The Battle of Pultowa

On Yorska's glittering waves
The morning sunbeams play ;
Pultowa's walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes ;

Athwart the dusty vale
They strain their aching eyes,
Where to the fight moves on
The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

Him Famine hath not tamed.
The tamer of the brave ;
Him Winter hath not quell'd ;
When man by man his veteran troops sunk down.
Frozen to their endless sleep.
He held undaunted on

Him Pain hath not subdued ;
What though he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war ?
Borne on a litter to the field he goes.

Go, iron-hearted King !
Full of thy former fame —
Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd underneath thy sword ;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resigned his conquered crown ;
Go, iron-hearted King !
Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast,
The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd !
Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen
That on thy shame shall set !

Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest !
For over that relentless Swede
Ruin hath raised his unrelenting arm ;
For ere the night descends,
His veteran host destroyed,
His laurels blasted to revive no more,
He flies before the Moscovite.

Impatiently that haughty heart must bear
Long years of hope deceived ;
Long years of idleness
That sleepless soul must brook.
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest !
To him who suffers in an honest cause
No death is ignominious ; not on thee.
But upon Charles, the cruel, the unjust.
Not upon thee, — on him
The ineffaceable reproach is fix'd,
The infamy abides.
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest.