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
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
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