Such was the hazard of the die[126];15The wounded Charles was taught to flyBy day and night through field and flood,Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood;For thousands fell that flight to aid;And not a voice was heard t' upbraid20Ambition in his humbled hour,When truth had naught to dread from power.His horse was slain, and Gieta[127]gaveHis own—and died the Russians' slave.This too sinks after many a league25Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue;And in the depth of forests darkling,The watch-fires in the distance sparkling—The beacons of surrounding foes—A king must lay his limbs at length.30Are these the laurels and reposeFor which the nations strain their strength?They laid him by a savage tree,In outworn nature's agony;His wounds were stiff—his limbs were stark—35The heavy hour was chill and dark;The fever in his blood forbadea transient slumber's fitful aid:And thus it was; but yet through all,Kinglike the monarch bore his fall,40And made, in this extreme of ill,His pangs the vassals of his will:All silent and subdued were they,As once the nations round him lay.
Such was the hazard of the die[126];15The wounded Charles was taught to flyBy day and night through field and flood,Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood;For thousands fell that flight to aid;And not a voice was heard t' upbraid20Ambition in his humbled hour,When truth had naught to dread from power.His horse was slain, and Gieta[127]gaveHis own—and died the Russians' slave.This too sinks after many a league25Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue;And in the depth of forests darkling,The watch-fires in the distance sparkling—The beacons of surrounding foes—A king must lay his limbs at length.30Are these the laurels and reposeFor which the nations strain their strength?They laid him by a savage tree,In outworn nature's agony;His wounds were stiff—his limbs were stark—35The heavy hour was chill and dark;The fever in his blood forbadea transient slumber's fitful aid:And thus it was; but yet through all,Kinglike the monarch bore his fall,40And made, in this extreme of ill,His pangs the vassals of his will:All silent and subdued were they,As once the nations round him lay.
III
A band of chiefs!—alas! how few,45Since but the fleeting of a dayHad thinn'd it; but this wreck was trueAnd chivalrous: upon the clayEach sate him down, all sad and mute,Beside his monarch and his steed,50For danger levels man and brute,[128]And all are fellows in their need.Among the rest, Mazeppa madeHis pillow in an old oak's shade—Himself as rough, and scarce less old,55The Ukraine's hetman,[129]calm and bold.But first, outspent with his long course,The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse,And made for him a leafy bed,And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane,60And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein,And joy'd to see how well he fed;For until now he had the dreadHis wearied courser might refuseTo browse beneath the midnight dews:65But 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,70All 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,—and Night,Without a star, pursued her flight,—75That steed from sunset until dawnHis chief would follow like a fawn.
A band of chiefs!—alas! how few,45Since but the fleeting of a dayHad thinn'd it; but this wreck was trueAnd chivalrous: upon the clayEach sate him down, all sad and mute,Beside his monarch and his steed,50For danger levels man and brute,[128]And all are fellows in their need.Among the rest, Mazeppa madeHis pillow in an old oak's shade—Himself as rough, and scarce less old,55The Ukraine's hetman,[129]calm and bold.But first, outspent with his long course,The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse,And made for him a leafy bed,And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane,60And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein,And joy'd to see how well he fed;For until now he had the dreadHis wearied courser might refuseTo browse beneath the midnight dews:65But 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,70All 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,—and Night,Without a star, pursued her flight,—75That steed from sunset until dawnHis chief would follow like a fawn.
IV
This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak,And laid his lance beneath his oak,Felt if his arms in order good80The 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—85And next the venerable man,From out his haversack and can,Prepared and spread his slender stock;And to the monarch and his menThe whole or portion offer'd then90With far less of inquietudeThan courtiers at a banquet would.And Charles of this his slender shareWith smiles partook a moment there,To force of cheer a greater show,95And seem above both wounds and woe;—And then he said—"Of all our band,Though firm of heart and strong of hand,In skirmish, march, or forage, noneCan less have said or more have done100Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earthSo fit a pain had never birth,Since Alexander's days till now,As thy Bucephalus[130]and thou:All Scythia's[131]fame to thine should yield105For pricking on o'er flood and field."Mazeppa answer'd—"Ill betideThe school wherein I learn'd to ride!"Quoth Charles—"Old Hetman, wherefore so,Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?"110Mazeppa 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 ease115Beyond the swift Borysthenes[132];And, sire, your limbs have need of rest,And I will be the sentinelOf this your troop."—"But I request,"Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell120This tale of thine, and I may reap,Perchance, from this the boon of sleep;For at this moment from my eyesThe hope of present slumber flies.""Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track125My seventy years of memory back:I think 'twas in my twentieth spring—Ay, 'twas,—when Casimir was king—John Casimir,—I was his pageSix summers, in my earlier age.130A learned monarch, faith! was he,And most unlike your majesty:He made no wars, and did not gainNew realms to lose them back again;And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)135He 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;140But soon his wrath being o'er, he tookAnother mistress, or new book.And then he gave prodigious fêtes—All Warsaw gather'd round his gatesTo gaze upon his splendid court,145And 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.150It was a court of jousts and mimes,[133]Where every courtier tried at rhymes;Even I for once produced some verses,And sign'd my odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.[134]'There was a certain Palatine,[135]155A 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 ore160As 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,165He thought their merits were his own.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,170To virtue a few farewell tears,A restless dream or two, some glancesAt Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances,Awaited but the usual chances,(Those happy accidents which render175The coldest dames so very tender,)To deck her Count with titles given,'Tis said, as passports into heaven;But, strange to say, they rarely boastOf these, who have deserved them most.180
This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak,And laid his lance beneath his oak,Felt if his arms in order good80The 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—85And next the venerable man,From out his haversack and can,Prepared and spread his slender stock;And to the monarch and his menThe whole or portion offer'd then90With far less of inquietudeThan courtiers at a banquet would.And Charles of this his slender shareWith smiles partook a moment there,To force of cheer a greater show,95And seem above both wounds and woe;—And then he said—"Of all our band,Though firm of heart and strong of hand,In skirmish, march, or forage, noneCan less have said or more have done100Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earthSo fit a pain had never birth,Since Alexander's days till now,As thy Bucephalus[130]and thou:All Scythia's[131]fame to thine should yield105For pricking on o'er flood and field."Mazeppa answer'd—"Ill betideThe school wherein I learn'd to ride!"Quoth Charles—"Old Hetman, wherefore so,Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?"110Mazeppa 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 ease115Beyond the swift Borysthenes[132];And, sire, your limbs have need of rest,And I will be the sentinelOf this your troop."—"But I request,"Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell120This tale of thine, and I may reap,Perchance, from this the boon of sleep;For at this moment from my eyesThe hope of present slumber flies."
"Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track125My seventy years of memory back:I think 'twas in my twentieth spring—Ay, 'twas,—when Casimir was king—John Casimir,—I was his pageSix summers, in my earlier age.130A learned monarch, faith! was he,And most unlike your majesty:He made no wars, and did not gainNew realms to lose them back again;And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)135He 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;140But soon his wrath being o'er, he tookAnother mistress, or new book.And then he gave prodigious fêtes—All Warsaw gather'd round his gatesTo gaze upon his splendid court,145And 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.150It was a court of jousts and mimes,[133]Where every courtier tried at rhymes;Even I for once produced some verses,And sign'd my odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.[134]'There was a certain Palatine,[135]155A 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 ore160As 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,165He thought their merits were his own.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,170To virtue a few farewell tears,A restless dream or two, some glancesAt Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances,Awaited but the usual chances,(Those happy accidents which render175The coldest dames so very tender,)To deck her Count with titles given,'Tis said, as passports into heaven;But, strange to say, they rarely boastOf these, who have deserved them most.180
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,185Could vie in vanities with me;For I had strength, youth, gaiety,A port, not like to this ye see,But as smooth as all is rugged now;For time, and care, and war, have plough'd190My very soul from out my brow;And thus I should be disavow'dBy all my kind and kin, could theyCompare my day and yesterday.This change was wrought, too, long ere age195Had ta'en my features for his page:With years, ye know, have not declinedMy strength, my courage, or my mind,Or at this hour I should not beTelling old tales beneath a tree,200With 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;205And yet I find no words to tellThe shape of her I loved so well.She had the Asiatic eye,Such as our Turkish neighbourhood,Hath mingled with our Polish blood,210Dark 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;215All love, half languor, and half fire,Like saints that at the stake expire,And lift their raptured looks on highAs though it were a joy to die;—A brow like a midsummer lake,220Transparent 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;225And such as I am, love indeedIn fierce extremes—in good and ill;But still we love even in our rage,And haunted to our very ageWith the vain shadow of the past,230As is Mazeppa to the last.
"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,185Could vie in vanities with me;For I had strength, youth, gaiety,A port, not like to this ye see,But as smooth as all is rugged now;For time, and care, and war, have plough'd190My very soul from out my brow;And thus I should be disavow'dBy all my kind and kin, could theyCompare my day and yesterday.This change was wrought, too, long ere age195Had ta'en my features for his page:With years, ye know, have not declinedMy strength, my courage, or my mind,Or at this hour I should not beTelling old tales beneath a tree,200With 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;205And yet I find no words to tellThe shape of her I loved so well.She had the Asiatic eye,Such as our Turkish neighbourhood,Hath mingled with our Polish blood,210Dark 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;215All love, half languor, and half fire,Like saints that at the stake expire,And lift their raptured looks on highAs though it were a joy to die;—A brow like a midsummer lake,220Transparent 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;225And such as I am, love indeedIn fierce extremes—in good and ill;But still we love even in our rage,And haunted to our very ageWith the vain shadow of the past,230As 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 signsWe hear and see, but none defines—235Involuntary sparks of thought,Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought[136]And form a strange intelligenceAlike mysterious and intense,Which link the burning chain that binds,240Without their will, young hearts and minds:Conveying, as the electric wire,We know not how, the absorbing fire.—I saw, and sigh'd—in silence wept,And still reluctant distance kept,245Until I was made known to her,And we might then and there conferWithout suspicion—then, even then,I long'd, and was resolved to speak;But on my lips they died again,250The accents tremulous and weak,Until one hour.—There is a game,A frivolous and foolish play,Wherewith we while away the day;It is—I have forgot the name—255And we to this, it seems, were set,By some strange chance, which I forget:I reckon'd not if I won or lost,It was enough for me to beSo near to hear, and oh! to see260The being whom I loved the most.I watch'd her as a sentinel,(May ours this dark night watch as well!)Until I saw, and thus it was,That she was pensive, nor perceived265Her occupation, nor was grievedNor glad to lose or gain; but stillPlay'd on for hours, as if her willYet bound her to the place, though notThat hers might be the winning lot.270Then through my brain the thought did passEven as a flash of lightning there,That there was something in her airWhich would not doom me to despair;And on the thought my words broke forth,275All incoherent as they were—Their eloquence was little worth,But yet she listen'd—'tis enough—Who listens once will listen twice;Her heart, be sure, is not of ice,280And one refusal no rebuff.
"We met—we gazed—I saw, and sigh'd,She did not speak, and yet replied:There are ten thousand tones and signsWe hear and see, but none defines—235Involuntary sparks of thought,Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought[136]And form a strange intelligenceAlike mysterious and intense,Which link the burning chain that binds,240Without their will, young hearts and minds:Conveying, as the electric wire,We know not how, the absorbing fire.—I saw, and sigh'd—in silence wept,And still reluctant distance kept,245Until I was made known to her,And we might then and there conferWithout suspicion—then, even then,I long'd, and was resolved to speak;But on my lips they died again,250The accents tremulous and weak,Until one hour.—There is a game,A frivolous and foolish play,Wherewith we while away the day;It is—I have forgot the name—255And we to this, it seems, were set,By some strange chance, which I forget:I reckon'd not if I won or lost,It was enough for me to beSo near to hear, and oh! to see260The being whom I loved the most.I watch'd her as a sentinel,(May ours this dark night watch as well!)Until I saw, and thus it was,That she was pensive, nor perceived265Her occupation, nor was grievedNor glad to lose or gain; but stillPlay'd on for hours, as if her willYet bound her to the place, though notThat hers might be the winning lot.270Then through my brain the thought did passEven as a flash of lightning there,That there was something in her airWhich would not doom me to despair;And on the thought my words broke forth,275All incoherent as they were—Their eloquence was little worth,But yet she listen'd—'tis enough—Who listens once will listen twice;Her heart, be sure, is not of ice,280And one refusal no rebuff.
VII
"I loved, and was beloved again—They tell me, sire, you never knewThose gentle frailties; if 'tis true,I shorten all my joy or pain;285To you 'twould seem absurd as vain;But all men are not born to reign,Or o'er their passions, or as youThus o'er themselves and nations too.I am—or ratherwas—a prince,290A chief of thousands, and could leadThem on where each would foremost bleed;But could not o'er myself evinceThe like control.—But to resume:I loved, and was beloved again;295In sooth, it is a happy doom,But yet where happiest ends in pain.—We met in secret, and the hourWhich led me to that lady's bowerWas fiery Expectation's dower.300My days and nights were nothing—allExcept that hour which doth recallIn the long lapse from youth to ageNo other like itself—I'd giveThe Ukraine back again to live305It o'er once more—and be a page,The happy page, who was the lordOf one soft heart and his own sword,And had no other gem nor wealthSave nature's gift of youth and health.—310We met in secret—doubly sweet,Some say, they find it so to meet;I know not that—I would have givenMy life but to have call'd her mineIn the full view of earth and heaven;315For I did oft and long repineThat we could only meet by stealth.
"I loved, and was beloved again—They tell me, sire, you never knewThose gentle frailties; if 'tis true,I shorten all my joy or pain;285To you 'twould seem absurd as vain;But all men are not born to reign,Or o'er their passions, or as youThus o'er themselves and nations too.I am—or ratherwas—a prince,290A chief of thousands, and could leadThem on where each would foremost bleed;But could not o'er myself evinceThe like control.—But to resume:I loved, and was beloved again;295In sooth, it is a happy doom,But yet where happiest ends in pain.—We met in secret, and the hourWhich led me to that lady's bowerWas fiery Expectation's dower.300My days and nights were nothing—allExcept that hour which doth recallIn the long lapse from youth to ageNo other like itself—I'd giveThe Ukraine back again to live305It o'er once more—and be a page,The happy page, who was the lordOf one soft heart and his own sword,And had no other gem nor wealthSave nature's gift of youth and health.—310We met in secret—doubly sweet,Some say, they find it so to meet;I know not that—I would have givenMy life but to have call'd her mineIn the full view of earth and heaven;315For I did oft and long repineThat we could only meet by stealth.
VIII
"For lovers there are many eyes,And such there were on us;—the devilOn such occasions should be civil—320The devil!—I'm loth to do him wrong,It might be some untoward saint,Who would not be at rest too longBut to his pious bile gave vent—But one fair night, some lurking spies325Surprised and seized us both.The Count was something more than wroth—I was unarm'd; but if in steel,All cap-à-pie[137]from head to heel,What 'gainst their numbers could I do?—330'Twas near his castle, far awayFrom 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;335And 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,340Our 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 such345An accident should chance to touchUpon his future pedigree;Nor less amazed, that such a blotHis noble 'scutcheon[138]should have got,While he was highest of his line;350Because unto himself he seem'dThe first of men, nor less he deem'dIn others' eyes, and most in mine.'Sdeath! with apage—perchance a kingHad reconciled him to the thing;355But with a stripling of a page—I felt—but cannot paint his rage.
"For lovers there are many eyes,And such there were on us;—the devilOn such occasions should be civil—320The devil!—I'm loth to do him wrong,It might be some untoward saint,Who would not be at rest too longBut to his pious bile gave vent—But one fair night, some lurking spies325Surprised and seized us both.The Count was something more than wroth—I was unarm'd; but if in steel,All cap-à-pie[137]from head to heel,What 'gainst their numbers could I do?—330'Twas near his castle, far awayFrom 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;335And 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,340Our 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 such345An accident should chance to touchUpon his future pedigree;Nor less amazed, that such a blotHis noble 'scutcheon[138]should have got,While he was highest of his line;350Because unto himself he seem'dThe first of men, nor less he deem'dIn others' eyes, and most in mine.'Sdeath! with apage—perchance a kingHad reconciled him to the thing;355But with a stripling of a page—I felt—but cannot paint his rage.
IX
"'Bring forth the horse!'—the horse was brought;In truth, he was a noble steed,A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,360Who look'd as though the speed of thoughtWere in his limbs; but he was wild,Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,With spur and bridle undefined—'Twas but a day he had been caught;365And snorting, with erected mane,And struggling fiercely, but in vain,In the full foam of wrath and dreadTo me the desert-born was led.They bound me on, that menial throng,370Upon his back with many a thong;They loosed him with a sudden lash—Away!—away!—and on we dash!—Torrents less rapid and less rash.
"'Bring forth the horse!'—the horse was brought;In truth, he was a noble steed,A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,360Who look'd as though the speed of thoughtWere in his limbs; but he was wild,Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,With spur and bridle undefined—'Twas but a day he had been caught;365And snorting, with erected mane,And struggling fiercely, but in vain,In the full foam of wrath and dreadTo me the desert-born was led.They bound me on, that menial throng,370Upon his back with many a thong;They loosed him with a sudden lash—Away!—away!—and on we dash!—Torrents less rapid and less rash.
X
"Away!—away!—My breath was gone—375I saw not where he hurried on:'Twas 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,380Was the wild shout of savage laughter,Which on the wind came roaring afterA moment from that rabble rout:With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head,And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane385Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,And writhing half my form about,Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread,The thunder of my courser's speed,Perchance they did not hear nor heed:390It vexes me—for I would fainHave paid their insult back again.I paid it well in after days:There is not of that castle gate,Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,395Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;Nor of its fields a blade of grass,Save what grows on a ridge of wallWhere stood the hearth-stone of the hall;And many a time ye there might pass,400Nor dream that e'er that fortress was:I saw its turrets in a blaze,Their crackling battlements all cleft,And the hot lead pour down like rainFrom off the scorch'd and blackening roof,405Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof.They little thought that day of pain,When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash,They bade me to destruction dash,That one day I should come again,410With twice five thousand horse, to thankThe Count for his uncourteous ride.They play'd me then a bitter prank,When, with the wild horse for my guide,They bound me to his foaming flank:415At length I play'd them one as frank—For time at last sets all things even—And if we do but watch the hour,There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven,420The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong.
"Away!—away!—My breath was gone—375I saw not where he hurried on:'Twas 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,380Was the wild shout of savage laughter,Which on the wind came roaring afterA moment from that rabble rout:With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head,And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane385Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,And writhing half my form about,Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread,The thunder of my courser's speed,Perchance they did not hear nor heed:390It vexes me—for I would fainHave paid their insult back again.I paid it well in after days:There is not of that castle gate,Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,395Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;Nor of its fields a blade of grass,Save what grows on a ridge of wallWhere stood the hearth-stone of the hall;And many a time ye there might pass,400Nor dream that e'er that fortress was:I saw its turrets in a blaze,Their crackling battlements all cleft,And the hot lead pour down like rainFrom off the scorch'd and blackening roof,405Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof.They little thought that day of pain,When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash,They bade me to destruction dash,That one day I should come again,410With twice five thousand horse, to thankThe Count for his uncourteous ride.They play'd me then a bitter prank,When, with the wild horse for my guide,They bound me to his foaming flank:415At length I play'd them one as frank—For time at last sets all things even—And if we do but watch the hour,There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven,420The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong.
XI
"Away, away, my steed and I,Upon the pinions of the wind.All human dwellings left behind;425We sped like meteors through the sky,When with its crackling sound the nightIs chequer'd with the northern light.Town—village—none were on our track,But a wild plain of far extent,430And bounded by a forest black;And, save the scarce seen battlementOn distant heights of some stronghold,Against the Tartars built of old,No trace of man: the year before435A Turkish army had march'd o'er;And where the Spahi's[139]hoof hath trod,The verdure flies the bloody sod.The sky was dull, and dim, and gray,And a low breeze crept moaning by—440I could have answer'd with a sigh—But fast we fled, away, away—And I could neither sigh nor pray;And my cold sweat-drops fell like rainUpon the courser's bristling mane;445But, snorting still with rage and fear,He flew upon his far career.At times I almost thought, indeed,He must have slacken'd in his speed;But no—my bound and slender frame450Was nothing to his angry might,And merely like a spur became:Each motion which I made to freeMy swoln limbs from their agonyIncreased his fury and affright:455I tried my voice,—'twas faint and low,But yet he swerved as from a blow;And, starting to each accent, sprangAs from a sudden trumpet's clang.Meantime my cords were wet with gore,460Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er;And in my tongue the thirst becameA something fierier far than flame.
"Away, away, my steed and I,Upon the pinions of the wind.All human dwellings left behind;425We sped like meteors through the sky,When with its crackling sound the nightIs chequer'd with the northern light.Town—village—none were on our track,But a wild plain of far extent,430And bounded by a forest black;And, save the scarce seen battlementOn distant heights of some stronghold,Against the Tartars built of old,No trace of man: the year before435A Turkish army had march'd o'er;And where the Spahi's[139]hoof hath trod,The verdure flies the bloody sod.The sky was dull, and dim, and gray,And a low breeze crept moaning by—440I could have answer'd with a sigh—But fast we fled, away, away—And I could neither sigh nor pray;And my cold sweat-drops fell like rainUpon the courser's bristling mane;445But, snorting still with rage and fear,He flew upon his far career.At times I almost thought, indeed,He must have slacken'd in his speed;But no—my bound and slender frame450Was nothing to his angry might,And merely like a spur became:Each motion which I made to freeMy swoln limbs from their agonyIncreased his fury and affright:455I tried my voice,—'twas faint and low,But yet he swerved as from a blow;And, starting to each accent, sprangAs from a sudden trumpet's clang.Meantime my cords were wet with gore,460Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er;And in my tongue the thirst becameA something fierier far than flame.
XII
"We near'd the wild wood—'twas so wide,I saw no bounds on either side;465'Twas studded with old sturdy trees,That bent not to the roughest breezeWhich howls down from Siberia's wasteAnd strips the forest in its haste,—But these were few and far between,470Set thick with shrubs more young and green,Luxuriant with their annual leaves,Ere strown by those autumnal evesThat nip the forest's foliage dead,Discolour'd with a lifeless red,475Which stands thereon like stiffen'd goreUpon the slain when battle's o'er,And some long winter's night hath shedIts frost o'er every tombless head,So cold and stark the raven's beak480May peck unpierced each frozen cheek.'Twas a wild waste of underwood,And here and there a chestnut stood,The strong oak, and the hardy pine;But far apart—and well it were,485Or else a different lot were mine—The boughs gave way, and did not tearMy limbs; and I found strength to bearMy wounds already scarr'd with cold—My bonds forbade to loose my hold.490We rustled through the leaves like wind,Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind;By night I heard them on the track,Their troop came hard upon our back,With their long gallop which can tire495The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire:Where'er we flew they follow'd on,Nor left us with the morning sun;Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,At daybreak winding through the wood,500And through the night had heard their feetTheir stealing, rustling step repeat.Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword,At least to die amidst the horde,And perish—if it must be so—505At bay, destroying many a foe.When first my courser's race begun,I wish'd the goal already won;But now I doubted strength and speed.Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed510Had nerved him like the mountain-roe;Nor faster falls the blinding snowWhich whelms the peasant near the doorWhose threshold he shall cross no more,Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast,515Than through the forest-paths he past—Untired, untamed, and worse than wild;All furious as a favour'd childBalk'd of its wish; or fiercer still—A woman piqued—who has her will.520
"We near'd the wild wood—'twas so wide,I saw no bounds on either side;465'Twas studded with old sturdy trees,That bent not to the roughest breezeWhich howls down from Siberia's wasteAnd strips the forest in its haste,—But these were few and far between,470Set thick with shrubs more young and green,Luxuriant with their annual leaves,Ere strown by those autumnal evesThat nip the forest's foliage dead,Discolour'd with a lifeless red,475Which stands thereon like stiffen'd goreUpon the slain when battle's o'er,And some long winter's night hath shedIts frost o'er every tombless head,So cold and stark the raven's beak480May peck unpierced each frozen cheek.'Twas a wild waste of underwood,And here and there a chestnut stood,The strong oak, and the hardy pine;But far apart—and well it were,485Or else a different lot were mine—The boughs gave way, and did not tearMy limbs; and I found strength to bearMy wounds already scarr'd with cold—My bonds forbade to loose my hold.490We rustled through the leaves like wind,Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind;By night I heard them on the track,Their troop came hard upon our back,With their long gallop which can tire495The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire:Where'er we flew they follow'd on,Nor left us with the morning sun;Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,At daybreak winding through the wood,500And through the night had heard their feetTheir stealing, rustling step repeat.Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword,At least to die amidst the horde,And perish—if it must be so—505At bay, destroying many a foe.When first my courser's race begun,I wish'd the goal already won;But now I doubted strength and speed.Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed510Had nerved him like the mountain-roe;Nor faster falls the blinding snowWhich whelms the peasant near the doorWhose threshold he shall cross no more,Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast,515Than through the forest-paths he past—Untired, untamed, and worse than wild;All furious as a favour'd childBalk'd of its wish; or fiercer still—A woman piqued—who has her will.520
XIII
"The wood was past; 'twas more than noon,But chill the air although in June;Or it might be my veins ran cold—Prolong'd endurance tames the bold;And I was then not what I seem,525But headlong as a wintry stream,And wore my feelings out beforeI well could count their causes o'er.And what with fury, fear, and wrath,The tortures which beset my path,530Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress,Thus bound in nature's nakedness,(Sprung from a race whose rising bloodWhen stirr'd beyond its calmer mood,And trodden hard upon, is like535The rattlesnake's in act to strike,)What marvel if this worn-out trunkBeneath its woes a moment sunk?The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round,I seem'd to sink upon the ground;540But err'd, for I was fastly bound.My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore,And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more;The skies spun like a mighty wheel;I saw the trees like drunkards reel,545And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,Which saw no farther: he who diesCan die no more than then I died.O'ertortured by that ghastly ride,I felt the blackness come and go,550And strove to wake; but could not makeMy senses climb up from below:I felt as on a plank at sea,When all the waves that dash o'er thee,At the same time upheave and whelm,555And hurl thee towards a desert realm.My undulating life was asThe fancied lights that flitting passOur shut eyes in deep midnight, whenFever begins upon the brain;560But soon it pass'd, with little pain,But a confusion worse than such:I own that I should deem it much,Dying, to feel the same again;And yet I do suppose we must565Feel far more ere we turn to dust:No matter; I have bared my browFull in Death's face—before—and now.
"The wood was past; 'twas more than noon,But chill the air although in June;Or it might be my veins ran cold—Prolong'd endurance tames the bold;And I was then not what I seem,525But headlong as a wintry stream,And wore my feelings out beforeI well could count their causes o'er.And what with fury, fear, and wrath,The tortures which beset my path,530Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress,Thus bound in nature's nakedness,(Sprung from a race whose rising bloodWhen stirr'd beyond its calmer mood,And trodden hard upon, is like535The rattlesnake's in act to strike,)What marvel if this worn-out trunkBeneath its woes a moment sunk?The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round,I seem'd to sink upon the ground;540But err'd, for I was fastly bound.My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore,And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more;The skies spun like a mighty wheel;I saw the trees like drunkards reel,545And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,Which saw no farther: he who diesCan die no more than then I died.O'ertortured by that ghastly ride,I felt the blackness come and go,550And strove to wake; but could not makeMy senses climb up from below:I felt as on a plank at sea,When all the waves that dash o'er thee,At the same time upheave and whelm,555And hurl thee towards a desert realm.My undulating life was asThe fancied lights that flitting passOur shut eyes in deep midnight, whenFever begins upon the brain;560But soon it pass'd, with little pain,But a confusion worse than such:I own that I should deem it much,Dying, to feel the same again;And yet I do suppose we must565Feel far more ere we turn to dust:No matter; I have bared my browFull in Death's face—before—and now.
XIV
"My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold,And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse570Life reassumed its lingering hold,And throb by throb: till grown a pangWhich for a moment would convulse,My blood reflow'd though thick and chill;My ear with uncouth[140]noises rang,575My heart began once more to thrill;My sight return'd, though dim, alas!And thicken'd, as it were, with glass.Methought the dash of waves was nigh:There was a gleam too of the sky,580Studded with stars;—it is no dream;The wild horse swims the wilder stream!The bright broad river's gushing tideSweeps, winding onward, far and wide,And we are half-way, struggling o'er585To yon unknown and silent shore.The waters broke my hollow trance,And with a temporary strengthMy stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized.My courser's broad breast proudly braves590And dashes off the ascending waves,And onward we advance!We reach the slippery shore at length,A haven I but little prized,For all behind was dark and drear,595And all before was night and fear.How many hours of night or dayIn those suspended pangs I lay,I could not tell; I scarcely knewIf this were human breath I drew.600
"My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold,And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse570Life reassumed its lingering hold,And throb by throb: till grown a pangWhich for a moment would convulse,My blood reflow'd though thick and chill;My ear with uncouth[140]noises rang,575My heart began once more to thrill;My sight return'd, though dim, alas!And thicken'd, as it were, with glass.Methought the dash of waves was nigh:There was a gleam too of the sky,580Studded with stars;—it is no dream;The wild horse swims the wilder stream!The bright broad river's gushing tideSweeps, winding onward, far and wide,And we are half-way, struggling o'er585To yon unknown and silent shore.The waters broke my hollow trance,And with a temporary strengthMy stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized.My courser's broad breast proudly braves590And dashes off the ascending waves,And onward we advance!We reach the slippery shore at length,A haven I but little prized,For all behind was dark and drear,595And all before was night and fear.How many hours of night or dayIn those suspended pangs I lay,I could not tell; I scarcely knewIf this were human breath I drew.600
XV
"With glossy skin, and dripping mane,And reeling limbs, and reeking flank,The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strainUp the repelling bank.We gain the top: a boundless plain605Spreads through the shadow of the night,And onward, onward, onward, seems,Like precipices in our dreams,To stretch beyond the sight;And here and there a speck of white,610Or scatter'd spot of dusky green,In masses broke into the light,As rose the moon upon my right.But nought distinctly seenIn the dim waste would indicate615The omen of a cottage gate;No twinkling taper from afarStood like a hospitable star;Not even an ignis-fatuus[141]roseTo make him merry with my woes:620That very cheat had cheer'd me then!Although detected, welcome still,Reminding me, through every ill,Of the abodes of men.
"With glossy skin, and dripping mane,And reeling limbs, and reeking flank,The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strainUp the repelling bank.We gain the top: a boundless plain605Spreads through the shadow of the night,And onward, onward, onward, seems,Like precipices in our dreams,To stretch beyond the sight;And here and there a speck of white,610Or scatter'd spot of dusky green,In masses broke into the light,As rose the moon upon my right.But nought distinctly seenIn the dim waste would indicate615The omen of a cottage gate;No twinkling taper from afarStood like a hospitable star;Not even an ignis-fatuus[141]roseTo make him merry with my woes:620That very cheat had cheer'd me then!Although detected, welcome still,Reminding me, through every ill,Of the abodes of men.
XVI
"Onward we went—but slack and slow;625His savage force at length o'erspent,The drooping courser, faint and low,All feebly foaming went.A sickly infant had had powerTo guide him forward in that hour;630But useless all to me.His new-born tameness nought avail'd—My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd,Perchance, had they been free.With feeble effort still I tried635To rend the bonds so starkly tied—But still it was in vain;My limbs were only wrung the more,And soon the idle strife gave o'er,Which but prolong'd their pain.640The dizzy race seem'd almost done,Although no goal was nearly won:Some streaks announced the coming sun—How slow, alas! he came!Methought that mist of dawning gray645Would never dapple into day;How heavily it roll'd away—Before the eastern flameRose crimson, and deposed the stars,And call'd the radiance from their cars,650And filled the earth, from his deep throne,With lonely lustre, all his own.
"Onward we went—but slack and slow;625His savage force at length o'erspent,The drooping courser, faint and low,All feebly foaming went.A sickly infant had had powerTo guide him forward in that hour;630But useless all to me.His new-born tameness nought avail'd—My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd,Perchance, had they been free.With feeble effort still I tried635To rend the bonds so starkly tied—But still it was in vain;My limbs were only wrung the more,And soon the idle strife gave o'er,Which but prolong'd their pain.640The dizzy race seem'd almost done,Although no goal was nearly won:Some streaks announced the coming sun—How slow, alas! he came!Methought that mist of dawning gray645Would never dapple into day;How heavily it roll'd away—Before the eastern flameRose crimson, and deposed the stars,And call'd the radiance from their cars,650And filled the earth, from his deep throne,With lonely lustre, all his own.
XVII
"Up rose the sun; the mists were curl'dBack from the solitary worldWhich lay around—behind—before;655What booted it to traverse o'erPlain, forest, river? Man nor brute,Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot,Lay in the wild luxuriant soil;No sign of travel—none of toil;660The very air was mute;And not an insect's shrill small horn,Nor matin bird's new voice was borneFrom herb nor thicket. Many a werst,[142]Panting as if his heart would burst,665The weary brute still stagger'd on;And still we were—or seem'd—alone.At length, while reeling on our way,Methought I heard a courser neighFrom out yon tuft of blackening firs.670Is it the wind those branches stirs?No, no! from out the forest pranceA trampling troop; I see them come!In one vast squadron they advance!I strove to cry—my lips were dumb.675The steeds rush on in plunging pride;But where are they the reins to guide?A thousand horse—and none to ride!With flowing tail, and flying mane,Wide nostrils—never stretched by pain,680Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,And feet that iron never shod,And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod,A thousand horse, the wild, the free,Like waves that follow o'er the sea,685Came thickly thundering on,As if our faint approach to meet.The sight re-nerved my courser's feet,A moment staggering, feebly fleet,A moment, with a faint low neigh,690He answer'd, and then fell;With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,And reeking limbs immoveable;His first and last career is done!On came the troop—they saw him stoop,695They saw me strangely bound alongHis back with many a bloody thong:They stop—they start—they snuff the air,Gallop a moment here and there,Approach, retire, wheel round and round,700Then plunging back with sudden bound,Headed by one black mighty steedWho seem'd the patriarch of his breed,Without a single speck or hairOf white upon his shaggy hide.705They snort—they foam—neigh—swerve aside,And backward to the forest fly,By instinct, from a human eye.—They left me there to my despair,Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch,710Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch,Relieved from that unwonted weight,From whence I could not extricateNor him nor me—and there we layThe dying on the dead!715I little deem'd another dayWould see my houseless, helpless head."And there from morn till twilight bound,I felt the heavy hours toil round,With just enough of life to see720My last of suns go down on me,In hopeless certainty of mind,That makes us feel at length resign'dTo that which our foreboding yearsPresents the worst and last of fears725Inevitable—even a boon,Nor more unkind for coming soon;Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care,As if it only were a snareThat prudence might escape:730At times both wish'd for and implored,At times sought with self-pointed sword,Yet still a dark and hideous closeTo even intolerable woes,And welcome in no shape.735And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure,They who have revell'd beyond measureIn beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure,Die calm, or calmer oft than heWhose heritage was misery:740For he who hath in turn run throughAll that was beautiful and new,Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave;And, save the future (which is view'dNot quite as men are base or good,745But as their nerves may be endued,)With nought perhaps to grieve:—The wretch still hopes his woes must end,And Death, whom he should deem his friend,Appears, to his distemper'd eyes,750Arrived to rob him of his prize,The tree of his new Paradise.To-morrow would have given him all,Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall;To-morrow would have been the first755Of days no more deplored or curst,But bright, and long, and beckoning years,Seen dazzling through the mist of tears,Guerdon of many a painful hour;To-morrow would have given him power760To rule, to shine, to smite, to save—And must it dawn upon his grave?
"Up rose the sun; the mists were curl'dBack from the solitary worldWhich lay around—behind—before;655What booted it to traverse o'erPlain, forest, river? Man nor brute,Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot,Lay in the wild luxuriant soil;No sign of travel—none of toil;660The very air was mute;And not an insect's shrill small horn,Nor matin bird's new voice was borneFrom herb nor thicket. Many a werst,[142]Panting as if his heart would burst,665The weary brute still stagger'd on;And still we were—or seem'd—alone.At length, while reeling on our way,Methought I heard a courser neighFrom out yon tuft of blackening firs.670Is it the wind those branches stirs?No, no! from out the forest pranceA trampling troop; I see them come!In one vast squadron they advance!I strove to cry—my lips were dumb.675The steeds rush on in plunging pride;But where are they the reins to guide?A thousand horse—and none to ride!With flowing tail, and flying mane,Wide nostrils—never stretched by pain,680Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,And feet that iron never shod,And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod,A thousand horse, the wild, the free,Like waves that follow o'er the sea,685Came thickly thundering on,As if our faint approach to meet.The sight re-nerved my courser's feet,A moment staggering, feebly fleet,A moment, with a faint low neigh,690He answer'd, and then fell;With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,And reeking limbs immoveable;His first and last career is done!On came the troop—they saw him stoop,695They saw me strangely bound alongHis back with many a bloody thong:They stop—they start—they snuff the air,Gallop a moment here and there,Approach, retire, wheel round and round,700Then plunging back with sudden bound,Headed by one black mighty steedWho seem'd the patriarch of his breed,Without a single speck or hairOf white upon his shaggy hide.705They snort—they foam—neigh—swerve aside,And backward to the forest fly,By instinct, from a human eye.—They left me there to my despair,Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch,710Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch,Relieved from that unwonted weight,From whence I could not extricateNor him nor me—and there we layThe dying on the dead!715I little deem'd another dayWould see my houseless, helpless head.
"And there from morn till twilight bound,I felt the heavy hours toil round,With just enough of life to see720My last of suns go down on me,In hopeless certainty of mind,That makes us feel at length resign'dTo that which our foreboding yearsPresents the worst and last of fears725Inevitable—even a boon,Nor more unkind for coming soon;Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care,As if it only were a snareThat prudence might escape:730At times both wish'd for and implored,At times sought with self-pointed sword,Yet still a dark and hideous closeTo even intolerable woes,And welcome in no shape.735And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure,They who have revell'd beyond measureIn beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure,Die calm, or calmer oft than heWhose heritage was misery:740For he who hath in turn run throughAll that was beautiful and new,Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave;And, save the future (which is view'dNot quite as men are base or good,745But as their nerves may be endued,)With nought perhaps to grieve:—The wretch still hopes his woes must end,And Death, whom he should deem his friend,Appears, to his distemper'd eyes,750Arrived to rob him of his prize,The tree of his new Paradise.To-morrow would have given him all,Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall;To-morrow would have been the first755Of days no more deplored or curst,But bright, and long, and beckoning years,Seen dazzling through the mist of tears,Guerdon of many a painful hour;To-morrow would have given him power760To rule, to shine, to smite, to save—And must it dawn upon his grave?
XVIII