Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, Number 358, August 1845. Various

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      "Farewell then, my comrade, fleet, faithful, and bold!

      We must part—such is Destiny's power:

      Now rest thee—I swear, in thy stirrup of gold

      No foot shall e'er rest, from this hour.

      Farewell! we've been comrades for many a long year—

      My squires, now I pray ye, come take my destrere.

      "The softest of carpets his horse-cloth shall be:

      And lead him away to the meadow;

      On the choicest of corn he shall feed daintilie,

      He shall drink of the well in the shadow."

      Then straightway departed the squires with the steed,

      And to valiant Olég a fresh courser they lead.

      Olég and his comrades are feasting, I trow;

      The mead-cups are merrily clashing:

      Their locks are as white as the dawn-lighted snow

      On the peak of the mountain-top flashing:

      They talk of old times, of the days of their pride,

      And the fights where together they struck side by side.

      "But where," quoth Olég, "is my good battle-horse?

      My mettlesome charger—how fares he?

      Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course;

      His age and his freedom how bears he?"

      They answer and say: on the hill by the stream

      He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream.

      Olég then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow:

      "O man, what can magic avail thee!

      A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou:

      Our rage and contempt should assail thee.

      My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee

      Then the bones of his charger Olég went to see.

      Olég he rode forth with his spearmen beside;

      At his bridle Prince Igor he hurried:

      And they see on a hillock by Dniépr's swift tide

      Where the steed's noble bones lie unburied:

      They are wash'd by the rain, the dust o'er them is cast,

      And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast.

      Then the Prince set his foot on the courser's white skull;

      Saying: "Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory!

      Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full:

      At his funeral feast, red and gory,

      'Tis not thou 'neath the axe that shall redden the sod,

      That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood.

      "And am I to find my destruction in this?

      My death in a skeleton seeking?"

      From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss,

      Crept forth, as the hero was speaking:

      Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring;

      And the Prince shriek'd aloud as he felt the keen sting.

      The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around;

      At Olég's mighty Death-Feast they're ringing;

      Prince Igor and Olga they sit on the mound;

      The war-men the death-song are singing:

      And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride,

      And the fights where together they struck side by side.