Outstrips with ease the swift pursuit,

And gallops fierce, that of his men

But few have strength to keep the pace.

Abreast with him the Hetman rides,

And anxious is the glance that scans

The wide expanse that stretches far:

Before them lies a farmstead bared

Why grows Mazeppa pale with fear?

Why hurries he, as panic-struck,

And, spurring steed, fast dashes by?

Or docs the sight of yard and home,

And garden waste, and open gate

That leads into the field, awake

Within his heart an aching dream

Of wrongful deed and crime most foul?

And does the ravisher once more

Behold that cloistered shrine,

That home, the scene of mirth and joy,

Where he, his heart unlocked with wine.

Surrounded by the household gay,

And welcome guest, was wont with jest

At midday feast to gladden all?

Is this the house, the refuge sure,

Where once the angel unstained dwelt?

Is this the garden, whence that night

The maiden pure he lured across

The steppe?... Too well he knew the place!

The shades of night fall o'er the plains

Along the Dnieper's grassy shore;

Among the rocks they lightly sleep,

The foes of Russia and her Tsar.

The hero's sleep is lulled with dreams,

And he forgets Poltava's shame.