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 grey wolf over the earth,
Would let them soar
As the blue eagle beneath the clouds.
He 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,
Or of 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 then, my brethren,
Begin this tale
From Vladimir of old,
To Igor, of 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 |
