Not one so rash to dare come near,

Not one who cares a word exchange.

All in foam his black steed bears him,

And, reaching home, Marie he calls.

His serfs are summoned. In reply,

Unmeaning words they stammer forth.

Against his will a prey to fear,

He hastens to her room, but finds

The maiden's chamber lone and bare.

Madly he roams the garden's length,

Searches each bush and beats each brake,

Around the lake each crevice pries:

But all in vain; no trace he finds.

And now he calls his troopers sure,

Picked men who long have served him well;

They hurry forth on panting steeds,

The wild chase-cry resounds afar.

As here and there the brave youths rush,

Nor leave a hidden nook unsearched.

A hundred roads are quickly scoured:

But no Marie, alas, returns!

No one has known, and none can tell,

The secret of her hurried flight.

In silent rage Mazeppa grieves;

His vassals shrink from him in fear;

His poisoned breast within him burns;

And closely locked he bars his room,

And, staring at the vacant couch,

Speechless he sits the whole night long,

Stung with pains that are not of this world.

Next morn, the slaves he had despatched

Return, their errand unfulfilled.

Their tired steeds can scarcely move. Girths.