"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, 185 Could vie in vanities with me; For I had strength, youth, gaiety, A port, not like to this ye see, But as smooth as all is rugged now; For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 190 My very soul from out my brow; And thus I should be disavow'd By all my kind and kin, could they Compare my day and yesterday. This change was wrought, too, long ere age 195 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, 200 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; 205 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, 210 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 seem'd to melt to its own beam; 215 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, 220 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; 225 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, 230 As is Mazeppa to the last. VI