Rocks mightily and rocks again,

As if by a convulsion shaken.

The whiskers, lashes, eyebrows rain

Whole flocks of owls. The groves awaken.

The echo sneezes. Shocked, the steed

Lets out a neigh and rears.... Indeed,

He all but throws the knight. A bellow

The air rends: "Back, you foolish fellow!

I jest not. Come and get your due:

I gobble malaperts like you!"

Ruslan, provoked, looks round, and, reining

His horse in sharply, laughs in scorn,

To make a tart retort disdaining.

"Was ever such a nuisance born!"

The Head declares (its tones are surly).

"Sent here by fate to try me, were you?

What do you want? Make off! Adieu!

I'm going back to sleep." "Not you!"

The prince exclaims, these rude words hearing,

And, filled with anger and disgust,

Says: "Silence, empty pate! A just

Truth is it, one not said in vain:

A massive dome, a pygmy brain!"

And then he adds in accents searing:

"I ride along and no grudge bear you,

But cross my path, and I won't spare you!"

At this, the Head, by such cheek numbed,

To a most awful rage succumbed.

It swelled, it flamed, its pale lips trembled,

Turned paler still, were flecked with froth,

Its eyes two balls of fire resembled,

Great clouds of steam now poured from both

Its ears and mouth. And then it started,