Though with a smile you listened e'er.

At other times I was aware

How tenderly-this felt I deeply -

Your loving gaze the singer's met.

Enamored babbler, I will let

My fingers pass over the lazy

And stubborn strings, and at your feet,

The minstrel's customary seat,

Strum loudly, my young champion praising.

But where's Ruslan? Out in the field,

His blood long cold and long congealed,

He sprawls, a raven o'er him swooping,

Upon the grass lie limp and drooping

The whiskers serving to adorn

His helm of steel; mute is his horn.

His golden mane no longer waving,

Around the prince his mount walks gravely,

Head lowered; in his once bright eye

The light has died. Not knowing why

The prince lies so, he is unwilling

To play and waits for him to wake.

In vain! The prince won't move or take

The sword up: deep his sleep and chilling.

And Chernomor? There, in the bag,

He lies, forgotten by the hag,

And knowing naught, his grudges nurses;

Worn, sleepy, bored to tears, he curses

My youthful hero and his bride....

Then, not a sound his ears assailing

For hours on end, he peeps outside-

A miracle, no less! Words fail him.

For in a pool of blood the knight

Lies dead, and no one is in sight;