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Do not your brave knights roar like
bulls
wounded by tempered sabers
in the field unknown?
Set your feet, my lords,
in your stirrups of gold
to avenge the wrong of our time,
the Russian land,
and the wounds of Igor,
turbulent son of Svyatoslav.
Eight-minded Yaroslav of Galich!
You sit high on your gold-forged
throne;
you have braced the Hungarian
mountains
with your iron troops;
you have barred the [Hungarian]
path;
you have closed the Danube's gates,
hurling weighty missiles over the clouds,
spreading your courts to the Danube.
Apostrophe (continued)
Your thunders range over lands;
you open Kiev's gates;
from the paternal golden throne
you shoot at sultans
beyond the lands.
Shoot [your arrows], lord,
at Konchak, the pagan slave,
to avenge the Russian land,
and the wounds of Igor,
turbulent son of Svyatoslav!
And you, turbulent Roman, and
Mstislav!
A brave thought
carries your minds to deeds.
On high you soar to deeds
in your turbulence,
like the falcon
that rides the winds
as he strives in turbulence
to overcome the bird.
For you have iron breastplates
under Latin helmets;
these have made the earth rumble,
and many nations —
Hins, Lithuanians, Yatvangians,
Dermners, and Kumans —
have dropped their spears
and bowed their heads
beneath those steel swords.
But already, [О] Prince Igor,
the sunlight has dimmed,
and, not goodly, the tree sheds
its foliage. |