Beneath the burning midday sun

Awhile the raging battle slacks,

Though Cossacks still keep up the fire.

But now the troops are drawn in line,

The trumpet, flute, and drum are hushed,

From hills no longer cannon flash

Across the plain their hungry roar;

And far around the welkin rings

With deaf'ning shouts and loud hurrah,

The soldiers' welcome to their Tsar.

Before his troops he quickly moves

In all his might and martial pride,

As with keen glance the field he scours.

Behind him ride, in compact crowd,

The boast and glory of his age,

In all the changes of blind fate,

In all the toils of rule and war,

His fellow-workmen and his mates:

Brave Scheremeteff, honour's theme,

And Bruss, and Bauer, and Repnine,

And Menschikoff, kind fortune's child.

The prop and pillar of the realm.

Meanwhile, before the ranged ranks

Of his best troops and heroes brave,

In litter borne by faithful slaves,

Pale in face and motionless,

With bandaged arm, King Charles appears.

Around him crowd his brilliant suite.

Deep plunged in thought, his troubled face

Is marked with signs of anxious care;

As though the combat he desired

Was now a thing of fear and doubt.

And, like a man compelled by fate,