In days of old the hero Svyatogor, Sensing in himself a presumptuous strength, In an ill hour resolved with his hand To lift up and overturn the universe

And on his swift steed
He rode out on a considerable journey,
Riding to seek the pull of the earth,
He sees a mountain far off, unlike any other...

"Can it be here?!" And with his whip he struck
The horse with his mighty hand,
The horse flew like a bird to the top
And stood stock-still above the precipice...

The hero Svyatogor climbed down from the saddle,
Not so much as a migrating bird in sight!
Not a soul... He only looks: before him
Lies something like a saddlebag...

The hero bowed to the earth,
Wants to lift the bag, but it will not stir...
What a marvel! Neither back nor forth,
And all around not a breath of wind stirs...

He strained himself, and sweat in three streams
Rolled down his sunburnt face,
And alarm gripped the heart
Of Svyatogor, the bold warrior...

"What foul thing is this!.. Well, I shall die,
But I shall not let my strength be mocked!.."
And again the hero put his weight to it,
And the mountain became the grave of his strength:

Where he stood, there he went into the earth,
Unable to curb his heroic temper,
Together with the pull of the earth in his hands...
That is now the place of Svyatogor!..

On the steep mountain to this day,
Where the abyss of a ravine yawns open,
A horse of stone has been waiting for its rider
For more than a thousand years...

And all around only the wind roars,
The wind sings its unchanging song:
"You should not have boasted, Svyatogor,
That you could lift up and overturn the universe!.."

Literal translation

Poem "Svyatogor" by Apollon Korinfsky, 1893

Watercolour by Ivan Simakov, "The Russian Hero Svyatogor Pulls the Saddlebag", 1917