A horseman: which of them will smite

The other first? In wild-eyed fright

Across the field a charger races.

Death. Cries for help and battle-calls.

A Pecheneg, a Russian falls.

One's by an arrow pierced swift-flying;

Another's maced, his groan unheard;

A foeman's shield has crushed a third,

And. trampled on, he lies there, dying.

The fray went on till dark set in,

But neither warring side could win....

The slain in mounds lay; blood flowed freely;

Sleep claimed the living, all concealing

From their sight. Through the fearful night's

Long hours the wounded moaned in pain,

And one could hear the Russian knights

To their God pray and speak His name.

But paler turned the shade of morn,

And in the swiftly-flowing river

The rippling waves seemed made of silver:

Day, thickly cloaked in mist, was born.

The hills and forests slowly brightened;

The skies, by sun their blueness heightened,

Broke free of sleep.... Yet moveless still

The battlefield remained until

The hostile camp awoke abruptly,

A challenge followed the alarm,

And warfare once again erupting,

Old Kiev lost its short-lived calm.

All rush to watch the scene below

And see a knight in flaming mail

Through ranks of foemen blaze a trail,

See him descend on them and mow