He feebly waves his tired hand,

Begins the fight he long had planned,

And moves his troops against the foe.

Our men across the smoking plain

March quick to front the fierce assault,

The shock of great Poltava's day!

Amidst a shower of red-shot hail,

That strikes and breaks the wall of flesh.

Each time a rank falls out, fresh rank

Supplies its place, and heavy clouds

Of horsemen, scudding to the sound

Of clattering arms, in maddened fray,

Around them deal fast blows of death.

The fiery balls fly here and there,

And, spreading death, heap pile on pile

Of heroes slain, or soil dig up,

Or hissing fall in streams of blood.

The mingled foes strike, hew, and wound:

And naught is heard save beat of drum,

The roar of cannon, cries of rage,

The heavy tramp, and dying groan;

And death and hell hold feast unchecked.

Amidst the terror and dismay,

Unmoved the leaders calmly watch

The progress of the doubtful fight,

Pursue the tactics of their troops,

Foresee the ruin and the conquest,

And oft in whispers converse hold.

But who may be the warrior gray

That near the Moscow Tsar close stands?

By two Cossacks held up, his heart

Once more with youthful zeal burns fierce,

As with the soldier's practised eye