Feodor, his young son, to be our tsar.

PRETENDER. His reckonings, maybe, will yet prove wrong.

Who art thou?

KARELA. A Cossack; from the Don I am sent

To thee, from the free troops, from the brave hetmen

From upper and lower regions of the Cossacks,

To look upon thy bright and royal eyes,

And tender thee their homage.

PRETENDER. Well I knew

The men of Don; I doubted not to see

The Cossack hetmen in my ranks. We thank

Our army of the Don. Today, we know,

The Cossacks are unjustly persecuted,

Oppressed; but if God grant us to ascend

The throne of our forefathers, then as of yore

We'll gratify the free and faithful Don.

POET. (Approaches, bowing low, and taking Gregory by the

hem of his caftan.)

Great prince, illustrious offspring of a king!

PRETENDER. What wouldst thou?

POET. Condescendingly accept

This poor fruit of my earnest toil.

PRETENDER. What see I?

Verses in Latin! Blest a hundredfold

The tie of sword and lyre; the selfsame laurel

Binds them in friendship. I was born beneath

A northern sky, but yet the Latin muse

To me is a familiar voice; I love

The blossoms of Parnassus, I believe

The prophecies of singers. Not in vain

The ecstasy boils in their flaming breast;

Action is hallowed, being glorified

Beforehand by the poets! Approach, my friend.

In memory of me accept this gift.