I saw them - and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high-their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channell❜'d rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-wall'd distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down.
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,

The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seem'd no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,

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And on it there were young flowers growing
Of gentle breath and hue.

The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seem'd joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seem'd to fly;
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled and would fain
I had not left my recent chain.
And when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o'er one we sought to save;
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd,
Had almost need of such a rest.

XIV

It might be months, or years, or days — I kept no count, I took no note,

I had no hope my eyes to raise,

And clear them of their dreary mote. At last men came to set me free,

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where,
It was at length the same to me,
Fetter'd or fetterless to be,

I learn'd to love despair.
And thus when they appear'd at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage and all my own!

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And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home.
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch'd them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill-yet, strange to
tell!

In quiet we had learn'd to dwell –
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are: - even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

MAZEPPA

ADVERTISEMENT

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390

Celui qui remplissait alors cette place était un gentilhomme Polonais, nommé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Podolie: il avait été élevé page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris à sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant été découverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet état. Le cheval, qui était du pays de l'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supériorité de ses lumières lui donna une grande considération parmi les Cosaques : sa réputation s'augmentant de jour en jour, obligea le Czar à le faire Prince de l'Ukraine.

VOLTAIRE, Hist. de Charles XII., p. 196.

Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tué sous lui; le Colonel Gieta, blessé, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois à cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquérant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant la bataille. p. 216.

Le roi alla par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse où il était rompit dans la marche; on le remit à cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'égara pendant la nuit dans un bois; là, son courage ne pouvant plus suppléer à ses forces épuisées, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval étant tombé de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'être surpris à tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de tous côtés. -p. 218.

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, And joy'd to see how well he fed; For until now he had the dread His wearied courser might refuse To browse beneath the midnight dews: But he was hardy as his lord, And little cared for bed and board; But spirited and docile too, Whate'er was to be done, would do. Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, All Tartar-like he carried him; Obey'd his voice, and came to call, And knew him in the midst of all: Though thousands were around, Night,

Without a star, pursued her flight, That steed from sunset until dawn His chief would follow like a fawn.

IV

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak,
And laid his lance beneath his oak,
Felt if his arms in order good
The long day's march had well withstood
If still the powder fill'd the pan,

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt,
And whether they had chafed his belt.
And next the venerable man,
From out his havresack and can,

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and

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Prepared and spread his slender stock; And to the monarch and his men The whole or portion offer'd then With far less of inquietude Than courtiers at a banquet would. And Charles of this his slender share With smiles partook a moment there, To force of cheer a greater show, And seem above both wounds and woe. And then he said: 'Of all our band, Though firm of heart and strong of hand, In skirmish, march, or forage, none Can less have said or more have done 100

Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth
So fit a pair had never birth,
Since Alexander's days till now,
As thy Bucephalus and thou.

All Scythia's fame to thine should yield
For pricking on o'er flood and field.'
Mazeppa answer'd, 'Ill betide

The school wherein I learn'd to ride!'
Quoth Charles, Old Hetman, wherefore so,
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?' 110
Mazeppa said, "T were long to tell;
And we have many a league to go,
With every now and then a blow,
And ten to one at least the foe,
Before our steeds may graze at ease
Beyond the swift Borysthenes.

And, sire, your limbs have need of rest,
And I will be the sentinel

Of this your troop.'

But I request,' Said Sweden's monarch, thou wilt tell 120 This tale of thine, and I may reap, Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; For at this moment from my eyes The hope of present slumber flies.'

130

'Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track
My seventy years of memory back.
I think 't was in my twentieth spring, -
Ay, 't was, when Casimir was king
John Casimir, I was his page
Six summers, in my earlier age,
A learned monarch, faith! was he,
And most unlike your majesty:
He made no wars, and did not gain
New realms to lose them back again;
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)
He reign'd in most unseemly quiet.
Not that he had no cares to vex,
He loved the muses and the sex;
And sometimes these so froward are,
They made him wish himself at war;
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took
Another mistress, or new book.
And then he gave prodigious fêtes -
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates
To gaze upon his splendid court,
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port.
He was the Polish Solomon,
So sung his poets, all but one,
Who, being unpension'd, made a satire,
And boasted that he could not flatter.
It was a court of jousts and mimes,
Where every courtier tried at rhymes;
Even I for once produced some verses,
And sign'd my odes "Despairing Thyrsis."

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As few could match beneath the throne; And he would gaze upon his store, And o'er his pedigree would pore, Until by some confusion led, Which almost look'd like want of head, He thought their merits were his own. His wife was not of his opinion

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His junior she by thirty years Grew daily tired of his dominion; And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, To virtue a few farewell tears, A restless dream or two, some glances At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, Awaited but the usual chances (Those happy accidents which render The coldest dames so very tender), To deck her Count with titles given, 'T is said, as passports into heaven; But, strange to say, they rarely boast Of these, who have deserved them most.

And yet I find no words to tell The shape of her I loved so well. She had the Asiatic eye,

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 210 Dark as above us is the sky; But through it stole a tender light, Like the first moonrise of midnight; Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, Which seem'd to melt to its own beam; All love, half languor, and half fire, Like saints that at the stake expire, And lift their raptured looks on high As though it were a joy to die; A brow like a midsummer lake,

Transparent with the sun therein, When waves no murmur dare to make, And heaven beholds her face within; A cheek and lip - but why proceed?

I loved her then I love her still;
And such as I am love indeed

In fierce extremes in good and ill.
But still we love even in our rage,
And haunted to our very age
With the vain shadow of the past,
As is Mazeppa to the last.

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230

I saw, and sigh'd;
She did not speak, and yet replied.
There are ten thousand tones and signs
We hear and see, but none defines
Involuntary sparks of thought,
Which strike from out the heart o'er-
wrought

And form a strange intelligence
Alike mysterious and intense,

Which link the burning chain that binds, 240
Without their will, young hearts and minds;
Conveying, as the electric wire,

We know not how, the absorbing fire.
I saw, and sigh'd in silence wept;
And still reluctant distance kept,
Until I was made known to her,
And we might then and there confer
Without suspicion then, even then,
I long'd, and was resolved to speak;
But on my lips they died again,

The accents tremulous and weak, Until one hour. There is a game, A frivolous and foolish play, Wherewith we while away the day; It is I have forgot the name And we to this, it seems, were set, By some strange chance, which I forget.

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I reck'd not if I won or lost,

It was enough for me to be So near to hear, and oh! to see The being whom I loved the most. I watch'd her as a sentinel

(May ours this dark night watch as well!),

Until I saw, and thus it was,
That she was pensive, nor perceived
Her occupation, nor was grieved
Nor glad to lose or gain; but still
Play'd on for hours, as if her will
Yet bound her to the place, though not
That hers might be the winning lot.
Then through my brain the thought did
pass

Even as a flash of lightning there,
That there was something in her air
Which would not doom me to despair;
And on the thought my words broke
forth,

All incoherent as they were

Their eloquence was little worth, But yet she listen'd 't is enough, Who listens once will listen twice; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff.

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The happy page, who was the lord
Of one soft heart and his own sword,
And had no other gem nor wealth
Save nature's gift of youth and health. 310
We met in secret doubly sweet,
Some say, they find it so to meet;
I know not that I would have given
My life but to have call'd her mine
In the full view of earth and heaven;
For I did oft and long repine
That we could only meet by stealth.

VIII

For lovers there are many eyes, And such there were on us; the devil On such occasions should be civil; The devil! - I'm loth to do him wrong, It might be some untoward saint, Who would not be at rest too long

But to his pious bile gave vent
But one fair night, some lurking spies
Surprised and seized us both.

The Count was something more than wroth;

I was unarm'd; but if in steel,
All cap-à-pie from head to heel,
What 'gainst their numbers could I do?
"T was near his castle, far away

From city or from succour near,
And almost on the break of day.
I did not think to see another,

My moments seem'd reduced to few;
And with one prayer to Mary Mother,
And, it may be, a saint or two,
As I resign'd me to my fate,
They led me to the castle gate:

Theresa's doom I never knew,
Our lot was henceforth separate.
An angry man, ye may opine,
Was he, the proud Count Palatine;
And he had reason good to be,

But he was most enraged lest such
An accident should chance to touch
Upon his future pedigree;

Nor less amazed, that such a blot
His noble 'scutcheon should have got,
While he was highest of his line;

Because unto himself he seem'd
The first of men, nor less he deem'd
In others' eyes, and most in mine.
'Sdeath with a page

perchance a

king Had reconciled him to the thing; But with a stripling of a page! I felt but cannot paint his rage.

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In truth, he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, Who look'd as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs; but he was wild,

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, With spur and bridle undefiled

'T was but a day he had been caught. And snorting, with erected mane, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led. They bound me on, that menial throng, 370 Upon his back with many a thong; Then loosed him with a sudden lash: Away!-away!-and on we dash! Torrents less rapid and less rash.

X

Away!-away!- My breath was gone

I saw not where he hurried on:

'T was scarcely yet the break of day, And on he foam'd

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- away!-away! The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes, Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout. With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And, writhing half my form about, Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread,

The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 390 It vexes me, for I would fain

Have paid their insult back again.

I paid it well in after days:
There is not of that castle gate,

Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;
Nor of its fields a blade of grass,
Save what grows on a ridge of wall,
Where stood the hearth-stone of the