Them boldly down-see his sword flash

And thrust and stab and cut and slash....

It was Ruslan. The dwarf behind him,

His horn triumphantly he blows

And like a thunderbolt the foes

Strikes down; where'er it is we find him

Borne bv his steed, the infidels

Row upon row he vengeful fells,

And awing the enthralled beholders,

With whistling sword parts heads from shoulders....

Where'er he passes, bodies strew

The battleground, crushed, headless, dying,

With spears and arrows near them lying

And heaps of armour. Then, anew

The trumpet's battle call remorseless

Sounds, and behold!-the Slavic forces

To join Ruslan on horseback fly.

A fierce fray follows.... Pagan, die!

The Pechenegs, those savage raiders,

Round up their scattered horses and

In panic flee. The feared invaders

Of Russ. they can no more withstand

The Slavs' attack; their wild yells carry

Over the dusty field; their hordes,

Cut down by Kiev's smiting swords,

The fires of the inferno face....

Kiev exults.... And now our daring

Young prince-his horse he sits with grace-

On through its gate rides, proudly bearing

His sword of victory; his lance

Shines star-like, drawing every glance;

The blood is seen to trickle down

His heavy mail of bronze, he's wearing

A helm whose top the whiskers crown