She bore the harshest blows of fate,

And grew. For thus, the hammer stout

The glass will break and forge the sword.

With glory crowned that bore no fruit,

The Swedish Charles essayed his fate.

Gainst Moscow's ancient walls he marched,

And chased the bravest Russian troops,

As whirlwind drives the valley's dust,

And low bends down the highest grass.

The route he followed was the same

By which, in later days, the lord

Of fate pursued his hurried flight.

Ukraine was mined with discontent,

And long the spark had smouldered dull.

The children of the stormy past

Nursed hope to fan a people s war;

With murmurs grim they clamoured loud

That Hetman burst their slavish chains;

And with the zeal of untried youth

Impatiently awaited Charles.

Around the aged Mazeppa rose

The rebel cry: "To arms! to arms!"

But true the Hetman old remained,

The slave and vassal of the Tsar,

He ruled as sternly as before,

And in the Ukraine guarded peace:

Seemed blind to all that passed around,

And lived and feasted at his ease.

"What is this Hetman?" snarled the young,

"He is too old, he is too weak.

Unresting years and toil have quenched

The youthful fire that once flamed bright.

With trembling hands does he presume