By one, a monk, who put in writing

The story of the prince, inviting

Inquisitive posterity

To profit by't. And I-I fully

Believe the annalist, for, truly,

What's love unshared?-An irksome thing

That can but little pleasure bring.

Ludmila's sleep did not resemble

Yours in the least, nymphs of the mead,

When languid springtime's call you heed

And in the cooling shade assemble

Of leafv trees.... I well recall

That happy day in early summer,

A tiny glade at evenfall,

And lovely Lida feigning slumber...

That kiss of mine, so light, so shy,

So hurried, young love's fresh, sweet token,

Could not awake the maid; unbroken

It left her sleep.... But, reader, why

Do I talk nonsense? Why this needless

Remembrance of a love long dead?

Forgot its joys, its pain, its heedless

And trying ways. To speak I'm led

Of those not long from my thoughts gone:

Ludmila, Chernomor, Ruslan.

A vale before them spreads; upon it

Rise clumps of spruces, and a mound

Looms farther out, its strangely round

And very dark and gloomy summit

Against the bright blue sky outlined.

Our youthful knight at once divined

That 'twas the Head before them showin;

The steed speeds on, more restive growing;