Had loved her with the purest love.

At morn, or in the evening hour,

Along his native river's shore,

Beneath the Ukraine-cherry's shade,

He oft would wait the fair Marie,

And, waiting, pined, till one soft word

Should healing bring to his sad heart.

He knew too well, he loved in vain,

Nor ever urged a useless prayer,

Lest loss of her should make the world

A void. And when his comrades gay

Proclaimed their noisy vows of love,

He silence kept, nor spake a word

But now her name is linked with shame,

And gossip, glad to scoff the fallen,

Makes her the theme of unclean wit,

Marie still keeps her early righis,

And is to him what she had been.

And if, perchance, Mazeppa's name.

Were in his presence praised or blamed,

His face grew pale, and, lost in grief,

He sat with eyes cast down to earth.

Who rides his steed so fast and late,

With naught to guide him save the stars?

Whose steed scuds o'er the boundless steppe,

With straining neck and loosened girth?

The Cossack keeps the northern tract,

Nor will the Cossack slacken pace

In open field, or forest grove,

Or check his steed near dang'rous ford.

Like crystal clear his sword shines bright,

A bag is girded to his breast;

Nor stumbles once his mettled steed,