A longing consumed the prince's mind,
and she omen was screened from him
by the urge of taste
of the Great Don:
"For I wish," he said,
"to break a lance
on the limit of the Kuman field;
with you, sons of Rus, I wish
either to lay down my head
or drink helmetful of the Don."
Igor sets out;
accumulation of omens
Then Igor set foot
in the golden stirrup
and rode out in the champaign.
The sun block his way with darkness.
Night, moaning ominously unto him,
awaken the birds;
the whistling of beasts [arises?];
[stirring?] the daeva calls
on the top of a tree,
bids hearken the land unknown —
and the [Azov] Seaboard,
and the Sula country,
and Surozh, and Korsun,
and you, idol of Tmutorokan!
Meanwhile by untrodden roads
the Kumans make for the Great Don;
[their] wagons screak in the middle of
one might say — dispersed swans.
Igor leads Donward his warriors.
His misfortunes already
arc forefclt by the birds in the
oakscrub. The wolves, in the ravines,
conjure the storm.
The ems with their squalling
summon the beasts to the bones.
The foxes yelp
at the vermilion shields.
O Russian land,
you are already behind the culmen!
Igor rides on
Long does the night keep darkling.
Dawn sheds its light.
Mist has covered the fields.
Stilled is the trilling of nightingales;
the jargon of jackdaws has woken.
With their vermilion shields
the sons of Rus have barred the great
seeking for themselves honor,
and for their prince glory.