LXXX.

Oh, mirth and innocence! oh, milk and water!
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter,
Abominable man no more allays

His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter,
I love you both, and both shall have my praise:
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy!—
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy.
LXXXI.

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her,
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way,
Which seems to say, « Madam, I do you honour,
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay.»
Could staring win a woman this had won her,

But Laura could not thus be led astray;
She had stood fire too long and well to boggle
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle.

LXXXII.

The morning now was on the point of breaking,
A turn of time at which I would advise
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking
In any other kind of exercise,

To make their preparations for forsaking

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, Because when once the lamps and candles fail, His blushes make them look a little pale.

LXXXIII.

I've seen some balls and revels in my time,

And staid them over for some silly reason, And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime)

To see what lady best stood out the season; And though I've seen some thousands in their prime, Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn), Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. LXXXIV.

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention,

Although I might, for she was nought to me
More than that patent work of God's invention,
A charming woman, whom we like to see;
But writing names would merit reprehension,
Yet, if you like to find out this fair she,
At the next London or Parisian ball
You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.
LXXXV.

Laura, who knew it would not do at all

To meet the day-light after seven hours' sitting Among three thousand people at a ball,

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; The Count was at her elbow with her shawl,

And they the room were on the point of quitting, When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got Just in the very place where they should not.

LXXXVI.

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause
Is much the same-the crowd, and pulling, hauling,
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws,
They make a never-intermitted bawling.
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws,
And here a sentry stands within your calling;
But, for all that, there is a deal of swearing,
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.

LXXXVII.

The Count and Laura found their boat at last,
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide,
Discussing all the dances gone and past;
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside;
Some little scandals eke: but all aghast

(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide), Sate Laura by the side of her adorer,

When lo! the Mussulman was there before her.

LXXXVIII.

« Sir,» said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, << Your unexpected presence here will make

It necessary for myself to crave

Its import! But perhaps 't is a mistake;

I hope it is so; and at once to wave

All compliment, I hope so for your sake;
You understand my meaning, or you shall.»
<< Sir,» (quoth the Turk) «'t is no mistake at all.
LXXXIX.

<< That lady is my wife!» Much wonder paints
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might;
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints,
Italian females don't do so outright;

They only call a little on their saints,

And then come to themselves, almost or quite; Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, And cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

XC.

She said,-what could she say? why, not a word:
But the Count courteously invited in
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard:
«Such things perhaps we'd best discuss within,»
Said he; «don't let us make ourselves absurd
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din,
For then the chief and only satisfaction
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction.>>
XCI.

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd,—it came,
A beverage for Turks and Christians both,
Although the way they make it's not the same.
Now Laura, much rècover'd, or less loth
To speak, cries « Beppo! what's your pagan name?
Bless me! your beard is of amazing growth!
And how came you to keep away so long?
Are you not sensible 't was very wrong?
XCII.

«And are you really, truly, now a Turk?
With any other women did you wive?
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork?

Well, that's the prettiest shawl-as I'm alive!
You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork.
And how so many years did you contrive
To-Bless me! did I ever? No, I never

Saw a man grown so yellow! How's your liver?

XCVIII.

His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him
(He made the church a present by the way);
He then threw off the garments which disguised him,
And borrow'd the Count's small-clothes for a day:
His friends the more for his long absence prized him,
Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them
For stories, but I don't believe the half of them.
XCIX.

Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age

With wealth and talking made him some amends; Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, I've heard the Count and he were always friends. My pen is at the bottom of a page, Which being finish'd, here the story ends; T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

NOTES.

Note 1. Stanza xiv, line 8.

Like the lost Pleiad, seen no more below.
Que septem dici sex tamen esse solent.-Ov19.
Note 2. Stanza xxv, line 8.
His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.

Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph.

Note 3. Stanza xxxvii, line 3.

The Spaniards call the person a « Cortejo. » «Cortejo» is pronounced « Corteho,»> with an aspirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there is as yet no precise name for in England, though the practice is as common as in any tramontane country whatever.

Note 4. Stanza xlvi, line 3.

Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies. For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's death, see his Lives.

«CELUI qui remplissait alors cette place était un gentilhomme polonais, nommé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Padolie; il avait été élevé page de JeanCasimir, 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, quj 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 long-temps 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, Histoire de Charles XII, p. 196.

MAZEPPA.

I.

T was after dread Pultowa's day, When fortune left the royal Swede, Around a slaughter'd army lay,

No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war,

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar,

And Moscow's walls were safe again, Until a day more dark and drear, And a more memorable year, Should give to slaughter and to shame A mightier host and haughtier name; A greater wreck, a deeper fall,

A shock to one-a thunderbolt to all.

II.

Such was the hazard of the die;

The wounded Charles was taught to fly
By 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 to upbraid
Ambition in his humbled hour,

When truth had nought to dread from power.
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave
His own and died the Russians' slave.
This too sinks after many a league
Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue;
And in the depth of forests, darkling
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling-
The beacons of surrounding focs-
A king must lay his limbs at length.

Are these the laurels and repose

For which the nations strain their strength? They laid him by a savage tree,

In out-worn nature's agony;

His wounds were stiff-his limbs were stark

The heavy hour was chill and dark;
The fever in his blood forbade
A transient slumber's fitful aid:
And thus it was; but yet through all,
King-like the monarch bore his fall,
And 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,
Since but the fleeting of a day

Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true
And chivalrous; upon the clay
Each sate him down, all sad and mute,
Beside his monarch and his steed,
For danger levels man and brute,

And all are fellows in their need.
Among the rest, Mazeppa made
His pillow in an old oak's shade-
Himself 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,

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 browze 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,—and night,
Without a star, pursued her flight,-
That steed from sunset until dawn
His 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 good

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

And flints unloosen'd kept their lockHis sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, And whether they had chafed his beltAnd 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 woe;-
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 Scythia's fame to thine should yield
For pricking on o'er flood and field.»>
Mazeppa auswer'd—« Ill betide

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.»>

"

Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track My seventy years of memory back:

I think 't was in my twentieth spring,一
Ay, 't was,-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;
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 Thirsis.
There was a certain Palatine,
A count of far and high descent,

Rich as a salt or silver mine; 1
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
faze 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—

His junior she by thirty yearsGrew 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.

.

« I was a goodly stripling then;

At seventy years I so may say,

This comparison of a salt mine may perhaps be permitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country consists greatly in the salt mines.

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, gaiety,
A port not like to this you 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
kind and kin, could they

my

By all
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 chesnut's bough,

The memory is so quick and warm;
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,
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

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.

Until I was made known to her,

And we might then and there confer
Without suspicion-then, even then,

I long'd, and was resolved to speak;
But on my lips they died again,

The 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→
And we to this, it seems, were set,

By some strange chance, which I forget:

I reck'd not if I won or lost,

It was enough for me to be

So near to hear, and oh! to see The 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 perceived
Her occupation, nor was grieved
Nor glad to lose or gain; but still
Play'd on for hours, as if her will

Yet bound her to the place, though not
That hers might be the winning lot.

Then through my brain the thought did
Even as a flash of lightning there,

That there was something in her air
Which would not doom me to despair;
And on the thought my words broke forth,
All incoherent as they were-
Their eloquence was little worth,
But yet she listen'd-'t is enough-
Who listens once will listen twice;
Her heart, be sure, is not of ice,
And one refusal no rebuff.

VII.

<< 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.
1 am-or rather was a prince,

A chief of thousands, and could lead

pass

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 recal
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,
The happy page, who was the lord
Of one soft heart, and his own sword,

And had no other gem nor wealth

Save nature's gift of youth and health.-
We met in secret-doubly sweet,
Some say, they find it so to meet ;
I know not that-I would have given
My life but to have call'd her mine
In the full view of earth and heaven;
For I did oft and long repine
That we could only meet by stealth.

VIII.

« 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 scized us both.

The count was something more than wrothI 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.

IX.

«Bring forth the horse -the horse was brought; In truth he was a noble steed,

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,

Who look'd as though the speed of thought
Were in his limbs: but he was wild,

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,
With spur and bridle undefiled-

'T was but a day he had been caught;
And snorting, with erected mane,
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
In the full foam of wrath and dread,
To me the desert-born was led :