Bridle and hoofs, and housings gay,

Are drenched in foam, or stained with blood,

Broken, or lost upon the road.

But none has brought his master stern

Of maiden news. No trace they found,

And she, it seemed, had disappeared,

As though the world had ne'er known her.

The mother fled her house of woe,

And begged her bread from stranger hands.

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.