He views the busy scene around.

Grown old and weak in exile long,

No longer can he leap on steed;

No longer will Palaeus see

At his brief summons Cossacks haste.

But wherefore flash his eyes so keen,

And with dark rage, as with night-mist,

His aged face is mantled deep?

What passion is it moves him thus?

Or does he through the battle smoke

Mazeppa spy, and at the sight

His years decrepit vainly curse?

Mazeppa, thoughtful and disturbed,

Surveys the field, as round him press

A crowd of mutinous Cossacks,

Kinsmen, elders, body-troopers.

A sudden shot! The old man turned.

In Voinarovsky's close-clenched hand

The barrel of his gun still smoked.

A few steps made, the young Cossack

With bleeding wound from saddle rolled.

The steed, all bathed in foam and dust,

Scenting freedom, wildly snorted,

And soon was lost in thickest smoke.

On Hetman rushed the Cossack fierce

Across the field, with sword in hand,

His eyes afire with madman's rage.

The old man met his eager foe,

And would a question put. But ere

He could reply, the brave Cossack

Had breathed his last. His glazed eyes

Still bore the glance of hate, and seemed

To seek revenge on Russia's foe.

One instant ere he closed his eyes,