Young Axel saddled glad his steed, And rode both night and day with speed. When Ukrane’s boundaries drew near The sudden gleam of lance and spear Flashed round him, spurring through a wood. At once the ambush rose and stood: “Thou art the bearer of commands; Give up the letter to our hands, Dismount and give it up, or die.” Then rang his sword its swift reply, And he who spoke, grown wondrous meek, Bowed to the earth with piercing shriek. His back now screened against an oak Now Axel meets each stroke with stroke. Wherever fell that ponderous sword, There knees were bent and blood was poured; And thus he gave his oath support. Not one to seven, that were but sport, But one to twenty rang his blade: Resistance such as Krakë made. To life by hope no longer bound, He sought but fellowship in death. The purple mouth of many a wound, Now whispers with enfeebled breath That strength and life are taking flight. His hand no longer knows the steel, And swooning darkness sets its seal Upon his eyes, he sinks in night.
“Halloo!” With shouts the wood resounds, And falcons bold and faithful hounds Press hard upon their frightened prey, And now the hunters dash this way. And first upon a roan-flecked steed, And vying with the wind for speed, An Amazon rides like a queen, With cheek of rose and robe of green. The robber gang affrighted fled, But she whose steed chafed at the dead Dismounted with a single bound Where lay he, as within some dale An oak thrown prostrate by the gale Lies on the copse which clothes the ground. How fair he lay, though bathed in gore! And over him Maria[C] bent, As fair Diana long before On Latmos, also well content That dogs and din of chase were gone, Bent over her Endymion. The slumberer who caused her bliss Was surely not more fair than this. A spark of life had still endured Within his breast, and, soon procured, They raise the fallen to a bier Of interwoven twigs, and bear It slowly forth with reverent care, And seek her dwelling, which was near.
She sat beside his couch, oppressed With anxious cares that leave their trace, And fastened on his pallid face A look well worth a realm’s acquest. She sat as in the groves of Greece (That land of beauty overthrown), The wild rose blooms in noiseless peace By prostrate Hercules in stone. At last he wakes to consciousness, And looks around him in distress. Alas! his eye before so mild Now glares deliriously wild. “Where am I? Girl, why art thou here? To King Carl’s service I am bound, And must not look on thee; thy tear I will not have within my wound.— My sire beyond the milky way Is wroth: he heard the oath I took. How fair, though, is the tempter’s look! How winning! Satan, hence, away!— Where is my belt and my commands? I took them from my king’s own hands. My father’s sword is good, it smites With special hate on Muscovites.— Oh! what delight it was to slay! I would the king had seen the fray: Like prostrate harvests lay the dead. It almost seemed I also bled.— I bore dispatches from the war, My honor stands in pledge therefor. Waste not a moment more,—away!” She heard his ravings with dismay, While swooning sank her hero then Exhausted on his couch again.