Library of Congress Duplication Services. The Count orders an unusually cruel punishment: Mazeppa is to be tied naked to a steed, which is then to be taunted and set loose (Stanza 9). [nb 1] Byron's poem was immediately translated into French, where it inspired a series of works in various art forms. Perhaps the author was attracted by the persistent desire to achieve his goal, which Hetman Mazepa set himself. by N. Currier, 152 Nassau cor. However, the Count's men catch them together (l. 325–6) and bring him to the Count. The French author, most likely, was familiar with the legend about Mazepa superficially, and, perhaps, his opinion about this man was based on rumors and legends. | Print shows Ivan Mazepa, naked, bound to the back of a wild horse as punishment for his affair with Countess... 1 print : lithograph ; sheet 33.5 x 43.2 cm. | Print shows Ivan Mazepa, naked, being bound to the back of a wild horse by several men, as punishment for... 1 print : lithograph ; sheet 33.4 x 44.2 cm. In the Battle of Poltava in 1709, the troops of the Russian Tsar defeated the Swedes, and Karl and Mazepa were forced to flee. Price lists, contact information, and order forms are available on the Use the criteria sheet to understand greatest poems or improve your poetry analysis essay. And thickened, as it were, with glass.Methought the dash of waves was nigh.,There was a gleam too of the skyStudded with stars;--it is no dream;The wild horse swims the wilder stream! With Miguel Bosé, Bartabas, Brigitte Marty, Eva Schakmundes. '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, Could vie in vanities with me; For I had strength, youth, gaiety, A port, not like to this ye see, But smooth, as all is rugged now;For time, and care, and war, have ploughed My very soul from out my brow;And thus I should be disavowedBy all my kind and kin, could theyCompare my day and yesterday;This change was wrought, too, long ere ageHad 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,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;And 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,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 seemed to melt to its own beam;All love, half langour, 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 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,As is Mazeppa to the lastVI.