But I was curious to ascend
To my barr'd windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high,
The quiet of a loving eye.

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I saw them and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high- their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-wall'd distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down.
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,

The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seem'd no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,

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And on it there were young flowers growing
Of gentle breath and hue.

The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seem'd joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seem'd to fly;
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled and would fain
I had not left my recent chain.
And when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o'er one we sought to save;
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd,
Had almost need of such a rest.

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It might be months, or years, or days — I kept no count, I took no note,

I had no hope my eyes to raise,

And clear them of their dreary mote. At last men came to set me free,

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where,
It was at length the same to me,
Fetter'd or fetterless to be,

I learn'd to love despair.
And thus when they appear'd at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage — and all my own!

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And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home.
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch'd them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill-yet, strange to
tell!

In quiet we had learn'd to dwell -
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are: - even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

MAZEPPA

ADVERTISEMENT

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Celui qui remplissait alors cette place était un gentilhomme Polonais, nommé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Podolie: il avait été élevé page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris à sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant été découverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet état. Le cheval, qui était du pays de l'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supériorité de ses lumières lui donna une grande considération parmi les Cosaques : sa réputation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le Czar à le faire Prince de l'Ukraine. - VOLTAIRE, Hist. de Charles XII., p. 196.

Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tué sous lui; le Colonel Gieta, blessé, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois à cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquérant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant la bataille. p. 216.

Le roi alla par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse où il était rompit dans la marche; on le remit à cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'égara pendant la nuit dans un bois; là, son courage ne pouvant plus suppléer à ses forces épuisées, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval étant tombé de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'être surpris à tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de tous côtés. - p. 218.

And all are fellows in their need. Among the rest, Mazeppa made His pillow in an old oak's shadeHimself as rough, and scarce less old, The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold. But first, outspent with this long course, The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, And made for him a leafy bed,

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And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, And joy'd to see how well he fed; For until now he had the dread His wearied courser might refuse To browse beneath the midnight dews: But he was hardy as his lord, And little cared for bed and board; But spirited and docile too, Whate'er was to be done, would do. Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, All Tartar-like he carried him; Obey'd his voice, and came to call, And knew him in the midst of all: Though thousands were around, Night,

Without a star, pursued her flight, – That steed from sunset until dawn His chief would follow like a fawn.

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and

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 Scythia's fame to thine should yield
For pricking on o'er flood and field.'
Mazeppa answer'd, 'Ill betide

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The school wherein I learn'd to ride!'
Quoth Charles, Old Hetman, wherefore so,
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?'
Mazeppa said, "T were 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

Of this your troop.' 'But I request,'
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.'

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'Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track
My seventy years of memory back.
I think 't was in my twentieth spring,
Ay, 't was, when Casimir was king
John Casimir, I was his
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.
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 dames, 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."

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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. His wife was not of his opinion

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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, "T is said, as passports into heaven; But, strange to say, they rarely boast Of these, who have deserved them most.

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;

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And yet I find 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, 210
Dark as above us is the sky;
But through it stole a tender light,
Like the first moonrise of 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

In fierce extremes in good and ill. But still we love even in our rage, And haunted to our very age With the vain shadow of the past, As is Mazeppa to the last.

VI

'We met, we gazed- I saw, and sigh'd; She did not speak, and yet replied. There are ten thousand tones and signs We hear and see, but none defines Involuntary sparks of thought,

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'I loved, and was beloved again
They tell me, Sire, you never knew
Those gentle frailties; if 't is true,
I shorten all my joy or pain;
To you 't would seem absurd as vain:
But all men are not born to reign,
Or o'er their passions, or as you,
Thus o'er themselves and nations too.
I am or rather was a prince,

A chief of thousands, and could lead Them on where each would foremost bleed;

But could not o'er myself evince
The like control. But to resume:

I loved, and was beloved again;
In sooth, it is a happy doom,

But yet where happiest ends in pain. We met in secret, and the hour Which led me to that lady's bower Was fiery Expectation's dower. My days and nights were nothing, all Except that hour which doth recall In the long lapse from youth to age No other like itself - I'd give The Ukraine back again to live It o'er once more; and be a page,

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For lovers there are many eyes, And such there were on us; the devil On such occasions should be civil; The devil! I'm loth to do him wrong, It might be some untoward saint, Who would not be at rest too long

But to his pious bile gave vent

But one fair night, some lurking spies
Surprised and seized us both.

The Count was something more than wroth;

I was unarm'd; but if in steel,
All cap-à-pie from head to heel,

What 'gainst their numbers could I do? "T was near his castle, far away

From city or from succour near, And almost on the break of day.

I did not think to see another,

My moments seem'd reduced to few; And with one prayer to Mary Mother, And, it may be, a saint or two,

As I resign'd me to my fate,
They led me to the castle gate:

Theresa's doom I never knew,
Our lot was henceforth separate.
An angry man, ye may opine,
Was he, the proud Count Palatine;
And he had reason good to be,

But he was most enraged lest such
An accident should chance to touch
Upon his future pedigree;

Nor less amazed, that such a blot
His noble 'scutcheon should have got,
While he was highest of his line;

Because unto himself he seem'd The first of men, nor less he deem'd In others' eyes, and most in mine. 'Sdeath! with a page perchance a king

Had reconciled him to the thing;
But with a stripling of a page!

I felt

but cannot paint his rage.

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Away!-away!- My breath was gone

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I saw not where he hurried on:
'T was scarcely yet the break of day,
And on he foam'd away!-away!
The last of human sounds which rose,
As I was darted from my foes,
Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
Which on the wind came roaring after
A moment from that rabble rout.
With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head,
And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,
And, writhing half my form about,
Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the