IV.

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak,
And laid his lance beneath his oak,
Felt if his arms in order good

The long day's march had well withstood→
If still the powder fill'd the pan,

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock-
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt,
And whether they had chafed his belt-
And next the venerable man,
From out his haversack and can,
Prepared and spread his slender stock;
And to the monarch and his men
The whole or portion offer'd then
With far less of inquietude

Than courtiers at a banquet would.
And Charles of this his slender share
With smiles partook a moment there,
To force of cheer a greater show,
And seem above both wounds and wo;-
And then he said-" Of all our band,
Though firm of heart and strong of hand,
In skirmish, march, or forage, none
Can less have said or more have done
Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth
So fit a pair had never birth,
Since Alexander's days till now,

As thy Bucephalus and thou:

All Seythia's fame to thine should yield

T

on o'er flood and field."

Mazeppa answer'd-" Ill betide

The school wherein I learn'd to ride!"

Quoth Charles-"Old Hetman, wherefore so,
Since thou hast learned the art so well?"
Mazeppa said ""Twere long to tell;
And we have many a league to go
With every now and then a blow,
And ten to one at least the foe,
Before our steeds may graze at ease
Beyond the swift Borysthenes :

And, sire, your limbs have need of rest,
And I will be the sentinel

.”___“But I request,"

Of this your troop."

Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell
This tale of thine, and I may reap,
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep,
For at this moment from my eyes
The hope of present slumber flies."

“Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track
My seventy years of memory back:
I think 'twas in my twentieth spring,-
Ay, 'twas, when Casimir was king-
John Casimir,-I was his page
Six summers in my earlier age;
A learned monarch, faith! was he,
And most unlike your majesty:
He made no wars, and did not gain
New realms to lose them back again;
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)
He reign'd in most unseemly quiet;

198

Not that he had no cares to vex,
He loved the muses and the sex;
And sometimes these so froward are,
They made him wish himself at war;
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took
Another mistress, or new book:
And then he gave prodigious fêtes--
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates
To gaze upon his splendid court,
And names, and chiefs, of princely port;
He was the Polish Solomon,

So sung his poets, all but one,

Who, being unpension'd, made a satire,
And boasted that he could not flatter.
It was a court of jousts and mimes,
Where every courtier tried at rhymes;
Even I for once produced some verses,
And sign'd my odes, Despairing Thyrsis.
There was a certain Palatine,

A count of far and high descent,
Rich as a salt or silver mine ;*
And he was proud, ye may divine,

As if from heaven he had been sent:
He had such wealth in blood and ore
As few could match beneath the throne;
And he would gaze upon his store,
And o'er his pedigree would pore,
Until by some confusion led,

Which almost look'd like want of head,
He thought their merits were his own.

* This

rison of a "salt mine" may perhaps be permitted to a Pole, as untry consists greatly in the salt mincs.

His wife was not of his opinion-
His junior she by thirty years-
Grew daily tired of his dominion;
And, after wishes, hopes, and fears,
To virtue a few farewell tears,

A restless dream or two, some glances
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances,
Awaited but the usual chances,

Those happy accidents which render
The coldest dames so very tender,
To deck her Count with titles given,
"Tis said, as passports into heaven;
But, strange to say, they rarely boast
Of these who have deserved them most.

V.

"I was a goodly stripling then;
At seventy years I so may say,
That there were few, or boys or men,
Who, in my dawning time of day,
Of vassal or of knight's degree,
Could vie in vanities with me;
For I had strength, youth, gayety,
A port, not like to this ye see,
But smooth, as all is rugged now;

For time, and care, and war, have plough'd

My very soul from out my brow;

And thus I should be disavow'd

By all my kind and kin, could they
Compare my day and yesterday;

This change was wrought, too, long ere age
Had ta'en my features for his
page:

With years, ye know, have not declined
My strength, my courage, or my mind,
Or at this hour I should not be

Telling old tales beneath a tree,
With starless skies my canopy.
But let me on: Theresa's form-
Methinks it glides before me now,
Between me and yon chestnut's bough,
The memory is so quick and warm;
And yet I found no words to tell
The shape of her I loved so well:
She had the Asiatic eye,

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood
Hath mingled with our Polish blood,
Dark as above us is the sky;

But through it stole a tender light,
Like the first moonrise at midnight;
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream,
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam;
All love, half languor, and half fire,
Like saints that at the stake expire,
And lift their raptured looks on high,
As though it were a joy to die.
A brow like a midsummer lake,
Transparent with the sun therein,
When waves no murmur dare to make,
And heaven beholds her face within.
A cheek and lip-but why proceed?
I loved her then-I love her still;
And such as I am, love indeed

extremes-in good and ill.

even in our rage,

our very age