Works of Alexander Pushkin Page 12

  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!”

  Surro
unded by his heroes leal,

  He sallies forth. His eyes gleam fierce;

  His face is stern, and terror strikes.

  Quickly he moves. His noble form,

  Dark-louring like God’s thunder-storm,

  Destruction breathes. The steed is brought,

  And restive, but submissive, stands;

  Scenting afar the smoke and fire,

  It trembling darts its eyes askance,

  And proudly bears its rider bold,

  Who seemed to know his fiery steed.

  Beneath the burning midday sun

  Awhile the raging battle slacks,

  Though Cossacks still keep up the fire.

  But now the troops are drawn in line,

  The trumpet, flute, and drum are hushed,

  From hills no longer cannon flash

  Across the plain their hungry roar;

  And far around the welkin rings

  With deaf’ning shouts and loud hurrah,

  The soldiers’ welcome to their Tsar.

  Before his troops he quickly moves

  In all his might and martial pride,

  As with keen glance the field he scours.

  Behind him ride, in compact crowd,

  The boast and glory of his age,

  In all the changes of blind fate,

  In all the toils of rule and war,

  His fellow-workmen and his mates:

  Brave Scheremeteff, honour’s theme,

  And Bruss, and Bauer, and Repnine,

  And Menschikoff, kind fortune’s child.

  The prop and pillar of the realm.

  Meanwhile, before the ranged ranks

  Of his best troops and heroes brave,

  In litter borne by faithful slaves,

  Pale in face and motionless,

  With bandaged arm, King Charles appears.

  Around him crowd his brilliant suite.

  Deep plunged in thought, his troubled face

  Is marked with signs of anxious care;

  As though the combat he desired

  Was now a thing of fear and doubt.

  And, like a man compelled by fate,

  He feebly waves his tired hand,

  Begins the fight he long had planned,

  And moves his troops against the foe.

  Our men across the smoking plain

  March quick to front the fierce assault,

  The shock of great Poltava’s day!

  Amidst a shower of red-shot hail,

  That strikes and breaks the wall of flesh.

  Each time a rank falls out, fresh rank

  Supplies its place, and heavy clouds

  Of horsemen, scudding to the sound

  Of clattering arms, in maddened fray,

  Around them deal fast blows of death.

  The fiery balls fly here and there,

  And, spreading death, heap pile on pile

  Of heroes slain, or soil dig up,

  Or hissing fall in streams of blood.

  The mingled foes strike, hew, and wound:

  And naught is heard save beat of drum,

  The roar of cannon, cries of rage,

  The heavy tramp, and dying groan;

  And death and hell hold feast unchecked.

  Amidst the terror and dismay,

  Unmoved the leaders calmly watch

  The progress of the doubtful fight,

  Pursue the tactics of their troops,

  Foresee the ruin and the conquest,

  And oft in whispers converse hold.

  But who may be the warrior gray

  That near the Moscow Tsar close stands?

  By two Cossacks held up, his heart

  Once more with youthful zeal burns fierce,

  As with the soldier’s practised eye

  He views the busy scene around.

  Grown old and weak in exile long,

  No longer can he leap on steed;

  No longer will Palaeus see

  At his brief summons Cossacks haste.

  But wherefore flash his eyes so keen,

  And with dark rage, as with night-mist,

  His agèd face is mantled deep?

  What passion is it moves him thus?

  Or does he through the battle smoke

  Mazeppa spy, and at the sight

  His years decrepit vainly curse?

  Mazeppa, thoughtful and disturbed,

  Surveys the field, as round him press

  A crowd of mutinous Cossacks,

  Kinsmen, elders, body-troopers.

  A sudden shot! The old man turned.

  In Voinarovsky’s close-clenched hand

  The barrel of his gun still smoked.

  A few steps made, the young Cossack

  With bleeding wound from saddle rolled.

  The steed, all bathed in foam and dust,

  Scenting freedom, wildly snorted,

  And soon was lost in thickest smoke.

  On Hetman rushed the Cossack fierce

  Across the field, with sword in hand,

  His eyes afire with madman’s rage.

  The old man met his eager foe,

  And would a question put. But ere

  He could reply, the brave Cossack

  Had breathed his last. His glazèd eyes

  Still bore the glance of hate, and seemed

  To seek revenge on Russia’s foe.

  One instant ere he closed his eyes,

  His face grew bright with sudden gleam,

  As with a sigh he softly lisped

  The name “Marie”, and, smiling, died.

  Each moment nears the happy hour;

  Our men push on, the Swedes retire;

  We charge, and they disrouted flee;

  Headlong pursuit our horsemen give.

  The swords grow blunt with slaughter’s work,

  The plain is covered thick with dead,

  As with a swarm of locusts black.

  There is high feast in Peter’s tent:

  Right proud and keen, and bright his glance.

  And all within is joy and pomp,

  As, to his troopers’ noisy shouts,

  He welcomes one and all his guests,

  Pays honour to the captive Swedes

  In goblets crowned with nine salutes,

  His teachers in the art of war.

  But where the first and honoured guest,

  Our chiefest teacher and most feared,

  Whose rage and long nursed hate this day

  The victor of Poltava stilled?

  And where Mazeppa, Judas false,

  Has refuge found and fled in fright?

  Among the guests where is the King,

  Or why has block the traitor spared?

  The ill-starred mates of common flight,

  The King and Hetman, breathless urge

  Their steeds across the barren steppe.

  The dread of shame and danger near

  Inspire the King with novel force;

  No more he cares for aching wound.

  With head bent low, he hurries on,

  Outstrips with ease the swift pursuit,

  And gallops fierce, that of his men

  But few have strength to keep the pace.

  Abreast with him the Hetman rides,

  And anxious is the glance that scans

  The wide expanse that stretches far:

  Before them lies a farmstead bared

  Why grows Mazeppa pale with fear?

  Why hurries he, as panic-struck,

  And, spurring steed, fast dashes by?

  Or docs the sight of yard and home,

  And garden waste, and open gate

  That leads into the field, awake

  Within his heart an aching dream

  Of wrongful deed and crime most foul?

  And does the ravisher once more

  Behold that cloistered shrine,

  That home, the scene of mirth and joy,

  Where he, his heart unlocked with wine.

  Su
rrounded by the household gay,

  And welcome guest, was wont with jest

  At midday feast to gladden all?

  Is this the house, the refuge sure,

  Where once the angel unstained dwelt?

  Is this the garden, whence that night

  The maiden pure he lured across

  The steppe?... Too well he knew the place!

  The shades of night fall o’er the plains

  Along the Dnieper’s grassy shore;

  Among the rocks they lightly sleep,

  The foes of Russia and her Tsar.

  The hero’s sleep is lulled with dreams,

  And he forgets Poltava’s shame.

  But broken is Mazeppa’s sleep,

  His gloomy soul finds no repose,

  And in the silence of the night

  His name is whispered. Starting up,

  With frightened gaze he looks around,

  And, trembling as beneath the fall

  Of sharpened axe, before him sees

  A silent form, with finger raised.

  And there, with loose, dishevelled hair,

  With bright and glittering, sunken eyes,

  In garments torn, full pale and wan,

  A moon-ray falling on her, stands...

  “Or do I dream?... Marie!... Tis thou?”

  MARIE.

  Hush, hush, my darling! But just now,

  Have father, mother, closed their eyes:

  So, wait... or they may hear us... hush!

  MAZEPPA.

  Marie, ah poor Marie, I pray,

  Recall thy thoughts! What dost thou here?

  MARIE.

  Listen the trick they have dared play,

  The juggling trick they have devised!

  Last night she came with warning words

  That father had been done to death,

  And secretly an old white head

  She showed to me. Oh, righteous God!

  Where can we fly from man’s deceit?

  For, think, the head she brought with her

  Bore not the shape of human skull,

  Was like a wolfs... You see, the kind

  She is! With cheating lies like these

  She thought to trick and gull her child:

  Now, shame on her to torture me!

  And why? That I might courage lack

  With thee, my love, this night to flee:

  Can people be so base?

  In dread,

  Her lover looks on her wild face;

  But she, distempered fancy’s slave,

  Quick whispers: “I remember all,

  The field... the folk in dresses gay...

  The crowd... the bodies warm, but dead...

  I went with her to see the show...

  But where wert thou?... And why, alone,

  Apart from thee, at night, I fled?

  But let us quick return, ‘tis late!...

  But ah! My head is ill, my brain

  Is racked with empty, idle dreams;

  Strange! I took thee for another...

  Nay, nay, I pray thee, touch me not!

  Thy glare is cruel, cold as ice,

  And ugly! But he was beautiful: