslan decides

To rouse it, and, his eyes half doubting,

Around the Head he slowly rides.

Here is the nose! Without dismounting,

The nostrils with the tip of his

Sharp lance he delicately teases.

The great face puckers up at this;

The great Head, eyes now open, sneezes!...

A whirlwind starts, dust swirls, the pain