A.S. Pushkin Song of Prophetic Oleg
How the prophetic Oleg is getting ready now
To take revenge on the foolish Khazars:
Their villages and fields for a violent raid
He doomed him to swords and fires.
With his squad, in Tsaregrad armor,
The prince rides across the field on a faithful horse.
From the dark forest, towards him,
An inspired magician is coming,
An old man obedient to Perun alone,
The messenger of the covenants of the future,
He spent his life in prayers and fortune-telling.
And Oleg drove up to the wise old man.
"Tell me, magician, favorite of the gods,
What will happen to me in life?
And soon, to the joy of our neighbors-enemies,
Will I be covered with grave soil?
Reveal to me the whole truth, do not be afraid of me:
You will take a horse as a reward for anyone."
"The Magi are not afraid of mighty lords,
But they don’t need a princely gift;
Their prophetic language is truthful and free
And friendly with the will of heaven.
The coming years lurk in darkness;
But I see your lot on your bright brow.
Now remember my words:
Glory is a joy to the warrior;
Your name is glorified by victory;
Your shield is on the gates of Constantinople;
Both the waves and the land are submissive to you;
The enemy is jealous of such a wondrous fate.
And the blue sea is a deceptive wave
In the hours of fatal bad weather
And the sling, and the arrow, and the crafty dagger
The years are kind to the winner...
Under the formidable armor you know no wounds;
An invisible guardian has been given to the mighty.
Your horse is not afraid of dangerous work;
He, sensing the master's will,
Then the humble one stands under the arrows of enemies,
It rushes across the battlefield,
And the cold and slashing are nothing to him:
But you will receive death from your horse."
Oleg grinned; however the brow
And the gaze was darkened by thoughts,
In silence, leaning his hand on the saddle,
He gets off his horse gloomily;
AND true friend with a farewell hand
And he strokes and pats the cool guy’s neck.
"Farewell, my comrade, my faithful servant,
The time has come for us to part:
Now rest; no one will step foot
In your gilded)
