Or lands bequeathed him by his sires;

But in Marie, his daughter fair,

The old man finds his dearest pride.

In vain you'll seek Poltava through

Her peer in loveliness and grace.

Fresh as primal flower of spring,

Warm-nurtured in the forest's shade;

As Kieff poplar tall and stately;

Her every motion like the course

Of floating swan on lonely lake,

Or deer's quick flight across the mead:

Her breasts as white as foam of sea;

Around her forehead high and broad,

Thick clustered lie her jet-black locks,

Veiling her eyes that gleam like stars;

Her lips as red as full-blown rose.

But not the charm of beauty rare,

That blooms a moment and then fades,

Had made Marie beloved by all;

But fame had crowned her with the name

Of maiden modest, pure and wise.

And rival suitors sought her hand,

The youths of Russia and Ukraine;

But from the marriage-crown, as from

The fetters of a slave she shrank.

And all had been repulsed.... but now

His messengers the Hetman sends.

No longer young, and worn with years,

With toils of war and cares of state,

But young and warm in heart, once more

Mazeppa feels the force of love.

A boyish love will fiercely burn,

Its fierceness spent, as quickly die;