Ruslan, much cheered, no longer weary,

Lifts up his calmly sleeping bride,

And down a slope we see him guide

His horse and leave the mountain eyrie.

The midget to his saddle tied,

Across a vale, across a forest

He hurries, by no rival harassed.

In his arms his love rests, a precious

And welcome burden. Oh, how fresh is

Her face! The vernal dawn can be

No more so. 'Gainst her husband's shoulder

It rests, all sweet serenity....

The wind born in the barrens boldly

Plucks at her silky golden hair.

She sighs, the roses on her fair

Young cheeks play. Her beloved's name

She whispers; 'tis her dreams that bring her

His image and her heart inflame;

On her lips love's avowals linger.

And he-he's all fond contemplation

(The sight of her his spirit cheers) -

Oh, that sweet smile, those glistening tears,

That lovely bosom's agitation!...

Meanwhile, by day, by night they journey

Up hill, down dale, but still unspanned

The distance is, still far the land

Which to behold Ruslan is yearning.

The maid sleeps on.... Did our young knight,

By fruitless, unassuaged desire

Worn-for it seems like years-not tire

Of guarding her? Did he delight

In virtuous dreams, immodest longing

Subduing and in no way wronging

His drowsy charge? So told are we