Free Works of Alexander Pushkin by Alexander Pushkin Page B

proud,
Cares little for his long-maned steeds,
The tribute paid by Tartar horde,
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;
The passion cools, to be renewed,
And finds each day some fancy fresh.
An old man’s heart disdains to burn
With such obedient, lightsome ease,
The victim of a moment s whim:
But dulled and dimmed with thoughtful years,
The fire of passion tempered flames;
The heart is proof against its force,
And slow to burn; but once ‘tis stirred,
The love born late can ne’er grow cold,
And only dies with parting breath.
    It is no deer that seeks a refuge sure,
Alarmed by eagle’s heavy flight;
It is a bride her chamber roams,
And, trembling, waits her parents’ word.
    All filled with angry discontent,
The mother comes, as one distraught,
Seizes her hand, and sharply cries:
“Now, shame befall the godless wretch!
Can such things be? No, whilst we live,
He ne’er shall wreak his foul desire!
Well fit to play the father, or
The friend to god-child young and pure,
The senseless fool, in dotage years,
Forsooth would ape the husband’s part!”
Naught spake Marie. But o’er her face
A creeping pallor slowly flushed;
And cold and stiff, like lifeless corpse,
Prone on the floor the maiden fell.
    She woke to life, and then once more
Her eyes were closed, nor did she speak
One single word. With busy care,
They seek to ease and cheer her soul,
To drive away her fears and grief,
To peace bring back her unhinged mind;
But all in vain. For two whole days,
Now weeping sad, now choked with sobs,
She neither spake, nor eat, nor drank,
But pale and sleepless, like a ghost
Compelled to walk, sne knew no rest.
The third morn they went to seek her,
But found her chamber bare and lone.
    None knew, or when, or how, Marie
Had fled. That night, a fisher said,
He heard the tramp of swiftest steeds,
The Cossack speech, and woman’s voice:
Next morn the marks of eight horse-hoofs
 Were traced along the dew-wet mead.
    ‘Tis not alone the first soft down,
The curling, wavy locks of youth.
But oft the look serene of age,
The deep-streaked brow, and snowy hairs.
That win a maiden’s fancy free.
And light her soul with dreams of love.
    Too soon the hateful tale of shame
Assailed the ear of Kotzubei:
She had forgot disgrace and fame,
To wanton in a wretch’s arms!
Nor he nor wife dared comprehend
The whispered hints of common talk.
Ere long the story was confirmed,
Made true n all its vilest shame.
Only then was bared the secret
That long had stained the maiden’s soul:
Only then they learned and understood
Why wilfully she had rebelled
Against the curb of married life,
And, lonely grieving, pined away;
Or why the love of noble youths
Had been repulsed with silent scorn;
Or why at table Hetman’s speech
She would drink in with greedy ear,
And when the noisy chat grew gay,
And foaming goblets flowed with