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
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
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