And gives the axe a keener edge.

Where can he fly with eyes close-shut?

What hope can fan his proud conceit?

Or thinks he... No! the daughter's love

Shall ne'er outbuy the father's life.

The lover to the Hetman yields,

Or else, disgraced my blood must flow!"

Alas, Marie! What fate betides thee,

Marie, Circassia's peerles bride?

Knowst thou not what deadly serpent

Now feeds and fattens on thy breast?

By what unknown, mysterious power

Art thou with strongest fetters bound,

Tied to a harsh, corrupted heart?

To whom art thou a docile slave

His flowing locks of silvered hair,

His searching eyes, deep-set and keen,

His brow well scathed with lines of thought,

His music voice that knows to charm,

To thee were dearer than world's wealth;

For them thou couldst forget and dare

A father's wrath, a mother's love;

For them prefer a couch of shame

To home's sweet care and shelter sure.

His wondrous eyes that pierce the soul

Have cast on thee their witching spell;

His pleading vows of reckless love

Have lulled the warning voice within.

As on the face of worshipped saint,

Thou lookst on him with blinded gaze,

Repaying love with love more sweet.

As others find in virtue joy,

Thy very shame thou makst thy pride,