The month of the West
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THE LAY OF THE WARFARE WAGED BY IGOR, SON OF SVYATOSLAV, GRANDSON OF OLEG
(Translated from Old Russian into English by Irina Petrova)
Would it not befit us, my brethren,
To begin, in age-old words,
The woeful tale
Of the warfare waged by Igor,
Igor, son of Svyatoslav?
This lay shall begin
After the deeds of this time,
Not after the fancies of Boyan.
Boyan the Wise,
Wishing to sing of any man,
Would let his thoughts flow
Through the tree of his dreams,
Would let them speed
As the gray wolf over the earth,
Would let then soar
As the blue eagle beneath the clouds.
читать дальшеHe would recall, they say
Warfare of old.
Then would he loose
Ten falcons
Upon a flock of swans:
And when a falcon
Swooped down upon a swan,
Then would that swan
Chant a song
Of old Yaroslav,
Of the valiant Mstislav
Who slew Rededya
Before the Kassog host,
Of the Roman the Fair,
Son of Svyatoslav.
But Boyan. my brethren,
Loosed not ten falcons
Upon a flock of swans –
He laid his wise fingers
Upon the living chords,
And they themselves rang out
Glory to princes.
Let us, my brethren,
Begin this tale
From Vladimir of old,
To Igor, our own days,
Who girded up his wisdom
With his might,
And whetted his heart
With valour,
And, moved by the spirit of warfare,
Led his valiant host
Into the land of Polovtsi,
For the cause of the Russian land.
Then Igor gazed up
At the bright sun
And he saw a shadow from it
Overcasting all his host.
And then said Igor
To his men-at-arms:
“O brethren and warriors!
“Better be slain
“Than taken captive!
“Let us mount, my brethren,
“Our fleet-footed steeds,
“And let us behold
“The blue Don!”
The prince’s was overcome
With ardent longing
And his desire to drink of Don water
Overcame the portents o Heaven.
“I will,” said he,
“Break my spear to splinters
“At the far end of the Polovets plains
“With you, o Russians!
“I will either will low my head,
“Or drink a helmetful
“Of Don water!”
O Boyan,
Nightingale of old!
Were you to sing this warfare,
Fluttering, o nightingale,
In the tree of thought,
Soaring up to the clouds in musing,
Entwining with glory
Both halves of this time,
Speeding along Troyan’s trail
Over hill and dale,
Thus would you have sung
The lay of Igor,
Grandson of Oleg:
“No storm is this
“That has blown the falcons
“Beyond the rolling plains:
“The dawns are fleeing in flocks
“Towards the great Don!”
Yet it should rather thus be sung,
O wise Boyan,
Grandson of Velles:
“Steeds neigh beyond the Sula, –
“Glory resounds through Kiev,
“The bugles blow in Novgorod –
“The banners fly in Putivl!”
Igor awaits
His dear brother Vsevolod.
And then said Vsevolod,
The furious bull:
“One brother have I,
“One bright light–
“You, o Igor!
“We two are sons of Svyatoslav!
“Saddle, my brother,
“Your fleet-footed steeds:
“Mine stand ready,
“Saddled beforehand at Kursk!
“My men of Kursk
“Are all tried warriors,
“Born to be blare of bugles,
“Rocked beneath helmets,
“Nurtured at the point of the spear!
“The paths are known to them.
“The gullies are known to them.
“Their bows are taut,
“The quivers open,
“Their swords whetted,
“They scour the field
“Like gray wolves,
“For themselves seeking honour,
“And for their prince–glory!”
Then sprang prince Igor
To his golden stirrup
And rode forth over the open plain.
The sun then crossed
His path with darkness.
Night awakened the birds
With its stormy moaning,
The whistling of marmots arose.
The Div has started up,
He calls from tree-top,
Bidding strange lands hearken–
The Volga, and the coastlands,
And the banks of the Sula,
And Surozh and Korsun,
And you, Idol of Tmutorokan!
And the Polovtsi sped
By untrodden trails
Towards the grate Don.
Their wains screamed at midnight
Like suddenly startled swans –
Igor leads his host to the grate Don!
And now the birds in the oaks
Gloat over his misfortune to come.
The wolves howl in the gullies
Raising a storm,
The eagles call the beasts
To glut upon bones,
The foxes bark
At the scarlet shields.
O Russian land!
Far are you now beyond the hills!
Long lingers the night;
The glow of sunset has waned.
The mists enshroud the plains
The warbling of nightingales
Has died away.
The chattering of daws
Has arisen.
The Russians have barred
The boundless plains
With their scarlet shields,
For themselves seeking honour,
And their prince–glory.
Early on a Friday morn
They trampled underfoot
The pagan Polovets host,
And scattering like arrows
Over the field,
They whirled away
The fair Polovets maidness
And with them gold and satin,
And precious samite.
With cloaks, and mantles, and coats of fur
And many a costly Polovets tissue
They bridged over
The swamps and the mire.
The scarlet banner,
The white standard,
The scarlet pennant,
The silver shaft,
Were for fearless
Son of Svyatoslav!
Oleg’s brave brood
Slumbers on the battlefield.
Far, far has it flown!
It was not born to be worsted
By the falcon,
Nor by the gerfalcon,
Nor by you, o black raven,
Pagan Polovets!
Gza speeds onward
Like the gray wolf,
Konchak breaks a trail for him
To the great Don!
Full early on the morrow
A blood-red dawn foretells the day.
Black clouds come up from the sea,
Striving to overcast the four suns.
Blue lightning quivers within them,
Mighty thunder shall be heard,
A rain of arrows shall rain
From beyond the great Don.
Spears shall be shattered there,
Swords shall be blunted there,
On Polovets helmets,
On the Kayala river,
By the great Don!
O Russian land!
Far are you now beyond the hills!
Now the winds,
Those grandsons of Stribog,
Blow arrows up from the sea
Upon Igor’s valiant host.
The earth rumbles,
The rivers run turbid,
Dust overspreads the plains,
The banners clamour:
The Polovtsi come–
From the Don, from the sea,
On all sides they beset
The Russian host!
The spawn of the Evil One
Have barred the fields
With their yells,
And the fearless Russians–
With their scarlet shields.
O Vsevolod, you fearless bull!
You stand at bay,
You spray with arrows
The host of the foe,
Your swords of steel clang
Upon their helmets.
Wherever, o bull, you have galloped
With your golden helmet glittering,
There pagan Polovets heads lie thick,
Their Avar helmets shattered
By your swords of tempered steel,
By you, o furious bull,
O Vsevolod!
What wound, o my brethren, can cause dread to him,
Forgetful of his high estate, his life,
The city of Chernigov,
The golden throne of his father,
The ways and wonts
Of his dear bride,
The fair daughter of Gleb!
The age of Troyan is gone,
The days of Yaroslav are past.
Gone are the wars waged by Oleg,
Oleg, son of Svytoslav.
For he, that Oleg,
Forged feuds with his sword,
Sowed his arrows over the earth.
When he sprang to his golden stirrup
In the city of Tmutorokan,
Its jingling was heard
In days of old
By the great Yaroslav,
While Vladimir, son of Vsevolod
Stooped his ears every morn
In the city of Chernigov.
And Boris, son of Vyacheslav,
Was brought by his vaunting
To the judgment (of God),
And a green shroud
Was spread for him,
That valiant young prince,
By the Kanina River,
For a wrong done to Oleg.
From another such Kayala
Svyatopolk had his father borne
Between two Hungarian pacers
To St. Sophia’s,
To Kiev.
Then, in the days of Oleg,
The Son of Woe,
Discord was sown and throve.
Then perished the brightlight
Of the grandsons of Dazhbog.
The lives of the common folk
Were cut short
By the brawls of princes.
Then was the voice of the husbandman seldom heard
Throughout the Russian land,
But often, indeed,
The ravens croaked
Feasting on the dead,
And the jackdaws raised their cries
Making ready to fly to a feast.
Thus was in those battles,
In the days of that warfare.
But such a battle as this
Has never been heard of yet!
From morning till evening,
From twilight till dawn
Steel-tipped arrows fly,
Swords clang upon helmets,
Steel spears are shattered
In that strange field
In the heart of the Polovets land.
The black earth
Under the hoofs
Was sown with bones,
Watered with blood:
It yielded a harvest of woe
To the Russian land.
What clamour is that?
What clang is that
Far away, so early,
Before dawning?
It is Igor turning his host about,
Smitten with pity
For his beloved brother Vsevolod,
One day they fought,
And another,
And on the third,
At midday,
The banners of Igor fell!
That’s there the two brothers parted,
On the bank of the swift Kayala.
Of gory wine they had scarce enough.
There the brave Russians ended their feast.
They made their kinsmen drunken,
And were laid low themselves
For the Russian land.
The very grass droops with pity,
And the trees bend down
To the ground with woe.
Then, my brethren,
An evil time set in:
The wilderness had engulfed our host.
Sorrow arose
Among the offspring of Dazhbog.
Maiden-like, she paced
Through Troyan’s land;
Waiving her swan-like wings
Over the blue sea, by the Don,
She drove away
The days of plenty.
The princes warred no more
Against the pagans,
For brother spoke to brother,
Saying,
“This is mine,
“And that, too, is mine!”
And the princes began
To call small thing great,
To forge feuds
Among themselves.
And from all sides the pagans
Invaded in triumph
The Russian land.
Oh, far has the falcon flown,
Driving the wild fowl before him
Down to the sea!
And the valiant host of Igor
Shall never rise again!
Then Karna and Zhelya
Raised their lament,
They swept through the Russian land,
Scattering funeral fire
From a flaming horn.
The Russian women
Lamented, wailing:
“Now shall we never
“See our dear lovers
“In thoughts, nor in dreams,
“Nor with our own eyes!
“Neither silver, no gold
“Shall we wear again!”
Then Kiev, my brethren
Moaned in sorrow
And Chernigov moaned
Beneath these disasters.
Woe overflowed
The land of Russia,
Deep sorrow flooded
The Russian land.
The forged feuds
Among themselves,
And the pagans, overrunning
The Russian land,
Levied tribute,–
A squirrel pelt from each household.
For the valiant two,
Sons of Svyatoslav,
Igor and Vsevolod,
With discord had aroused the evil
Put to sleep by their father,
The great, the terrible
Svyatoslav of Kiev.
Like a thunderstorm,
He struck men with awe,
With his mighty hosts
And his swords of steel
He invaded the Polovets land,
Trampled level hill and gully,
Muddied lake and river,
Scorched up stream and swamp.
He swept from the sea-cost
The pagan Kobiak,
Like a whirlwind, he snatched him
From the thick of the mighty iron Polovets host,
And Kobiak fell prostrate
In the city of Kiev,
In Svyatoslav’s hall.
Now Germans, Venetians,
Now Greek and Moravians
Sing the praises
Of Svyatoslav;
They blame prince Igor
That he drowned his wealth
In the depths of the Kayala,
The Polovets river,
That he scattered in it the Russian gold!
There Prince Igor exchanged
His golden saddle
For that of captive.
Grief has seized
The walls of cities
And joy droops low.
Svyatoslav has dreamt
A troubled dream
On the hills of Kiev.
“Last night,” said he,
“From eventide,
“They swathed me
“In a black shroud
“Upon a bed of yew.
“Blue wine has poured for me
“Mingled with sorrow.
“From the empty quivers
“Of pagan strangers
“Large pearls were strewn
“All over my breast,
“And they waited upon me.
“The boards above
“My golden-roofed hall
“Had lost their carved girder.
“And all through the night,
“From eventide,
Smoke-grey crows raised their cries
“Beyond the city walls, by Pliesensk;
“In the gully of the Kiyanka they were,
“And they winged their way
“Towards the blue sea.”
Then spoke the boyars to the prince,
Saying: “Now, o prince,
“Is your mind oppressed with grief,
“For the two falcons have flown forth
“From their father’s gold throne
“To seed the city of Tmutorokan,
“Or to drink a helmetful of Don water.
“And now are their wings clipped close
“By the swords of the pagans,
“And they are fettered
“With gyves of iron.”
“On the third day darkness fell;
“Two suns have grown dim,
“The two purple pillars
“Blaze no more.
“And with them together,
“Both of the young moons,
“Oleg and Svyatoslav,
“Are shrouded in darkness,
“And they are sunk
“Into the sea,–
“Great boldness they have
“Inspired in the pagans!
“On the Kayala river
“The darkness overcame the light.
“All the land of Russia
“Is overrun by the Polovtsi
“As by whelps of the pard.
“Dishonour has vanquished glory,
“Violence has triumphed over freedom,
“The Div has swooped down
“Upon this land.
“The fair maids of the Goths
“Have struck up their songs
“On the shores of the blue sea
“To the jingle of Russian gold.
“They sing the days of Bus,
“They cherish the thought
“Of vengeance of Sharukan.
“And we, you men-at-arms,
“We thirst after joy!”
And the great Svyatoslav
Let fall from his lips
A word of gold
Mingled with tears.
Said he, “O my nephews,
“O Igor and Vsevolod!
“Two soon you began
“To smite with your swords
“The Polovets land,
“To seek glory for yourselves!
“No glorious victory
“Have thus gained,
“For not in victory
“Have you split pagan blood!
“Your valiant hearts
“Are forged of steel
“Tempering with daring.
“But what have you done
“To my silver locks!”
“No more do I see the power
“Of my mighty and wealthy brother,
“Yaroslav, lord of many hosts,
“With his boyars of Chernigov,
“With his chieftains, with the Tatrans,
“The Shelbers, the Topchaks,
“The Revugs, the Olbers!
“These overcome the foe shieldless,
“With but daggers and war-cries,
“Making their forefathers’ fame
“Resound again!
“But you have said,–
“’Let us dare this alone!
“’We two will grasp
“’The glory of old,
“’We two will share the fame to come!’–
“Is it marvel, my brethren,
“For the aged to regain youth?
“When a falcon has moulted,
“He pursues the wild fowl
“High up into the air,
“He lets no harm
“Come near his nest!
“But here is evil indeed:
“The princes are now
“No to help me.
“These are evil times!
“The people cry out
“In the town of Rimov
“Under Polovets swords,
“Prince Vladimir moans
“With the pain of his wounds.
“Woe and sorrow
“To the son of Gleb!”
O great prince Vsevolod!
Is it not your thoughts
To come flying from far off
To guard your father’s golden throne?
For you are able
To splash away the Volga
With your oars,
To scoop up the Don
With your warriors’ helmets.
If you were here–
Slave-girls would be
A nogata each,
Bondmen–but a riezana.
For you can send flying
Over dry land
Your living lances,
The valiant sons of Gleb!
O you furious Rurik,
And you, o David!
Were not those warriors yours
Whose gilded helmets
Sailed a sea of blood?
Are those brave men-at-arms not yours
That roar like wild bulls
Wounded with swords of tempered steel
In the unknown plains?
O lords, step into
Your golden stirrups,
Avenge the wrong of these days,
Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor,
Svyatoslav’s bold son!
O Osmomysl-Yaroslav of Galich!
You are seated high
On your throne of gold,
Pressing back the Hungarian hills
With your iron hosts,
Barring the way to the king,
Making fast the gates to the Danube,
Casting hosts under the clouds,
Sitting in judgment
Even as far as the Danube!
Your thunder spreads
Through many a land;
Your unlock the gates of Kiev,
You shoot at sultans
Beyond your domains
From you father’s golden throne.
Shoot, o lord, at Konchak,
The pagan slave,
Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor,
Svyatoslav’s bold son!
And you, furious Roman,
You too, o Mstislav!
Bold thoughts
Turn your minds
To deeds of valour.
You soar high, in your daring,
To valiant deeds,
As falcons hovering
Upon the winds
In their fury striving
To overcome the wild fowl!
You have warriors of iron
Under Latin helmets.
The earth has quaked beneath them,
And many a land:
The Hinov, the Litva,
The Yatviag, the Deremela
And the Polovtsi
Have flung down their spears
And have bowed their heads
Beneath those swords of steel!
But now, Prince Igor,
The light of the sun
Has grown dim,
And the tree, in ill omen,
Has shed its leaves.
Foes have divided among them
The towns on the Ross and the Sula,
And the valiant host of Igor
Shall never rise again!
“The Don calls you, o prince,
“It calls the princes to victory!”
And the offspring of Oleg,
Those fearless princes,
Flew to the fary!
O Ingvar and Vsevolod,
And you, three sons of Mstislav,
You six-winged offspring
Of a noble nest!
It was not by fortune in war
That you obtained your domains!
Where are your golden helmets,
Your Polish spears and shields?
Bar the gates to the plains
With your keen arrows,
Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor,
Svyatoslav’s bold son!
Now the Sula no longer sweeps
A silvery streams
To the city of Pereyaslavl,
And the Dvina flows through fens
To those dread men of Polotsk,
To the yells of the pagans.
Izyaslav, son of Vasilko, alone
Has made his sword clang,
On Lithuanian helmets,
Bringing to naught
The fame of Vseslav, his forefather;
But he himself was struck down
Beneath his scarlet shields
On the blood-bedewed grass
With his friend who spoke thus:
“O prince, the birds have clothed
“Your warriors with their wings,
“The bests have licked up their blood!”
Bryachislav, his brother, was not there,
Nor the other, Vsevolod:
He alone yielded up
His pearl-white soul
From his valiant body
Through his necklace of gold!
Voices are mournful now,
And joy was waned,
The bugles wail in Gorodno…
O you, offspring of Yaroslav,
And you, grandsons of Vseslav!
Lower your banners, and sheathe
Your blunted swords!
Far, far have you fled
From your forefathers’ fame!
For your brawls have brought pagans
Into the Russian land,
Into Vseslav’s realm!
For your feuds have brought violence
From the Polovets land!
In the seventh age of Troyan
Vseslav cast lots
For the maid he desired.
With wiles he strengthened
His seat in the saddle,
He galloped up to the city of Kiev,
With his spear-shaft he touched
Its golden throne.
He bounded thence
Like a savage beast
At midnight, from Byelgorod
And was lost in the blue mists;
In the morning he battered with bills
And burst open the gates of Novgorod,
Shattering Yaroslav’s fame.
Like a wolf he sprang
From Dudutki to the Nyemiga.
On the Nyemiga River
Heads lie strewn like sheaves of corn,
The threshers thresh
With flails of steel.
On that threshing-floor
Lives are laid down,
The soul is winnowed
From out the body.
The Nyemiga’s gory banks
Were sown not with good seed–
The were sown with the bones
Of Russian sons!
Vseslav the prince
Judged his people,
He assigned cities to princes,
And himself would scour
Through the night like a wolf:
From Kiev speeding,
Before cockcrow he reached
Far Tmutorakan.
Like a wolf,
He would cross the path
Of Khors, the great god.
Early matins were rung for him
At St. Sophia’s in Polotsk,
And he heard the chimes in Kiev.
Though he had soul of a seer
In his valiant body,
Yet many a time he suffered misfortune.
To him did the seer Boyan
Full of sagacity,
Speak thus long ago:
“Neither the crafty, nor the cunning,
“Nor even the crafty bird
“Shall escape the judgment of God!”
Oh, the Russian land shall moan
Recalling bygone days
And the princes of old:
Vladimir of old
Could not be nailed fast
To the hills of Kiev!
And now Rurik and David
Have raised their banners,
But their pennons float apart!
Listen, the spears are singing!
On the Danube
Yaroslavna’s voice is heard.
Like a lone cuckoo
She cries aloud
In the early morn:
“I shall fly,” says she,
“Down the Danube
“Like a lone cuckoo.
“I shall moisten my beaver sleeve
“In the Kayala river;
“I shall stanch
“My prince’s gory wounds
“On his mighty body.”
Yaroslavna weeps
In the early morn
On the walls of Putivl,
Wailing:
“Wind, o wind!
“Why blow, my lord,
“Such a stormy blast?
“Why do you bring
“On your wings so light
“Pagans’ arrows down
“On my lover’s hosts?
“Were you not sated with blowing
“High up under the clouds,
“And with rocking ships
“Upon the blue sea?
“Why have you scattered
“My joy, o my lord,
“Over the feather-grass?”
Yaroslavna weeps
In the early morn
On the walls of Putivl,
Wailing:
“O Dnieper, o Slovutich!
“You have bored your way
“Through mountains of rock
“In the Polovets land.
“You have rocked the galleys
“Of Svyatoslav
“Down to Kobiak’s camp.
“Waft my dear lover
“Back to me, my lord,
“That I send not my tears to him
“Down to the sea, at dawning!”
Yaroslavna weeps
In the early morn
On the walls of Putivl,
Wailing:
“O bright sun,
“Thrice bright sun!
“You are warm and fair
“To one and all!
“Why have you cast, my lord,
“Your burning rays
“On my lover’s warriors?
“In the waterless waste
“Thirst withered up their bows,
“Weariness sealed
“Their quivers tight!”
The swell rolls high
On the sea at midnight.
Pillars of mist arise.
God showeth the way
To prince Igor
From the Polovets land,
To the Russian land,
To his father’s golden throne.
The glow of sunset has waned.
Igor sleeps,
Igor wakes,
In his thoughts, Igor measures the plains
From the great Don
To the lesser Donets.
Ovlur has whistled
To the steed at midnight
Beyond the river,
Bidding the prince understand:
Prince Igor must not linger!
He called out but once,–
The earth rumbled,
The grass rustled,
The tents of the Polovtsi
Were astir!
Prince Igor raced down
To the reeds like ermine,
Like a white drake
He cast himself on the waters.
He leapt onto his fleet-footed steed,
He sprang down like a gray wolf,
And sped down the winding Donets,
And flew like a falcon through the fogs,
Shooting geese and swans
For his morning, noon and evening meat.
While Igor flew like a falcon,
Ovlur sped like a wolf,
Shaking the cold dew
From the blades of grass:
For they had winded
Their fleet-footed steeds!
Says the Donets:
“O prince Igor,
“No small glory is yours,
“No small worry to Konchak,
“And joy to the Russian land!”
Says Igor,
“O Donets,
“No small glory is yours:
“You have gently rocked
“A prince upon your waves,
“Spread green grass for him
“On your silvery banks,
“Clothed him in warm mists
“Under the canopy of the green tree;
“You have watched over him
“With the drake upon your wave,
“The gull upon your stream,
“The black duck upon the breezes!”
“No such,” said he,
“Is the Stugna river:
“Puny stream as it is,
“Swallowing up other brooks and barks,
“It grows broad at the mouth,
“And it engulfed
“The young prince Rostislav.
“Rostislav’s mother
“Weeps for the youth,
“For Price Rostislav;
“Even the flowers
“Have faded in pity,
“The tree has bent down
“To the ground in woe.”
No magpies are these, chattering:
Gza gallops
Along Igor’s trail
Together with Konchak.
Then the raven did not croak,
The jackdaws were still,
The magpies did not chatter–
Only the grass-snakes
Crawled here and there.
The woodpeckers, tapping,
Point the way to the river,
The gay warble of the nightingale
Heralds the dawn.
Says Gza to Konchak,
“As the falcon flies
“Towards his nest,
“Let us shoot the fledgling
“With our gilded arrows!”
Says Konchak to Gza,
“As the falcon flies
“Towards his nest,
“Let us snare the fledgling
“With a fair maid!”
Gza said to Konchak:
“If we snare him
“With a fair maid–
“Then shall we keep
“Neither the fledgling,
“Nor the fair maid,
“And even the birds will smite us
“In the Polovets plains!”
Thus said Boyan and Khodyna,
Bards of Svyatoslav,
Of Yaroslav of yore,
Bards beloved by Prince Oleg:
“Hard it is for the head
“Without the shoulders,
“Woe to the body
“Without the head!”
Woe to the land of Russia
Without Igor!
The sun light up the heavens–
Prince Igor is in the Russian land!
The maidens sing on the Dunabe,
Their voices fly far
Across the sea to Kiev.
Igor rides up Borichev
To the Holy Mother of Pirogoshch.
The hamlets rejoice,
The towns are merry!
Having sung to the old princes,
We shall now sing to the young ones:
“Glory to Igor,
“Son of Svyatoslav,
“To Vsevolod, the furious bull,
“To Vladimir, son of Igor!”
Health to the princes,
To their men-at-arms,
Standing up for the Christendom
Against the pagan hosts!
Glory to the princes
And to their men-at-arms!
Amen!
THE LAY OF THE WARFARE WAGED BY IGOR, SON OF SVYATOSLAV, GRANDSON OF OLEG
(Translated from Old Russian into English by Irina Petrova)
Would it not befit us, my brethren,
To begin, in age-old words,
The woeful tale
Of the warfare waged by Igor,
Igor, son of Svyatoslav?
This lay shall begin
After the deeds of this time,
Not after the fancies of Boyan.
Boyan the Wise,
Wishing to sing of any man,
Would let his thoughts flow
Through the tree of his dreams,
Would let them speed
As the gray wolf over the earth,
Would let then soar
As the blue eagle beneath the clouds.
читать дальшеHe would recall, they say
Warfare of old.
Then would he loose
Ten falcons
Upon a flock of swans:
And when a falcon
Swooped down upon a swan,
Then would that swan
Chant a song
Of old Yaroslav,
Of the valiant Mstislav
Who slew Rededya
Before the Kassog host,
Of the Roman the Fair,
Son of Svyatoslav.
But Boyan. my brethren,
Loosed not ten falcons
Upon a flock of swans –
He laid his wise fingers
Upon the living chords,
And they themselves rang out
Glory to princes.
Let us, my brethren,
Begin this tale
From Vladimir of old,
To Igor, our own days,
Who girded up his wisdom
With his might,
And whetted his heart
With valour,
And, moved by the spirit of warfare,
Led his valiant host
Into the land of Polovtsi,
For the cause of the Russian land.
Then Igor gazed up
At the bright sun
And he saw a shadow from it
Overcasting all his host.
And then said Igor
To his men-at-arms:
“O brethren and warriors!
“Better be slain
“Than taken captive!
“Let us mount, my brethren,
“Our fleet-footed steeds,
“And let us behold
“The blue Don!”
The prince’s was overcome
With ardent longing
And his desire to drink of Don water
Overcame the portents o Heaven.
“I will,” said he,
“Break my spear to splinters
“At the far end of the Polovets plains
“With you, o Russians!
“I will either will low my head,
“Or drink a helmetful
“Of Don water!”
O Boyan,
Nightingale of old!
Were you to sing this warfare,
Fluttering, o nightingale,
In the tree of thought,
Soaring up to the clouds in musing,
Entwining with glory
Both halves of this time,
Speeding along Troyan’s trail
Over hill and dale,
Thus would you have sung
The lay of Igor,
Grandson of Oleg:
“No storm is this
“That has blown the falcons
“Beyond the rolling plains:
“The dawns are fleeing in flocks
“Towards the great Don!”
Yet it should rather thus be sung,
O wise Boyan,
Grandson of Velles:
“Steeds neigh beyond the Sula, –
“Glory resounds through Kiev,
“The bugles blow in Novgorod –
“The banners fly in Putivl!”
Igor awaits
His dear brother Vsevolod.
And then said Vsevolod,
The furious bull:
“One brother have I,
“One bright light–
“You, o Igor!
“We two are sons of Svyatoslav!
“Saddle, my brother,
“Your fleet-footed steeds:
“Mine stand ready,
“Saddled beforehand at Kursk!
“My men of Kursk
“Are all tried warriors,
“Born to be blare of bugles,
“Rocked beneath helmets,
“Nurtured at the point of the spear!
“The paths are known to them.
“The gullies are known to them.
“Their bows are taut,
“The quivers open,
“Their swords whetted,
“They scour the field
“Like gray wolves,
“For themselves seeking honour,
“And for their prince–glory!”
Then sprang prince Igor
To his golden stirrup
And rode forth over the open plain.
The sun then crossed
His path with darkness.
Night awakened the birds
With its stormy moaning,
The whistling of marmots arose.
The Div has started up,
He calls from tree-top,
Bidding strange lands hearken–
The Volga, and the coastlands,
And the banks of the Sula,
And Surozh and Korsun,
And you, Idol of Tmutorokan!
And the Polovtsi sped
By untrodden trails
Towards the grate Don.
Their wains screamed at midnight
Like suddenly startled swans –
Igor leads his host to the grate Don!
And now the birds in the oaks
Gloat over his misfortune to come.
The wolves howl in the gullies
Raising a storm,
The eagles call the beasts
To glut upon bones,
The foxes bark
At the scarlet shields.
O Russian land!
Far are you now beyond the hills!
Long lingers the night;
The glow of sunset has waned.
The mists enshroud the plains
The warbling of nightingales
Has died away.
The chattering of daws
Has arisen.
The Russians have barred
The boundless plains
With their scarlet shields,
For themselves seeking honour,
And their prince–glory.
Early on a Friday morn
They trampled underfoot
The pagan Polovets host,
And scattering like arrows
Over the field,
They whirled away
The fair Polovets maidness
And with them gold and satin,
And precious samite.
With cloaks, and mantles, and coats of fur
And many a costly Polovets tissue
They bridged over
The swamps and the mire.
The scarlet banner,
The white standard,
The scarlet pennant,
The silver shaft,
Were for fearless
Son of Svyatoslav!
Oleg’s brave brood
Slumbers on the battlefield.
Far, far has it flown!
It was not born to be worsted
By the falcon,
Nor by the gerfalcon,
Nor by you, o black raven,
Pagan Polovets!
Gza speeds onward
Like the gray wolf,
Konchak breaks a trail for him
To the great Don!
Full early on the morrow
A blood-red dawn foretells the day.
Black clouds come up from the sea,
Striving to overcast the four suns.
Blue lightning quivers within them,
Mighty thunder shall be heard,
A rain of arrows shall rain
From beyond the great Don.
Spears shall be shattered there,
Swords shall be blunted there,
On Polovets helmets,
On the Kayala river,
By the great Don!
O Russian land!
Far are you now beyond the hills!
Now the winds,
Those grandsons of Stribog,
Blow arrows up from the sea
Upon Igor’s valiant host.
The earth rumbles,
The rivers run turbid,
Dust overspreads the plains,
The banners clamour:
The Polovtsi come–
From the Don, from the sea,
On all sides they beset
The Russian host!
The spawn of the Evil One
Have barred the fields
With their yells,
And the fearless Russians–
With their scarlet shields.
O Vsevolod, you fearless bull!
You stand at bay,
You spray with arrows
The host of the foe,
Your swords of steel clang
Upon their helmets.
Wherever, o bull, you have galloped
With your golden helmet glittering,
There pagan Polovets heads lie thick,
Their Avar helmets shattered
By your swords of tempered steel,
By you, o furious bull,
O Vsevolod!
What wound, o my brethren, can cause dread to him,
Forgetful of his high estate, his life,
The city of Chernigov,
The golden throne of his father,
The ways and wonts
Of his dear bride,
The fair daughter of Gleb!
The age of Troyan is gone,
The days of Yaroslav are past.
Gone are the wars waged by Oleg,
Oleg, son of Svytoslav.
For he, that Oleg,
Forged feuds with his sword,
Sowed his arrows over the earth.
When he sprang to his golden stirrup
In the city of Tmutorokan,
Its jingling was heard
In days of old
By the great Yaroslav,
While Vladimir, son of Vsevolod
Stooped his ears every morn
In the city of Chernigov.
And Boris, son of Vyacheslav,
Was brought by his vaunting
To the judgment (of God),
And a green shroud
Was spread for him,
That valiant young prince,
By the Kanina River,
For a wrong done to Oleg.
From another such Kayala
Svyatopolk had his father borne
Between two Hungarian pacers
To St. Sophia’s,
To Kiev.
Then, in the days of Oleg,
The Son of Woe,
Discord was sown and throve.
Then perished the brightlight
Of the grandsons of Dazhbog.
The lives of the common folk
Were cut short
By the brawls of princes.
Then was the voice of the husbandman seldom heard
Throughout the Russian land,
But often, indeed,
The ravens croaked
Feasting on the dead,
And the jackdaws raised their cries
Making ready to fly to a feast.
Thus was in those battles,
In the days of that warfare.
But such a battle as this
Has never been heard of yet!
From morning till evening,
From twilight till dawn
Steel-tipped arrows fly,
Swords clang upon helmets,
Steel spears are shattered
In that strange field
In the heart of the Polovets land.
The black earth
Under the hoofs
Was sown with bones,
Watered with blood:
It yielded a harvest of woe
To the Russian land.
What clamour is that?
What clang is that
Far away, so early,
Before dawning?
It is Igor turning his host about,
Smitten with pity
For his beloved brother Vsevolod,
One day they fought,
And another,
And on the third,
At midday,
The banners of Igor fell!
That’s there the two brothers parted,
On the bank of the swift Kayala.
Of gory wine they had scarce enough.
There the brave Russians ended their feast.
They made their kinsmen drunken,
And were laid low themselves
For the Russian land.
The very grass droops with pity,
And the trees bend down
To the ground with woe.
Then, my brethren,
An evil time set in:
The wilderness had engulfed our host.
Sorrow arose
Among the offspring of Dazhbog.
Maiden-like, she paced
Through Troyan’s land;
Waiving her swan-like wings
Over the blue sea, by the Don,
She drove away
The days of plenty.
The princes warred no more
Against the pagans,
For brother spoke to brother,
Saying,
“This is mine,
“And that, too, is mine!”
And the princes began
To call small thing great,
To forge feuds
Among themselves.
And from all sides the pagans
Invaded in triumph
The Russian land.
Oh, far has the falcon flown,
Driving the wild fowl before him
Down to the sea!
And the valiant host of Igor
Shall never rise again!
Then Karna and Zhelya
Raised their lament,
They swept through the Russian land,
Scattering funeral fire
From a flaming horn.
The Russian women
Lamented, wailing:
“Now shall we never
“See our dear lovers
“In thoughts, nor in dreams,
“Nor with our own eyes!
“Neither silver, no gold
“Shall we wear again!”
Then Kiev, my brethren
Moaned in sorrow
And Chernigov moaned
Beneath these disasters.
Woe overflowed
The land of Russia,
Deep sorrow flooded
The Russian land.
The forged feuds
Among themselves,
And the pagans, overrunning
The Russian land,
Levied tribute,–
A squirrel pelt from each household.
For the valiant two,
Sons of Svyatoslav,
Igor and Vsevolod,
With discord had aroused the evil
Put to sleep by their father,
The great, the terrible
Svyatoslav of Kiev.
Like a thunderstorm,
He struck men with awe,
With his mighty hosts
And his swords of steel
He invaded the Polovets land,
Trampled level hill and gully,
Muddied lake and river,
Scorched up stream and swamp.
He swept from the sea-cost
The pagan Kobiak,
Like a whirlwind, he snatched him
From the thick of the mighty iron Polovets host,
And Kobiak fell prostrate
In the city of Kiev,
In Svyatoslav’s hall.
Now Germans, Venetians,
Now Greek and Moravians
Sing the praises
Of Svyatoslav;
They blame prince Igor
That he drowned his wealth
In the depths of the Kayala,
The Polovets river,
That he scattered in it the Russian gold!
There Prince Igor exchanged
His golden saddle
For that of captive.
Grief has seized
The walls of cities
And joy droops low.
Svyatoslav has dreamt
A troubled dream
On the hills of Kiev.
“Last night,” said he,
“From eventide,
“They swathed me
“In a black shroud
“Upon a bed of yew.
“Blue wine has poured for me
“Mingled with sorrow.
“From the empty quivers
“Of pagan strangers
“Large pearls were strewn
“All over my breast,
“And they waited upon me.
“The boards above
“My golden-roofed hall
“Had lost their carved girder.
“And all through the night,
“From eventide,
Smoke-grey crows raised their cries
“Beyond the city walls, by Pliesensk;
“In the gully of the Kiyanka they were,
“And they winged their way
“Towards the blue sea.”
Then spoke the boyars to the prince,
Saying: “Now, o prince,
“Is your mind oppressed with grief,
“For the two falcons have flown forth
“From their father’s gold throne
“To seed the city of Tmutorokan,
“Or to drink a helmetful of Don water.
“And now are their wings clipped close
“By the swords of the pagans,
“And they are fettered
“With gyves of iron.”
“On the third day darkness fell;
“Two suns have grown dim,
“The two purple pillars
“Blaze no more.
“And with them together,
“Both of the young moons,
“Oleg and Svyatoslav,
“Are shrouded in darkness,
“And they are sunk
“Into the sea,–
“Great boldness they have
“Inspired in the pagans!
“On the Kayala river
“The darkness overcame the light.
“All the land of Russia
“Is overrun by the Polovtsi
“As by whelps of the pard.
“Dishonour has vanquished glory,
“Violence has triumphed over freedom,
“The Div has swooped down
“Upon this land.
“The fair maids of the Goths
“Have struck up their songs
“On the shores of the blue sea
“To the jingle of Russian gold.
“They sing the days of Bus,
“They cherish the thought
“Of vengeance of Sharukan.
“And we, you men-at-arms,
“We thirst after joy!”
And the great Svyatoslav
Let fall from his lips
A word of gold
Mingled with tears.
Said he, “O my nephews,
“O Igor and Vsevolod!
“Two soon you began
“To smite with your swords
“The Polovets land,
“To seek glory for yourselves!
“No glorious victory
“Have thus gained,
“For not in victory
“Have you split pagan blood!
“Your valiant hearts
“Are forged of steel
“Tempering with daring.
“But what have you done
“To my silver locks!”
“No more do I see the power
“Of my mighty and wealthy brother,
“Yaroslav, lord of many hosts,
“With his boyars of Chernigov,
“With his chieftains, with the Tatrans,
“The Shelbers, the Topchaks,
“The Revugs, the Olbers!
“These overcome the foe shieldless,
“With but daggers and war-cries,
“Making their forefathers’ fame
“Resound again!
“But you have said,–
“’Let us dare this alone!
“’We two will grasp
“’The glory of old,
“’We two will share the fame to come!’–
“Is it marvel, my brethren,
“For the aged to regain youth?
“When a falcon has moulted,
“He pursues the wild fowl
“High up into the air,
“He lets no harm
“Come near his nest!
“But here is evil indeed:
“The princes are now
“No to help me.
“These are evil times!
“The people cry out
“In the town of Rimov
“Under Polovets swords,
“Prince Vladimir moans
“With the pain of his wounds.
“Woe and sorrow
“To the son of Gleb!”
O great prince Vsevolod!
Is it not your thoughts
To come flying from far off
To guard your father’s golden throne?
For you are able
To splash away the Volga
With your oars,
To scoop up the Don
With your warriors’ helmets.
If you were here–
Slave-girls would be
A nogata each,
Bondmen–but a riezana.
For you can send flying
Over dry land
Your living lances,
The valiant sons of Gleb!
O you furious Rurik,
And you, o David!
Were not those warriors yours
Whose gilded helmets
Sailed a sea of blood?
Are those brave men-at-arms not yours
That roar like wild bulls
Wounded with swords of tempered steel
In the unknown plains?
O lords, step into
Your golden stirrups,
Avenge the wrong of these days,
Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor,
Svyatoslav’s bold son!
O Osmomysl-Yaroslav of Galich!
You are seated high
On your throne of gold,
Pressing back the Hungarian hills
With your iron hosts,
Barring the way to the king,
Making fast the gates to the Danube,
Casting hosts under the clouds,
Sitting in judgment
Even as far as the Danube!
Your thunder spreads
Through many a land;
Your unlock the gates of Kiev,
You shoot at sultans
Beyond your domains
From you father’s golden throne.
Shoot, o lord, at Konchak,
The pagan slave,
Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor,
Svyatoslav’s bold son!
And you, furious Roman,
You too, o Mstislav!
Bold thoughts
Turn your minds
To deeds of valour.
You soar high, in your daring,
To valiant deeds,
As falcons hovering
Upon the winds
In their fury striving
To overcome the wild fowl!
You have warriors of iron
Under Latin helmets.
The earth has quaked beneath them,
And many a land:
The Hinov, the Litva,
The Yatviag, the Deremela
And the Polovtsi
Have flung down their spears
And have bowed their heads
Beneath those swords of steel!
But now, Prince Igor,
The light of the sun
Has grown dim,
And the tree, in ill omen,
Has shed its leaves.
Foes have divided among them
The towns on the Ross and the Sula,
And the valiant host of Igor
Shall never rise again!
“The Don calls you, o prince,
“It calls the princes to victory!”
And the offspring of Oleg,
Those fearless princes,
Flew to the fary!
O Ingvar and Vsevolod,
And you, three sons of Mstislav,
You six-winged offspring
Of a noble nest!
It was not by fortune in war
That you obtained your domains!
Where are your golden helmets,
Your Polish spears and shields?
Bar the gates to the plains
With your keen arrows,
Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor,
Svyatoslav’s bold son!
Now the Sula no longer sweeps
A silvery streams
To the city of Pereyaslavl,
And the Dvina flows through fens
To those dread men of Polotsk,
To the yells of the pagans.
Izyaslav, son of Vasilko, alone
Has made his sword clang,
On Lithuanian helmets,
Bringing to naught
The fame of Vseslav, his forefather;
But he himself was struck down
Beneath his scarlet shields
On the blood-bedewed grass
With his friend who spoke thus:
“O prince, the birds have clothed
“Your warriors with their wings,
“The bests have licked up their blood!”
Bryachislav, his brother, was not there,
Nor the other, Vsevolod:
He alone yielded up
His pearl-white soul
From his valiant body
Through his necklace of gold!
Voices are mournful now,
And joy was waned,
The bugles wail in Gorodno…
O you, offspring of Yaroslav,
And you, grandsons of Vseslav!
Lower your banners, and sheathe
Your blunted swords!
Far, far have you fled
From your forefathers’ fame!
For your brawls have brought pagans
Into the Russian land,
Into Vseslav’s realm!
For your feuds have brought violence
From the Polovets land!
In the seventh age of Troyan
Vseslav cast lots
For the maid he desired.
With wiles he strengthened
His seat in the saddle,
He galloped up to the city of Kiev,
With his spear-shaft he touched
Its golden throne.
He bounded thence
Like a savage beast
At midnight, from Byelgorod
And was lost in the blue mists;
In the morning he battered with bills
And burst open the gates of Novgorod,
Shattering Yaroslav’s fame.
Like a wolf he sprang
From Dudutki to the Nyemiga.
On the Nyemiga River
Heads lie strewn like sheaves of corn,
The threshers thresh
With flails of steel.
On that threshing-floor
Lives are laid down,
The soul is winnowed
From out the body.
The Nyemiga’s gory banks
Were sown not with good seed–
The were sown with the bones
Of Russian sons!
Vseslav the prince
Judged his people,
He assigned cities to princes,
And himself would scour
Through the night like a wolf:
From Kiev speeding,
Before cockcrow he reached
Far Tmutorakan.
Like a wolf,
He would cross the path
Of Khors, the great god.
Early matins were rung for him
At St. Sophia’s in Polotsk,
And he heard the chimes in Kiev.
Though he had soul of a seer
In his valiant body,
Yet many a time he suffered misfortune.
To him did the seer Boyan
Full of sagacity,
Speak thus long ago:
“Neither the crafty, nor the cunning,
“Nor even the crafty bird
“Shall escape the judgment of God!”
Oh, the Russian land shall moan
Recalling bygone days
And the princes of old:
Vladimir of old
Could not be nailed fast
To the hills of Kiev!
And now Rurik and David
Have raised their banners,
But their pennons float apart!
Listen, the spears are singing!
On the Danube
Yaroslavna’s voice is heard.
Like a lone cuckoo
She cries aloud
In the early morn:
“I shall fly,” says she,
“Down the Danube
“Like a lone cuckoo.
“I shall moisten my beaver sleeve
“In the Kayala river;
“I shall stanch
“My prince’s gory wounds
“On his mighty body.”
Yaroslavna weeps
In the early morn
On the walls of Putivl,
Wailing:
“Wind, o wind!
“Why blow, my lord,
“Such a stormy blast?
“Why do you bring
“On your wings so light
“Pagans’ arrows down
“On my lover’s hosts?
“Were you not sated with blowing
“High up under the clouds,
“And with rocking ships
“Upon the blue sea?
“Why have you scattered
“My joy, o my lord,
“Over the feather-grass?”
Yaroslavna weeps
In the early morn
On the walls of Putivl,
Wailing:
“O Dnieper, o Slovutich!
“You have bored your way
“Through mountains of rock
“In the Polovets land.
“You have rocked the galleys
“Of Svyatoslav
“Down to Kobiak’s camp.
“Waft my dear lover
“Back to me, my lord,
“That I send not my tears to him
“Down to the sea, at dawning!”
Yaroslavna weeps
In the early morn
On the walls of Putivl,
Wailing:
“O bright sun,
“Thrice bright sun!
“You are warm and fair
“To one and all!
“Why have you cast, my lord,
“Your burning rays
“On my lover’s warriors?
“In the waterless waste
“Thirst withered up their bows,
“Weariness sealed
“Their quivers tight!”
The swell rolls high
On the sea at midnight.
Pillars of mist arise.
God showeth the way
To prince Igor
From the Polovets land,
To the Russian land,
To his father’s golden throne.
The glow of sunset has waned.
Igor sleeps,
Igor wakes,
In his thoughts, Igor measures the plains
From the great Don
To the lesser Donets.
Ovlur has whistled
To the steed at midnight
Beyond the river,
Bidding the prince understand:
Prince Igor must not linger!
He called out but once,–
The earth rumbled,
The grass rustled,
The tents of the Polovtsi
Were astir!
Prince Igor raced down
To the reeds like ermine,
Like a white drake
He cast himself on the waters.
He leapt onto his fleet-footed steed,
He sprang down like a gray wolf,
And sped down the winding Donets,
And flew like a falcon through the fogs,
Shooting geese and swans
For his morning, noon and evening meat.
While Igor flew like a falcon,
Ovlur sped like a wolf,
Shaking the cold dew
From the blades of grass:
For they had winded
Their fleet-footed steeds!
Says the Donets:
“O prince Igor,
“No small glory is yours,
“No small worry to Konchak,
“And joy to the Russian land!”
Says Igor,
“O Donets,
“No small glory is yours:
“You have gently rocked
“A prince upon your waves,
“Spread green grass for him
“On your silvery banks,
“Clothed him in warm mists
“Under the canopy of the green tree;
“You have watched over him
“With the drake upon your wave,
“The gull upon your stream,
“The black duck upon the breezes!”
“No such,” said he,
“Is the Stugna river:
“Puny stream as it is,
“Swallowing up other brooks and barks,
“It grows broad at the mouth,
“And it engulfed
“The young prince Rostislav.
“Rostislav’s mother
“Weeps for the youth,
“For Price Rostislav;
“Even the flowers
“Have faded in pity,
“The tree has bent down
“To the ground in woe.”
No magpies are these, chattering:
Gza gallops
Along Igor’s trail
Together with Konchak.
Then the raven did not croak,
The jackdaws were still,
The magpies did not chatter–
Only the grass-snakes
Crawled here and there.
The woodpeckers, tapping,
Point the way to the river,
The gay warble of the nightingale
Heralds the dawn.
Says Gza to Konchak,
“As the falcon flies
“Towards his nest,
“Let us shoot the fledgling
“With our gilded arrows!”
Says Konchak to Gza,
“As the falcon flies
“Towards his nest,
“Let us snare the fledgling
“With a fair maid!”
Gza said to Konchak:
“If we snare him
“With a fair maid–
“Then shall we keep
“Neither the fledgling,
“Nor the fair maid,
“And even the birds will smite us
“In the Polovets plains!”
Thus said Boyan and Khodyna,
Bards of Svyatoslav,
Of Yaroslav of yore,
Bards beloved by Prince Oleg:
“Hard it is for the head
“Without the shoulders,
“Woe to the body
“Without the head!”
Woe to the land of Russia
Without Igor!
The sun light up the heavens–
Prince Igor is in the Russian land!
The maidens sing on the Dunabe,
Their voices fly far
Across the sea to Kiev.
Igor rides up Borichev
To the Holy Mother of Pirogoshch.
The hamlets rejoice,
The towns are merry!
Having sung to the old princes,
We shall now sing to the young ones:
“Glory to Igor,
“Son of Svyatoslav,
“To Vsevolod, the furious bull,
“To Vladimir, son of Igor!”
Health to the princes,
To their men-at-arms,
Standing up for the Christendom
Against the pagan hosts!
Glory to the princes
And to their men-at-arms!
Amen!