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Inside out have the times
turned.
Now in Rim [people] scream
under Kuman sabers, 495 and Volodimir [screams]
under wounding blows.
Woe and anguish to you,
[Volodimir]
son of Gleb!
Great prince Vsevolod!
Do you not think of flying here
from 500 afar
to safeguard the paternal golden
throne?
For you can with your oars
scatter in drops the Volga, 505 and with your helmets
scoop dry the Don.
If you were here,
a female slave would fetch
one nogata, 510 and a male slave,
one rezana;
for you can shoot on land live
bolts-
[these are] the bold sons of
Gleb! 515 You turbulent Rurik, and [you]
David!
Were not your men's gilt helmets
afloat on blood?
Do not your brave knights roar 520 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, 525 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; 530 you have braced the Hungarian
mountains
with your iron troops;
you have barred the [Hungarian]
king's 535 path;
you have closed the Danube's
gates,
hurling weighty missiles over
the clouds, 540 spreading your courts to the
Danube.
Your thunders range
over lands;
you open Kiev's gates;
from the paternal golden throne
you shoot at sultans 545 beyond the lands.
Shoot [your arrows], lord,
at Konchak, the pagan slave,
to avenge the Russian land,
and the wounds of Igor, 550 turbulent son of Svyatoslav!
And you, turbulent Roman, and
Mstislav!
A brave thought 555 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 560 to overcome the bird.
For you have iron breastplates
under Latin helmets;
these have made the earth
rumble,
and many nations- 565 Hins, Lithuanians, Yatvangians,
Dermners, and Kumans-
have dropped their spears
and bowed their heads
beneath those steel swords.
570 But already, [O] Prince Igor,
the sunlight has dimmed,
and, not goodly, the tree sheds
its
foliage. 575 Along the Ros and the Sula
the towns have been distributed;
and Igor's brave troops
cannot be brought back to life!
The Don, Prince, calls you, 580 and summons the princes to
victory.
The brave princes, descendants
of
Oleg,
have hastened to fight. 585 Ingvar and Vsevolod,
and all three sons of Mstislav,
six-winged [hawks?] of no mean
brood!
Not by victorious sorts
did you grasp your patrimonies. 590 Where, then, are your golden
helmets,
and Polish spears, and shields?
Bar the gates of the prairie
with your sharp arrows
to avenge the Russian land
and the wounds of Igor,
turbulent son of Svyatoslav.
No longer indeed does the Sula
flow
in silvery streams
for [the defense of] the town of
Pereyaslavl;
and the Dvina, too,
flows marsh-like
for the erstwhile dreaded
townsmen of Polotsk
to the war cries of pagans.