A stripling rash who with success,

Of course, can two, three battles wage,

And from the field will straightway ride

And sup at Dresden with the foe;

Will with a jest defiance take;

Or, like some common Russian scout,

Prowl leaguered camp at night, and come

On Cossacks sitting round the fire,

And shot for shot with them exchange.

But strife to wage with Russian Tsar

Is not reserved for such as he.

Like troops, he would manoeuvre fate

And make it march to sound of drum.

Self-willed he is, impatient, blind,

Light-minded, and a braggart rare;

Tuts trust in what he calls his star;

Against new forces of the foe

Can only pit successes past,

And so will get his wings close clipt.

It shames me that in my old age

I have been gulled by this war-crow,

Been blinded by his airs, seduced

By his good luck and future hope,

As though I were some ninny lass.

ORLICK.

'Tis wiser wait the fight's result;

The fitting moment has not come

With Peter friendship to renew:

Our error yet we can repair.

From victor's hand, there is no doubt,

The Tsar will terms of peace accept.

MAZEPPA.

Nay, 'tis too late: the Russian Tsar

And I can ne'er be friends again.

My fate was long ago foredoomed,