My grey old man, with sorrow beaten,
Ceased, and bent his brave old head.
The evening sun gilded the woods,
The river and fields were covered with gold.
Mazeppa’s cathedral in whiteness shines;
Great Bogdan’s tomb is gleaming,
The willows bend o’er the road to Kiev,
And hide the Three Brothers’ ancient graves.
Trubail and Alta, mid the reeds
Approach, unite in sisterly embrace.