Descending, climb the fatal steps.

With sign of cross and prayer for all

He leaves behind, the old man lays

His snow-white head upon the block.

A silence dead creeps o'er the crowd;

The axe is raised; a moment's flash,

And severed falls the head below:

A smothered groan the silence breaks.

With gruesome thud a second falls,

And stains the thirsty grass with blood.

Proud of his work, the headsman grim,

Seizing the still wet tufts of hair,

With arm all bared and far outstretched,

Dangles the heads before the mob.

And all is done. The fickle crowds

Break up, and to their homes disperse;

In groups discuss among themselves

The petty cares of daily life;

And soon the square is emptied quite.

Along the road with gay crowds covered,

Two women quickly push their way.

Foot-sore, thick stained with clinging dust,

Possessed with fear, they hurry on,

Eager to reach the fated spot.

"You are too late", a peasant cries,

And points with finger to the place,

Where now half-torn the scaffold yawns.

Robed in black a priest is praying,

And two Cossacks have piled a truck

With coffins made of roughest oak.

Alone, Mazeppa, grim and stern,

Aloof from his bold troopers rides.

An unfilled void torments his heart,

And earth and heaven alike are dull.