“Oh God! and what
Will be with her when first she learns
The sentence dread has been fulfilled?
As yet her soul is undisturbed,
But it no longer can be kept
From her. The headsman’s fatal blow
Like thunder-stroke will echo loud
Throughout the whole Ukraine. The talk
Of prating world will reach her ears.
Alas, I see, the man, ordained
By fate to lead the world s big strife,
Alone should face the raging storm,
-Unhampered by a woman’s love.
The restive steed and timid deer
Must ne’er be harnessed to one car.
This I incautiously forgot,
And now must pay the heavy price
Of my mad fault. For, all that has
Worth, all that lends to life a charm,
The blameless maiden brought to me,
To me, a stern old man... and I,
In what can I reward her love?”
Fondly he gazes where she lies,
Cradled and stilled in softest dream.
How sweet her sleep of trusting faith!
A happy smile her lips half part,
With fullest life her white breasts heave
But to-morrow?... And with a groan
He rose, and, with quick muffled steps,
Reeled blindly forth into the air.

Calm and soft is the Ukraine night.
No cloud to dull the wide expanse:
The stars are shining full and bright;
No breeze to wake the drowsy dream,
Nor scarce a breath that cares to fret
The sleep of silver-poplar leaves.
Mazeppa’s soul is filled with strange
Conflicting thoughts. The stars of night
Look down like keen accusing eyes,
And haunt him with their mocking glance.
The poplars hug their branches close,
And shake their tops, and whisper low
To list ning boughs their sentence stern.
The balmy air of summer night
Chokes him, like damp of prison cell.

Sudden, as from the castle near,
He hears a cry... a speechless moan.
Is it the coinage of mad brain,
The owlet’s hoot, or wild beast’s growl,
Or tortured groan? He cannot tell.
But he is powerless, the slave
Of some strong will, and in reply
Shouts back the wail... his fierce, loud cry
He raised when in the battle’s din,
With Zabel, or with Hamelei,
Or oft with him... with Kotzubei,
He rushed to meet the foe’s wild charge.

The first faint streaks of russet dawn
Have bathed the sky in new-born light;
I ne vales, and hills, and meadows gleam;
! be tufted groves and rippling streams
Awake to sing their morning hymn,
And summon men to daily toil.

Still lying on her couch, Marie
In slumber dozing, thinks she hears
In her light sleep some one approach, 
And touch her foot with timid hand.
She wakes, bat quickly with a smile
Her eyes are closed, as from the glare
Of day they shrink. And in her sleep
She stretches and puts out her hand,
As languidly she murmurs low,
“Mazeppa!” But a voice, not his,
Replies, and, trembling, she looks up,
And what is it she gazes on?
Before her stands her mother.

MOTHER.

Hush!
Or else we are undone! This night
I’ve hither stolen, and am come
With one, last, sad, beseeching prayer.
To-day he dies. And thou alone
Canst touch or turn their cruel hearts.
Thy father save!

MARIE.

Whose father save?
Who dies?

MOTHER.

Or can it be, till now
Thou hast been ignorant?... But no!
Thou livst with him, art in the world,
Must know how dread the Hetman’s sway,
How all his foes before him fall,
And how the Tsar puts trust in him..
I see too well, thy ruined home
Thou hast forgot for Hetman’s love!
The sentence dread hath been pronounced,
The death-decree is being read,
The axe is raised above his head,
And thou art sleeping at thy ease!
I see, we are but strangers now.
Marie, arise, run, kiss his feet,
Our angel be, thy father save!
One look from thee will stay the wretch,
And turn aside the falling axe.
Be earnest, urgent in thy prayers!
Thinkst thou the Hetman will refuse?
It is for him thou hast renounced
 The claims of honour, home, and God!

MARIE.

Alas, what do I see and hear?
Mazeppa... father... death... and here
My mother, praying, kneels before me!...
Nay, nay, my fancy plays me false,
I must be mad!

MOTHER.

God be with thee!
‘Tis neither madness nor a dream!
It cannot be, thou dost not know;
Thy father, wounded in his pride,
Unused to bear a daughter’s shame,
And thirsting quick and sharp revenge,
Betrayed the Hetman to the Tsar.
Knowst thou not that, racked with pain,
He hath accused himself of false
Intrigues ‘gainst innocence and truth?
That he, the prey of justice blind,
Lies at the mercy of his foe?
This day, before the Cossack troops,
Unless just God should intervene,
He dies the death of public shame.
Within this castle’s prison-tower
Bound and chained he lies.

MARIE.

Oh God! oh God!
Tis true?... this day... my father dies?
And on her couch the maid down drooped,
And backward fell, like some cold corpse.

The gay caps mingle in the sun;
The spears shine bright; the drums beat loud;
The Hetman’s well-trained troops march forth
To take their rank in ordered file.
With throbbing hearts the crowds swarm round.
The road, that winds like serpent’s tail,
Is filled with teeming, surging throngs.
Aloft in square the scaffold glooms,
And on its boards the headsman struts,
Rubbing his hands, his victim waits;
As ‘twere a toy, from time to time,
Plays with his heavy sharp-edged axe,
Or with the mob exchanges jest.
A noise confused is heard around
Of laughter, railing, murmurs, cries.
A sudden shout is raised, and all
Are hushed, and through the silence deep
Is heard the tramp of horses’ hoofs.
By body-guards surrounded close,
The Hetman on his rampant steed,
With gay and gallant suite, appears.
Along the road to Kieff straight
Slow trails a cart. All eyes are turned,
And eager watch its slow approach.
Within it sits old Kotzubei,
At peace with God and erring man,
Full strong in faith that makes men bold.
Resigned and pale sits Iskra near,
Like lamb that is led forth to die.
The cart draws up. The full-voiced quire
With hymn of prayer the calm air fills.
Thick clouds of incense mount on high,
As silent all, with head uncovered,
Pray for those condemned to die.
And they about to suffer pray
Their foes may pardoned be, and, slow
Descending, climb the fatal steps.
With sign of cross and prayer for all
He leaves behind, the old man lays
His snow-white head upon the block.
A silence dead creeps o’er the crowd;
The axe is raised; a moment’s flash,
And severed falls the head below:
A smothered groan the silence breaks.
With gruesome thud a second falls,
And stains the thirsty grass with blood.
Proud of his work, the headsman grim,
Seizing the still wet tufts of hair,
With arm all bared and far outstretched,
Dangles the heads before the mob.
And all is done. The fickle crowds
Break up, and to their homes disperse;
In groups discuss among themselves
The petty cares of daily life;
And soon the square is emptied quite.
Along the road with gay crowds covered,
Two women quickly push their way.
Foot-sore, thick stained with clinging dust,
Possessed with fear, they hurry on,
Eager to reach the fated spot.
“You are too late”, a peasant cries,
And points with finger to the place,
Where now half-torn the scaffold yawns.
Robed in black a priest is praying,
And two Cossacks have piled a truck
With coffins made of roughest oak.

Alone, Mazeppa, grim and stern,
Aloof from his bold troopers rides.
An unfilled void torments his heart,
And earth and heaven alike are dull.
Not one so rash to dare come near,
Not one who cares a word exchange.
All in foam his black steed bears him,
And, reaching home, Marie he calls.
His serfs are summoned. In reply,
Unmeaning words they stammer forth.
Against his will a prey to fear,
He hastens to her room, but finds
The maiden’s chamber lone and bare.
Madly he roams the garden’s length,
Searches each bush and beats each brake,
Around the lake each crevice pries:
But all in vain; no trace he finds.
And now he calls his troopers sure,
Picked men who long have served him well;
They hurry forth on panting steeds,
The wild chase-cry resounds afar.
As here and there the brave youths rush,
Nor leave a hidden nook unsearched.

A hundred roads are quickly scoured:
But no Marie, alas, returns!
No one has known, and none can tell,
The secret of her hurried flight.
In silent rage Mazeppa grieves;
His vassals shrink from him in fear;
His poisoned breast within him burns;
And closely locked he bars his room,
And, staring at the vacant couch,
Speechless he sits the whole night long,
Stung with pains that are not of this world.
Next morn, the slaves he had despatched
Return, their errand unfulfilled.
Their tired steeds can scarcely move. Girths.
Bridle and hoofs, and housings gay,
Are drenched in foam, or stained with blood,
Broken, or lost upon the road.
But none has brought his master stern
Of maiden news. No trace they found,
And she, it seemed, had disappeared,
As though the world had ne’er known her.
The mother fled her house of woe,
And begged her bread from stranger hands.
 

POLTAVA. CANTO THE THIRD.

Though plunged in griefs that are his own,
Not less the ruler of Ukraine
His bold and daring scheme pursues.
True to his plans he stands resolved,
And with the Swedish King concludes
A secret pact against the Tsar.
Meanwhile, the better to deceive
The watchful eyes of hostile spies,
Some leeches wise he quickly calls,
As on the bed of sickness feigned
He groans and whines for instant help.
The passions, toils and cares of war,
The woes and weakness of old age,
Death’s harbingers, have laid him low.
But he, no more the dupe of life,
The passing world is glad to leave.
Religions rites he would observe,
And bids his trusty priest to come,
And on his hoary locks is poured
The healing oil of balm and peace.

But time goes by. In vain Moscow
The threatened guests each hour awaits,
And midst the graves of her old foes
For Swedish slain prepares a place.
A sudden change of march is made,
And Swedish troops invade Ukraine.

The day has come, and from his bed
Mazeppa rose, this suff’rer weak,
This living corpse, who yesternight
The last, sad rites demurely served.
But now, the rival of the Tsar
To Desna hotly makes his way,
With ardent eyes before his troops
His sword high waves and boldly rides.
All signs of age he now throws off,
Erect, and strong, and young, appears,
Like prelate who, in years well struck,
Is called to wear the Papal crown.
The wingèd news spreads far and wide:
“The Hetman false has humbly laid
At feet of Charles his golden mace.”
The fire quick catches, and the flames
Of civil war burst forth.

But who
Shall tell the Tsar’s fierce rage and wrath?
The churches echo ban and curse;
The hangman burns Mazeppa’s bust;
In noisy council’s hot debate
Another chief the Cossacks choose;
And from their place of exile far
The kin of lskra and his chief
Are summoned back. With them the Tsar
Bewails their sires’ unrighteous fate,
And subtly whets them to revenge.
And old Palaeus, horseman bold,
His youth renewed, once more returns,
The camp to join and fight the foe.
The Ataman, the bold Tchetchel,
Is seized and cast in dungeon deep.
And thou, who threwst away a crown
For warrior’s helm, thy fated day
Is near; Poltava’s ancient walls
At last thou seest from afar.

And now, the Tsar his troops has massed,
Wave after wave succeeding fast,
And in the centre of the vale
The two opposing camps are pitched.
Not once in skirmish bold repulsed,
From early years made drunk with blood,
With all a warrior’s joy Charles sees
At length the wished-for day arrive,
When he and his dread foe, the Tsar,
In battle face to face shall meet.
He has his wish, but finds himself
Confronted with no runaways,
As when he fought at Narva, but
With soldiers well accoutred, brave,
Obedient, and self possessed,
With sure and trusty weapons armed.

“To-morrow morn we battle give!”
He thus resolved; and all was still
Throughout the camp, save where two friends
Together whispered converse held.

MAZEPPA.

Nay, Orlick, I too late perceive
What unwise rashness we have shown;
Bold was our scheme, but badly planned;
Nor can we hope achieve our end,
But rather failure and disgrace.
Our error naught can now redeem.
This Swedish King I have mistook;
A stripling rash who with success,
Of course, can two, three battles wage,
And from the field will straightway ride
And sup at Dresden with the foe;
Will with a jest defiance take;
Or, like some common Russian scout,
Prowl leaguered camp at night, and come
On Cossacks sitting round the fire,
And shot for shot with them exchange.
But strife to wage with Russian Tsar
Is not reserved for such as he.
Like troops, he would manoeuvre fate
And make it march to sound of drum.
Self-willed he is, impatient, blind,
Light-minded, and a braggart rare;
Tuts trust in what he calls his star;
Against new forces of the foe
Can only pit successes past,
And so will get his wings close clipt.
It shames me that in my old age
I have been gulled by this war-crow,
Been blinded by his airs, seduced
By his good luck and future hope,
As though I were some ninny lass.

ORLICK.

‘Tis wiser wait the fight’s result;
The fitting moment has not come
With Peter friendship to renew:
Our error yet we can repair.
From victor’s hand, there is no doubt,
The Tsar will terms of peace accept.

MAZEPPA.

Nay, ‘tis too late: the Russian Tsar
And I can ne’er be friends again.
My fate was long ago foredoomed,
From ancient times our feud begins.
At Azoff once, the whole night long,
In royal tent the savage Tsar
Kept noisy feast, “he goblets, filled
With sparkling wine, went gaily round,
In suit with freest jest and speech.
Some ill-considered word I spoke;
The younger guests looked on with awe;
The Tsar grew hot with wrath, down dashed
His cup, and seized me by the beard,
And swore to vent his sov’reign rage.
My fruitless anger I subdued,
But in my heart I vowed revenge.
As warm her child a mother keeps
Within her womb, that vow I nursed.
The hour has struck. Till his last day,
Of me remembrance will he keep.
To him I am an eyesore keen,
A canker in his crown’s fresh leaves.
His herited domains, his life’s
Best, dearest hour he would forego,
Once more Mazeppa by the beard
To hold. But let us not lose hope.
The morn decides who victor proves.

He ceased, and soon the traitor false
Closed fast his heavy eyes in sleep.
The russet sky is streaked with dawn.
Along the vales, along the hills,
The rumbling cannons raise thick clouds
Of dust, that high ascend and dim
The first, faint rays of early morn.
The troops close up in serried ranks;
Bayonets cold are shouldered fast;
Out-skirmishers take up their post;
And bullets speed, and shots whiz by.
The favoured sons of mighty war,
The Swedes, break through the trenches’ fire;
The eager horsemen push their way;
Behind them march the men on foot;
Whose firm, unbroken columns give
Support to each bold, forward move.
The field of battle dubious
Is now the scene of noisy din;
And fickle fortune turns her wheel,
And on our arms her first smile throws.
Their troops before our fire retreat,
And in confusion fall away.
Now, Rosen through the defile flees,
And Schliepenbach, the rash, submits.
We press the Swedes from post to post,
The glory of their flag now wanes;
The Lord of Hosts protects our cause
And crowns our arms with full success.

‘Twas then was heard, as from on high,
A mighty voice, that thundered loud:
“On, children, on, and God with us!”
Surrounded by his heroes leal,
He sallies forth. His eyes gleam fierce;
His face is stern, and terror strikes.
Quickly he moves.