Translation: The Ballad of Oleg the Wise by Pushkin

Here's Oleg the Wise as he readies his might.
Fool Khazars provoking his ire.
Rash raid doomed their pastures and keeps to the plight
His torches and swords so desire.
Atop his best horse, clad in Byzantine mail
His liegemen beside him, he rides on the trail

Approaching a dark, brooding forest ahead
He’s met by an ancient enchanter
Тhe man serves the gods, old Perun it is said
And seeks to foretell, not to banter
His life’s spent in fasting, rune casting, and prayer
Our Oleg rides up to the wizened soothsayer

“So tell me, old mage, so beloved by the gods,
What fate has in store? Does it hurry?
Is the day coming soon, when my foes, oh so glad
See me covered with dust, dead and buried?
Do tell the whole truth, have no fear of my sword:
And pick any war horse as your just reward”.

“The magi fear not neither strongman nor lord
And your princely gift is not needed;
Our prophecy’s free, and requires no reward
The fates shall, as always, be heeded
The future is yet too obscure to endow
But your die is cast, and as plain as your brow

Remember the words that I utter, and know
A warrior’s fame you most cherish;
You’ll have it, and more, as your victories grow
Byzantium yields, lest it perish
The steppes and the ocean succumb, you’re so great
Your enemies, jealous, abandoned by fate

No rogue wave upon a deceptive blue sea,
Or sudden, malevolent weather
No knife, sling or arrow will dare to succeed
The years are too kind, altogether
Your armor protects you, you’ll never be gored
Invisible forces must guard you, oh lord

Your stallion’s fearless, no matter the task
Obeying your will without rattle
He’ll stand under fire so long as you ask
Or race headlong into the battle
He fears neither blizzard nor slaughter, indeed
But your death will come from your favorite steed"

Here Oleg does chuckle but his glowing face
And visage soon darken with worry.
Then grasping the saddle horn as if to brace
He climbs off his horse, in no hurry.
He places his hand on the stallion’s mane
And ruffles it, pets it, with obvious strain

“Goodbye my dear friend, ‘bye my trusted old brute,
My friend whom the fates won’t abide
You’ll be ridden no more! And no warrior’s boot
Shall touch those gold stirrups and hide
Goodbye, don’t be sad, but remember our wars
Here grooms and companions, please take my horse

Do cover his back in the finest of wool
The greenest of pastures awaits him
Do brush him and feed him, make sure that he’s full
Drinks only spring water, and bathe him”
The grooms rush to hurry the war horse away
And bring Oleg a fresh one, with hardly a neigh

Now Oleg is feasting, his face is aglow
The din of old toasts ringing merry
‘Midst the curls of his warriors, now white as snow
A top of their mound on the prairie
Remembering battles from times long since gone
The din of their swords and the blood that was drawn

“So where is my friend?” He inquires at last
"Do tell me: where is my old stallion?
He’s well? Does he canter and gallop as fast?
Is he still a playful rapscallion?"
They quietly whisper: a hill green, and steep
Is his resting place, there he sleeps the long sleep

And here mighty Oleg does lower his head
Lamenting: “what’s come of that vision?
Damn mage, you old liar whose reason had fled!
What folly to make that decision
My steed would still carry me, still lead my force”
He wants to be shown the remains of his horse

And thus mighty Oleg proceeds from his court
His liegemen with him, and Prince Igor
He sees, on a mound near an old Dnieper port
The bones that were once full of vigor
In deep, swaying grass, the old dusty remains
Are worn out and bleached by the winds and the rains

The prince gently steps on the stallion’s skull
And says “rest in peace, lonely friend
Your rider of old did survive you but shall
Soon follow you to the same end.
But it won’t be your neck that is slashed on the plains
To pour out your lifeblood and sate my remains"

“So this is how fate chose to finally smite!
These bones were my death and destruction!”
From the dead horse’s skull, a snake darker than night
Crawls, hissing in deadly seduction
Encircling his feet in a black, mournful bow
And Oleg screams, stricken, as fate deals its blow

Round vessels of wine, and of mead, foam and spill
And Prince Oleg’s warriors of yore
With Igor and Olga a top of the hill
Feast and reminisce, by the shore
Remembering battles from times long since gone
The din of their swords and the blood that was drawn

Author notes: The first stanza, especially, is practically impossible to fully translate in rhyming style (I've lost count  of how many versions of it I wrote) - it's packed full of information, difficult rhyming concepts like revenge and the Khozars, which were a khanate that was partially lording over old Rus (mostly before Mongol times) -- this is Russia prior to conversion to Christianity, and Prince Oleg is a legendary, Viking descendant figure of the earliest ruling families. it of course rhymes flawlessly in Russian There are of course numerous attempts -- here's a quick one: https://ruverses.com/alexander-pushkin/the-lay-of-the-wise-oleg/11063/ I think I did a decent job