Works of Alexander Pushkin (14 page)

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 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!”
Surrounded 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.
Surrounded 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!