His face grew bright with sudden gleam,

As with a sigh he softly lisped

The name "Marie", and, smiling, died.

Each moment nears the happy hour;

Our men push on, the Swedes retire;

We charge, and they disrouted flee;

Headlong pursuit our horsemen give.

The swords grow blunt with slaughter's work,

The plain is covered thick with dead,

As with a swarm of locusts black.

There is high feast in Peter's tent:

Right proud and keen, and bright his glance.

And all within is joy and pomp,

As, to his troopers' noisy shouts,

He welcomes one and all his guests,

Pays honour to the captive Swedes

In goblets crowned with nine salutes,

His teachers in the art of war.

But where the first and honoured guest,

Our chiefest teacher and most feared,

Whose rage and long nursed hate this day

The victor of Poltava stilled?

And where Mazeppa, Judas false,

Has refuge found and fled in fright?

Among the guests where is the King,

Or why has block the traitor spared?

The ill-starred mates of common flight,

The King and Hetman, breathless urge

Their steeds across the barren steppe.

The dread of shame and danger near

Inspire the King with novel force;

No more he cares for aching wound.

With head bent low, he hurries on,