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
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
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