“And the battle broke out!”: The Battle of Poltava in Pushkin’s poem. "Hooray! We're breaking! The Swedes are bending! His face is terrible, his movements are fast, he is beautiful
With gratitude for your help in preparing the material
Yuri Lysenko-Rain - author of STIKHI.RU
First, a little theory. SPONDEUS is an iambic foot (or trochee) with super-scheme stress
This definition didn’t make it any clearer to many (including me!). Let me put it simply: this is a foot with two syllables in a row, which are pronounced with emphasis when reading. If we denote iambic as 01 (where 0 is an unstressed syllable, 1 is stressed), and trochee as 10, then spondee is denoted as 11.
Swede, Russian - stabs, chops, cuts.
Drumming, clicks, grinding,
The thunder of guns, stomping, neighing, groaning,
And death and hell on all sides.
(A.S. Pushkin)
The rhythmic scheme of the stanza is iambic, where in lines 1 and 3 the first feet are spondee.
11 01 01 01 0
10 01 01 01 0
11 01 01 01
01 01 01 01
Thus, a spondee is a two-syllable foot with two accents in a row.
If this kind of super-scheme stress occurs in a three-syllable meter (dactyl, amphibrach or anapest), then such a foot is called moloss.
MOLOSSUS (trimacre, molossus) - a foot with three long syllables (111) in ancient Greek and Roman poetry. Having passed into Russian versification, Molossus acquired the meaning of a three-beat foot, which is rarely used and cannot be considered the main one.
“I, you, he!” was the rebuff of the collective thunder,
“I hit, I hit, I hit!.. I tear, I tear, I tear!” - dozens answered...
(M. Tarlovsky)
The rhythmic scheme of the stanza passage is an anapest, whose first feet are Molossians:
111 101 001 001 0
111 111 001 001 0
Is it clearer now? I'm sure yes!
Today, in order to begin analyzing and commenting on poems from the “Master Class in Versification” competition packages, I will talk about poems written with Spondees and Molossians.
Three such applications were submitted and, regardless of what rating they received from the judges, they are worth paying attention to.
1. Yuri Lysenko-Rain. "National Spondee".
Smerd Kurd
was cool:
beat everyone.
What a laugh!
Finn is trash.
Here's a drunk:
drinks like that
that fear.
Kurdish bastard
my brother
washed the floor
hit the table.
The Swede is quiet
but dashing:
borrowed -
became bad.
Brain dead:
so bad
from years
and troubles.
Rhythmic scheme of the stanza: one-foot spondee
11
11
11
11
As you can see, the three-stanza poem consists entirely of monosyllabic words, all under stress. Let’s not talk now about the artistic impression of the poem (the judges rightly did not appreciate it), but can you write something meaningful with stressed syllables alone? The work is certainly interesting, although only in terms of poetry.
2. Mikhail Lyubavin. "Three-letter"
I've been waiting a year in vain -
all the days are evil.
I'm drinking honey in vain -
that step is stumps.
I could do everything myself -
The world is dear to me.
My God lives -
give me strength!
Rhythmic scheme of the stanza:
111
111
111
111
I do not undertake to give a name to this poetic meter (let the experts determine it!). I would like to call it a monofoot Molossus, and it would be if foot 111 only began a line written in some trisyllabic meter (dactyl, amphibrachium, or anapest), but here the entire line is a “three-beat foot” - a single !
3. Nadezhda Lazebnaya. Wolf.
Forest, night, darkness, howl,
I am not myself.
Fear follows, I scream,
Stars are light, life is a moment.
Running as fast as you can
In the brain of the Devil and God,
I'm fast like a deer
A knock on the forehead - a host of sparks.
The wolf stood up, had a spasm,
The look of two pairs of eyes
Two faces, castes, muzzles,
My spirit became strong.
Having removed the load of paws from my shoulders,
He walked away, listening to me,
The beast is the king of those places,
I clutched my cross.
Rhythmic scheme of the stanza:
11 11
11 11
11 11
11 11
Iambic is oversaturated with spondees, and practically written entirely in spondees. To read these verses, you involuntarily want to emphasize all the words, even the auxiliary ones (run with all your legs). In addition, the poems are written in nominal sentences - the author only names the picture that appears before his eyes (at the present moment) and this very clearly conveys the intense dramatic plot - the meeting of a wolf with a man. It is no coincidence that the poems were noted by several judges at once.
The analysis of poems written by spondees led me to another interesting thought. It turns out that it doesn’t matter at all how the author distributed his text among the lines, especially if your poems contain places where one stress follows another in a row.
I will give an example I took from STIKHI.RU (I will not indicate the name of the author; the poem in question was not submitted to the competition).
Not wanting to settle scores,
I let him go with God,
But, taking the devil as a traveling companion,
It is unlikely that they will ask themselves strictly.
Not a glance at goodbye
No hugs in quiet rooms...
I would be glad to forget about him
Only he remembers me:
At night over my roof
Still hoping that you are needed here,
This angel, (now - former)
Having become a black raven, he circles...
Rhythmic scheme of the stanza: (linear logaed “anapaest-trochee”)
001 001 10
001 001 10
001 001 10
001 001 10
After reading this poem, I felt discomfort. The first lines of the poems set the rhythm of the anapest (001), which suddenly ends abruptly: in the place where the ear is ready to meet an unstressed syllable, a second stressed syllable appears in a row. The rhythm makes a leap, “bumps”, requires a pause, moving from anapest to trochee and involuntarily implies the pronunciation of a word with an erroneous emphasis. This is a compound rhythm or foot LOGAED.
Next time we will talk about poems written by Logaeds (and there were a great many of them submitted to the competition!). Here I will only note that the appearance of a spondee - two stressed syllables in a row in the middle of a line - is a good reason to separate these stressed syllables into different lines: for ease of reading and to convey to the reader a hint about what intonation is required. Before the trochee, a caesura (pause) is asked so that two stressed syllables do not stand next to each other. In one logaeda, anapest and trochee do not coexist well, but the caesura before the last two-syllable word puts everything in its place.
Let's compare the same poem in another entry (I broke the line, separating two consecutive drums):
Not wanting to reduce
Abacus,
I let him go
With God blessing,
But, taking as a traveling companion
Damn,
They are unlikely to ask themselves
Strictly.
Goodbye - no
glance,
No hugs in silence
Room...
I would forget about him
Glad,
Only he is talking about me
Remembers………
Rhythmic scheme of the stanza: (linear logaed)
001 001
10
001 001
10
001 001
10
001 001
10
If you have other interesting poems in your repository with multiple (and included in the design of all stanzas) spondees, I ask you to leave links to them in the reviews under the article. Let's rejoice together!
Souls deep sadness
Strive boldly into the distance
The leader of Ukraine is not bothered.
Firm in your intention,
He's with the proud Swedish king
He continues his intercourse.
Meanwhile, in order to deceive more accurately
Eyes of hostile doubt
He, surrounded by a crowd of doctors,
10
On a bed of imaginary torment
Moaning, begging for healing.
The fruits of passions, wars, labors,
Illness, decrepitude and sorrow,
Precursors of death, chained
Him to the bed. I'm ready now
He will soon leave this mortal world;
He wants to rule the holy rite,
He calls the archpastor
To the bed of a dubious death;
20
And on treacherous gray hairs
Mysterious oil flows.
But time passed. Moscow in vain
I was waiting for guests all the time,
Among the old, enemy graves
Preparing a secret funeral feast for the Swedes.
Suddenly Karl turned
And he moved the war to Ukraine.
And the day has come. Gets up from his bed
Mazepa, this frail sufferer,
30
This corpse is alive, just yesterday
Moaning weakly over the grave.
Now he is a powerful enemy of Peter.
Now he is cheerful, in front of the shelves
Sparkles with proud eyes
And he waves his saber - and towards the Desna
Swiftly rushes on a horse.
Bent heavily by the old life,
So this cunning cardinal,
Crowned with the Roman tiara,
40
And straight, and healthy, and young.
And the news flew on wings.
Ukraine made a vague noise:
"He moved, he changed,
He laid Karl at his feet
Bunchuk is submissive.” The flame is burning
A bloody dawn is rising
People's wars.
Who will describe
Indignation, anger of the king?
Anathema thunders in cathedrals;
50
Mazepa's face is tormented by cat.
At a noisy meeting, in free debates
They are creating another hetman.
From the desert banks of the Yenisei
Families of Iskra, Kochubey
Hastily called by Peter.
He sheds tears with them.
He caresses them and showers them
And new honor and goodness.
Mazepa's enemy, ardent rider,
60
Old Man Paley from the darkness of exile
He goes to Ukraine to the royal camp.
The orphaned rebellion trembles.
The brave Chechel dies on the chopping block
And the Zaporozhye ataman.
And you, lover of abusive glory,
Throwing a crown for a helmet,
Your day is near, you are the rampart of Poltava
Finally I saw it in the distance.
And the king rushed his squad there.
70
They came like a storm -
And both camps are in the middle of the plain
They cunningly hugged each other.
Beaten more than once in a brave fight,
Drunk with blood in advance,
With the desired fighter at last
This is how a formidable fighter comes together.
And Charles, angry, sees the mighty
No longer upset clouds
The unfortunate Narva fugitives,
80
And a thread of shiny, slender regiments
Obedient, fast and calm,
And a row of unshakable bayonets.
But he decided: there will be a battle tomorrow morning.
Deep sleep in the Swede's camp.
Only under one tent
The conversation is conducted in whispers.
“No, I see, no, my Orlik,
We were in a hurry:
The calculation is both daring and bad,
90
And there will be no grace in him.
Apparently my goal is gone.
What to do? I made an important mistake:
I was wrong about this Karl.
He is a lively and brave boy;
Play two or three battles,
Of course, he can successfully
Jump to the enemy for dinner,
Respond to a bomb with laughter,
No worse than a Russian shooter
100
Sneak into the enemy's camp in the night;
To bring down a Cossack like today
And exchange a wound for a wound;
But it’s not for him to fight
With the autocratic giant:
Like a regiment, it revolves around fate
He wants to force him with a drum;
He is blind, stubborn, impatient,
And frivolous and arrogant,
God knows what happiness he believes;
110
He forces a new enemy
Success is only measured by the past -
Break his horns.
I'm ashamed: a warlike vagabond
I became carried away in my old age;
Was blinded by his courage
And the fleeting happiness of victories,
Like a timid maiden."
Battles
We'll wait. Time hasn't passed
Enter into relations with Peter again:
120
Evil can still be corrected.
Broken by us, no doubt
The king will not reject reconciliation.
No, it's too late. To the Russian Tsar
It is impossible to put up with me.
I made my mind up a long time ago
My destiny. I've been burning for a long time
Constrained by anger. Near Azov
One day I'm with the harsh king
At headquarters he feasted at night:
130
Bowls were boiling full of wine,
Our speeches were in full swing with them.
I said a bold word.
The young guests were confused...
The king, flushed, dropped the cup
And for my gray mustache
He grabbed me threateningly.
Then, resigned in impotent anger,
I took an oath to take revenge on myself;
Carried her - like a mother in the womb
140
Carrying a baby. The time has come.
Yes, a memory of me
It will be kept until the end.
I was sent to Peter for punishment;
I am the thorn in the leaves of his crown:
He would give ancestral cities
And life's best hours,
So that again like in the days of yore
Hold Mazepa by the mustache.
But there is still hope for us:
150
The dawn will decide who to run.
He fell silent and closed his lids
Traitor to the Russian Tsar.
The east is burning with a new dawn.
Already on the plain, over the hills
The guns roar. The smoke is crimson
Rises in circles to the heavens
Towards the morning rays.
The regiments closed their ranks.
Arrows scattered in the bushes.
160
Cannonballs roll, bullets whistle;
Cold bayonets hung down.
Sons beloved victories,
The Swedes are rushing through the fire of the trenches;
Worried, the cavalry flies;
The infantry moves behind her
And with its heavy firmness
Her desire is strengthening.
And the battlefield is fatal
It thunders and burns here and there,
170
But clearly the happiness is fighting
It's starting to serve us.
The squads repulsed by gunfire,
Interfering, they fall into dust.
Rosen leaves through the gorges;
Surrenders to the ardent Schliepenbach.
We are pressing the Swedes, army after army;
The glory of their banners is darkening,
And God fights with grace
Our every step is captured.
180
Then inspired from above
Peter's voice rang out:
"Let's get to work, God bless you!" From the tent
Surrounded by a crowd of favorites,
Peter comes out. His eyes
They shine. His face is terrible.
The movements are fast. He is beautiful,
He's like God's thunderstorm.
It's coming. They bring him a horse.
A faithful horse is zealous and humble.
190
Feeling the fatal fire,
Trembling. He looks askance with his eyes
And rushes in the dust of battle,
Proud of the mighty rider.
It's almost noon. The heat is blazing.
Like a plowman, the battle rests.
Cossacks are prancing here and there.
The shelves are built while leveling.
The battle music is silent.
On the hills the guns are hushed
200
They stopped their hungry roar.
And behold, announcing the plain
Cheers rang out in the distance:
The regiments saw Peter.
And he rushed in front of the shelves,
Powerful and joyful as battle.
He devoured the field with his eyes.
A crowd rushed after him
These chicks of Petrov's nest -
In the face of earthly lot
210
In the works of power and war
His comrades, sons:
And noble Sheremetev,
And Bruce, and Bour, and Repnin,
And, happiness, the rootless darling,
Semi-powerful ruler.
And in front of the blue rows
Their warlike squads,
Carried by faithful servants,
In a rocking chair, pale, motionless,
220
Suffering from a wound, Karl appeared.
The hero's leaders followed him.
He quietly sank into thought.
He portrayed an embarrassed look
Extraordinary excitement.
It seemed that Karl was brought
The desired fight is at a loss...
Suddenly with a weak wave of the hand
He moved his regiments against the Russians.
And with them the royal squads
230
They came together in the smoke in the middle of the plain:
And the battle broke out, the Battle of Poltava!
In the fire, under the red-hot hail,
Reflected by a living wall,
Above the fallen system there is a fresh system
He closes his bayonets. A heavy cloud
Squads of flying cavalry,
With reins and sounding sabers,
When knocked down, they cut from the shoulder.
Throwing piles of bodies upon piles,
240
Cast iron balls everywhere
They jump between them, strike,
They dig up the ashes and hiss in the blood.
Swede, Russian - stabs, chops, cuts.
Drumming, clicks, grinding,
The thunder of guns, stomping, neighing, groaning,
And death and hell on all sides.
Among anxiety and excitement
On the battle with the gaze of inspiration
The calm leaders look
250
The military movements are being watched,
Anticipate death and victory
And they talk in silence.
But near the Moscow Tsar
Who is this warrior with gray hair?
Two supported by the Cossacks,
Heartfelt jealousy of grief,
He is the eye of an experienced hero
Looks at the excitement of the battle.
He won't jump on a horse,
260
Dry in exile, an orphan,
And the Cossacks to the cry of Paley
They won't attack from all sides!
But why did his eyes sparkle?
And with anger, like the darkness of the night,
Has the old brow become covered?
What could outrage him?
Or did he, through the swearing smoke, see
Enemy Mazepa, and at this moment
I hated my summers
270
Disarmed old man?
Mazepa, immersed in thought,
He looked at the battle, surrounded
A crowd of rebellious Cossacks,
Relatives, elders and Serdyuks.
Suddenly a shot. The elder turned.
In Voinarovsky's hands
The musket barrel was still smoking.
Slain a few steps away,
The young Cossack was lying in blood,
280
And the horse, covered in foam and dust,
Sensing the will, he rushed wildly,
Hiding in the fiery distance.
The Cossack sought the hetman
Through the battle with a saber in hand,
With mad rage in his eyes.
The old man, having arrived, turned
To him with a question. But the Cossack
He was already dying. Extinguished vision
He also threatened the enemy of Russia;
290
The dead face was gloomy,
And the tender name of Mary
The tongue was still babbling a little.
But the moment of victory is close, close.
Hooray! we break; The Swedes are bending.
O glorious hour! oh glorious view!
Another push and the enemy flees.
And then the cavalry set off,
Murder dulls swords,
And the whole steppe was covered with the fallen
300
Like a swarm of black locusts.
Peter is feasting. And proud and clear
And his gaze is full of glory,
And his royal feast is wonderful.
At the shouts of his troops,
In his tent he treats
Our leaders, the leaders of others,
And caresses the glorious captives,
And for your teachers
The healthy cup is raised.
310
But where is the first, invited guest?
Where is our first, formidable teacher,
Whose long-term anger
Has the Poltava winner humbled?
And where is Mazepa? where is the villain?
Where did Judas run in fear?
Why is the king not among the guests?
Why is the traitor not on the chopping block?
On horseback, in the wilderness of the naked steppes,
The king and the hetman are both racing.
320
They're running. Fate connected them.
Danger is imminent and evil
Grant power to the king.
He wounded his grave
Forgot. Hanging my head,
He gallops, we are driven by the Russians,
And faithful servants in droves
They can barely follow him.
Observing with a keen eye
A wide semicircle of steppes,
330
The old hetman gallops next to him.
In front of them is a farm... What suddenly
Did Mazepa seem scared?
What rushed past the farm
Is he sideways at full speed?
Or this deserted yard,
Both the house and the garden are secluded,
And there's an open door in the field
Some forgotten story
Has he been reminded now?
340
Holy destroyer of innocence!
Did you recognize this monastery?
This house, once a cheerful house,
Where are you, inflamed with wine,
Surrounded by a happy family,
Have you ever joked at the table?
Did you recognize the secluded shelter,
Where the peaceful angel lived,
And the garden, from where on a dark night
You brought me to the steppe... I found out, I found out!
350
Night shadows embrace the steppe.
On the banks of the blue Dnieper
Lightly dozing between the rocks
Enemies of Russia and Peter.
Dreams spare the hero's peace,
He forgot the damage to Poltava.
But Mazepa's dream was troubled.
The gloomy spirit in him knew no peace.
And suddenly in the silence of the night
His name is. He woke up.
360
He looks at him, threatening his finger,
Quietly someone leaned over.
He trembled as if under an ax...
Before him with developed hair,
Sparkling sunken eyes,
All in rags, thin, pale,
Standing, illuminated by the moon...
“Is this a dream?... Maria... is that you?”
Ah, hush, hush, friend!... Now
Father and mother closed their eyes...
370
Wait... they might hear us.
Maria, poor Maria!
Come to your senses! God!... What's wrong with you?
Listen: what tricks!
What kind of funny story do they have?
She told me a secret
That my poor father died
And she quietly showed me
Gray head - creator!
Where can we run from slander?
380
Think: this head
Was not human at all
And the wolf - you see: what it is!
How did you want to deceive me?
Isn't she ashamed to scare me?
And for what? so I don't dare
Run away with you today!
Is it possible?
With deep sorrow
Her lover listened to her cruelly.
But, betrayed by a whirlwind of thoughts,
390
“However,” she says, “
I remember the field... a noisy holiday...
And the mob... and the dead bodies...
My mother took me to the holiday...
But where have you been?... It’s different with you
Why do I wander in the night?
Go home. Hurry... it's too late.
Ah, I see, my head
Full of empty excitement:
I took him for someone else
400
You, old man. Leave me alone.
Your gaze is mocking and terrible.
You are ugly. He is beautiful:
Love shines in his eyes,
There is such bliss in his speeches!
His mustache is whiter than snow,
And the blood has dried on yours!..."
And she screamed with wild laughter,
And lighter than a young chamois
She jumped up and ran
410
And disappeared into the darkness of the night.
The shadow was thinning. The East is red.
The Cossack fire burned.
The Cossacks cooked the wheat;
Drabanty on the banks of the Dnieper
The unsaddled horses were given water.
Karl woke up. "Wow! it's time!
Get up, Mazepa. It's dawning."
But the hetman has not slept for a long time.
Melancholy, melancholy consumes him;
420
Breathing in the chest is constricted.
And silently he saddles his horse,
And rides with the fugitive king,
And his gaze sparkles terribly,
Saying goodbye to family abroad.
A hundred years have passed - and what remains?
From these strong, proud men,
So full of willful passions?
Their generation has passed -
And with it the bloody trail disappeared
430
Efforts, disasters and victories.
In the citizenship of the northern power,
In her warlike destiny,
Only you erected, hero of Poltava,
A huge monument to yourself.
In a country where there are a row of winged mills
Surrounded by a peaceful fence
Bender desert rumbles,
Where the horned buffalos roam
Around the war graves, -
440
The remains of a ruined canopy,
Three sunken in the ground
And moss-covered steps
They say about the Swedish king.
The mad hero reflected from them,
Alone in a crowd of house servants,
The Turkish army is attacking noisily,
And he threw the sword under the horsetail;
And in vain there is a sad stranger
I would look for the hetman's grave:
450
Mazepa has been forgotten for a long time!
Only in a triumphant shrine
Once a year is anathema to this day,
The cathedral thunders and thunders about him.
But the grave remained,
Where the ashes of two sufferers rest;
Between the ancient righteous graves
The church sheltered them peacefully.
An ancient row blooms in Dikanka
Oak trees planted by friends;
460
They are about the forefathers who were executed
To this day they tell their grandchildren.
But the daughter is a criminal... legends
They are silent about her. Her suffering
Her destiny, her end
Impenetrable darkness
They are closed from us. Only sometimes
Blind Ukrainian singer,
When in the village in front of the people
He strums the hetman's songs,
470
About the sinful maiden in passing
He speaks to young Cossack women.
Information Department
08.07.2013 - 01:01
On July 8 (June 27, old style), 1709, the Russian army under the command of Peter I defeated the Swedes in the Battle of Poltava. This day is celebrated in Russia as the Day of Military Glory of Russia.
The Northern War, which Russia waged with Sweden for access to the Baltic Sea, began very unsuccessfully for us: in 1700, the Russian army was defeated near Narva by the young Swedish king Charles XII through the fault of the commander of the Russian forces, Duke Karl-Eugene de Croix.
After this defeat, Peter I in 1700-1702 carried out a grandiose military reform - in fact, he re-created the army and the Baltic Fleet. In the spring of 1703, at the mouth of the Neva, Peter founded the city and fortress of St. Petersburg, and later the maritime citadel of Kronstadt.
In the summer of 1704, the Russians captured Dorpat (Tartu) and Narva and thus gained a foothold on the coast of the Gulf of Finland. At that time, Peter was ready to conclude a peace treaty with Sweden. But Karl decided to continue the war until complete victory, in order to completely cut off Russia from sea trade routes.
On July 8, 1709, the famous Battle of Poltava began, where the main forces of Russian and Swedish troops met. At two o'clock in the morning, Swedish infantry moved out from Poltava in four columns, followed by six cavalry columns. By dawn, the Swedes entered the field in front of the Russian redoubts. Prince Menshikov, having lined up his dragoons in battle formation, moved towards the Swedes, wanting to meet them as early as possible and thereby gain time to prepare for the battle of the main forces. When the Swedes saw the advancing Russian dragoons, their cavalry quickly galloped through the gaps between the columns of their infantry and quickly rushed at the Russian cavalry.
By three o'clock in the morning a hot battle was already in full swing in front of the redoubts. At first, Swedish cuirassiers and a small auxiliary detachment of Zaporozhye Cossacks pushed back the Russian cavalry, but, quickly recovering, Russian regular cavalry units, supported by Kalmyks (the only irregular formations used by Peter the Great directly in the battle), pushed back the Swedes with repeated blows. The Swedish cavalry retreated and the infantry went on the attack.
The tasks of the infantry were as follows: one part of the infantry had to pass the redoubts without a fight towards the main camp of the Russian troops, while the other part, under the command of Major General Karl Roos, had to take longitudinal redoubts in order to prevent the enemy from firing destructive fire on the Swedish infantry, which moved towards the fortified Russian camp.
The Swedes took the first and second forward redoubts. Attacks on the third and other redoubts were repulsed.
The brutal stubborn battle lasted more than an hour; During this time, the main forces of the Russians managed to prepare for battle, and therefore Tsar Peter ordered the cavalry and defenders of the redoubts to retreat to the main position near the fortified camp. However, Menshikov did not obey the tsar’s order and, dreaming of finishing off the Swedes at the redoubts, continued the battle. Soon he was forced to retreat.
Field Marshal Renschild regrouped his troops, trying to bypass the Russian redoubts on the left. After capturing two redoubts, the Swedes were attacked by Menshikov's cavalry, but the Swedish cavalry forced them to retreat. According to Swedish historiography, Menshikov fled. However, the Swedish cavalry, obeying the general battle plan, did not develop their success.
During the mounted battle, six right-flank battalions of General Roos stormed the 8th redoubt, but were unable to take it, having lost up to half of their personnel during the attack. During the left flank maneuver of the Swedish troops, a gap formed between them and Roos' battalions, and the latter were lost from sight. In an effort to find them, Renschild sent 2 more infantry battalions to search for them. However, Roos' troops were defeated by Russian cavalry from Menshikov's division. The remnants of Roos's column took refuge in one of the trenches left by the Swedes near the Poltava Fortress and surrendered to Lieutenant General Samuil Renzel, who commanded Prince Menshikov's cavalry.
Meanwhile, Field Marshal Renschild, seeing the retreat of the Russian cavalry and infantry, orders his infantry to break through the line of Russian fortifications. This order is immediately carried out. Having broken through the redoubts, the main part of the Swedes came under heavy artillery and rifle fire from the Russian camp and retreated in disarray to the Budishchensky forest.
At about six o'clock in the morning, Peter led the army out of the camp and built it in two lines, with infantry in the center, Menshikov's cavalry on the left flank, and General R.H. Bour's cavalry on the right flank. A reserve of nine infantry battalions was left in the camp. Renschild lined up the Swedes opposite the Russian army. At 9 o’clock in the morning, the remnants of the Swedish infantry, numbering about 4 thousand people, formed in one line, attacked the Russian infantry, lined up in two lines of about 8 thousand each.
First, the opponents engaged in gunfire, then began hand-to-hand combat. Encouraged by the presence of the king, the right wing of the Swedish infantry fiercely attacked the left flank of the Russian army. Under the onslaught of the Swedes, the first line of Russian troops began to retreat. According to Englund, the Kazan, Pskov, Siberian, Moscow, Butyrsky and Novgorod regiments (the leading battalions of these regiments) succumbed to enemy pressure, according to Englund.
A dangerous gap in the battle formation formed in the front line of the Russian infantry: the Swedes “overthrew” the 1st battalion of the Novgorod regiment with a bayonet attack. Tsar Peter I noticed this in time, took the 2nd battalion of the Novgorod regiment and, at its head, rushed into a dangerous place. The arrival of the Tsar put an end to the Swedish successes, and order was restored on the left flank.
At first, the Swedes wavered in two or three places under the onslaught of the Russians. The second line of Russian infantry joined the first, increasing pressure on the enemy, and the melting thin line of the Swedes no longer received any reinforcements. The flanks of the Russian army engulfed the Swedish battle formation. The Swedes were already tired of the intense battle. Charles XII tried to inspire his soldiers and appeared in the place of the hottest battle. But the cannonball broke the king's stretcher, and he fell.
The news of the death of the king swept through the ranks of the Swedish army with lightning speed. Panic began among the Swedes. Having woken up from the fall, Charles XII orders himself to be placed on crossed peaks and raised high so that everyone can see him, but this measure did not help either. Under the onslaught of Russian forces, the Swedes, who had lost formation, began a disorderly retreat, which by 11 o'clock turned into a real flight. The fainting king barely had time to be taken from the battlefield, put into a carriage and sent to Perevolochna.
The Battle of Poltava ended in a convincing victory for the Russian army. The enemy lost over 9 thousand killed and 19 thousand captured. Russian losses were 1,345 killed and 3,290 wounded. The military power of the Swedes was undermined, the glory of the invincibility of Charles XII was dispelled.
The Poltava victory determined the outcome of the Northern War. The Russian army showed excellent combat training and heroism, and Peter I and his military leaders showed outstanding military leadership abilities. The Russians were the first in the military science of the era to use field earthen fortifications, as well as fast-moving horse artillery.
In 1721, the Northern War ended with the complete victory of Peter. The ancient Russian lands went to Russia, and it firmly established itself on the shores of the Baltic Sea.
Based on materials from the Portal about Russia
Souls deep sadness
Strive boldly into the distance
The leader of Ukraine is not bothered.
Firm in your intention,
He's with the proud Swedish king
He continues his intercourse.
Meanwhile, in order to deceive more accurately
Eyes of hostile doubt
He, surrounded by a crowd of doctors,
On a bed of imaginary torment
Moaning, begging for healing.
The fruits of passions, wars, labors,
Illness, decrepitude and sorrow,
Precursors of death, chained
Him to the bed. I'm ready now
He will soon leave this mortal world;
He wants to rule the holy rite,
He calls the archpastor
To the bed of a dubious death;
And on treacherous gray hairs
Mysterious oil flows.
But time passed. Moscow in vain
I was waiting for guests all the time,
Among the old, enemy graves
Preparing a secret funeral feast for the Swedes.
Suddenly Karl turned
And he moved the war to Ukraine.
And the day has come. Gets up from his bed
Mazepa, this frail sufferer,
This corpse is alive, just yesterday
Moaning weakly over the grave.
Now he is a powerful enemy of Peter.
Now he is cheerful, in front of the shelves
Sparkles with proud eyes
And he waves his saber - and towards the Desna
Swiftly rushes on a horse.
Bent heavily by the old life,
So this cunning cardinal,
Crowned with the Roman tiara,
And straight, and healthy, and young.
And the news flew on wings.
Ukraine made a vague noise:
"He moved, he changed,
He laid Karl at his feet
Bunchuk is submissive.” The flame is burning
A bloody dawn is rising
People's wars.
Who will describe
Indignation, anger of the king?
Anathema thunders in cathedrals;
Mazepa's face is tormented by cat.
At a noisy meeting, in free debates
They are creating another hetman.
From the desert banks of the Yenisei
Families of Iskra, Kochubey
Hastily called by Peter.
He sheds tears with them.
He caresses them and showers them
And new honor and goodness.
Mazepa's enemy, ardent rider,
Old Man Paley from the darkness of exile
He goes to Ukraine to the royal camp.
The orphaned rebellion trembles.
Chechel28 the brave dies on the chopping block
And the Zaporozhye ataman.
And you, lover of abusive glory,
Throwing a crown for a helmet,
Your day is near, you are the rampart of Poltava
Finally I saw it in the distance.
And the king rushed his squad there.
They came like a storm -
And both camps are in the middle of the plain
They cunningly hugged each other.
Beaten more than once in a brave fight,
Drunk with blood in advance,
With the desired fighter at last
This is how a formidable fighter comes together.
And Charles, angry, sees the mighty
No longer upset clouds
The unfortunate Narva fugitives,
And a thread of shiny, slender regiments
Obedient, fast and calm,
And a row of unshakable bayonets.
But he decided: there will be a battle tomorrow morning.
Deep sleep in the Swede's camp.
Only under one tent
The conversation is conducted in whispers.
“No, I see, no, my Orlik,
We were in a hurry:
The calculation is both daring and bad,
And there will be no grace in him.
Apparently my goal is gone.
What to do? I made an important mistake:
I was wrong about this Karl.
He is a lively and brave boy;
Play two or three battles,
Of course, he can successfully
Jump to the enemy for dinner,
Respond to a bomb with laughter,
No worse than a Russian shooter
Sneak into the enemy's camp in the night;
To bring down a Cossack like today
And exchange a wound for a wound;
But it’s not for him to fight
With the autocratic giant:
Like a regiment, it revolves around fate
He wants to force him with a drum;
He is blind, stubborn, impatient,
And frivolous and arrogant,
God knows what happiness he believes;
He forces a new enemy
Success is only measured by the past -
Break his horns.
I'm ashamed: a warlike vagabond
I became carried away in my old age;
Was blinded by his courage
And the fleeting happiness of victories,
Like a timid maiden."
Battles
We'll wait. Time hasn't passed
Enter into relations with Peter again:
Evil can still be corrected.
Broken by us, no doubt
The king will not reject reconciliation.
No, it's too late. To the Russian Tsar
It is impossible to put up with me.
I made my mind up a long time ago
My destiny. I've been burning for a long time
Constrained by anger. Near Azov
One day I'm with the harsh king
At headquarters he feasted at night:
Bowls were boiling full of wine,
Our speeches were in full swing with them.
I said a bold word.
The young guests were confused...
The king, flushed, dropped the cup
And for my gray mustache
He grabbed me threateningly.
Then, resigned in impotent anger,
I took an oath to take revenge on myself;
Carried her - like a mother in the womb
Carrying a baby. The time has come.
Yes, a memory of me
It will be kept until the end.
I was sent to Peter for punishment;
I am the thorn in the leaves of his crown:
He would give ancestral cities
And life's best hours,
So that again like in the days of yore
Hold Mazepa by the mustache.
But there is still hope for us:
The dawn will decide who to run.
He fell silent and closed his lids
Traitor to the Russian Tsar.
The east is burning with a new dawn.
Already on the plain, over the hills
The guns roar. The smoke is crimson
Rises in circles to the heavens
Towards the morning rays.
The regiments closed their ranks.
Arrows scattered in the bushes.
Cannonballs roll, bullets whistle;
Cold bayonets hung down.
Sons beloved victories,
The Swedes are rushing through the fire of the trenches;
Worried, the cavalry flies;
The infantry moves behind her
And with its heavy firmness
Her desire is strengthening.
And the battlefield is fatal
It thunders and burns here and there,
But clearly the happiness is fighting
It's starting to serve us.
The squads repulsed by gunfire,
Interfering, they fall into dust.
Rosen leaves through the gorges;
Surrenders to the ardent Schliepenbach.
We are pressing the Swedes, army after army;
The glory of their banners is darkening,
And God fights with grace
Our every step is captured.
Then inspired from above
Peter's voice rang out:
"Let's get to work, God bless you!" From the tent
Surrounded by a crowd of favorites,
Peter comes out. His eyes
They shine. His face is terrible.
The movements are fast. He is beautiful,
He's like God's thunderstorm.
It's coming. They bring him a horse.
A faithful horse is zealous and humble.
Feeling the fatal fire,
Trembling. He looks askance with his eyes
And rushes in the dust of battle,
Proud of the mighty rider.
It's almost noon. The heat is blazing.
Like a plowman, the battle rests.
Cossacks are prancing here and there.
The shelves are built while leveling.
The battle music is silent.
On the hills the guns are hushed
They stopped their hungry roar.
And behold, announcing the plain
Cheers rang out in the distance:
The regiments saw Peter.
And he rushed in front of the shelves,
Powerful and joyful as battle.
He devoured the field with his eyes.
A crowd rushed after him
These chicks of Petrov's nest -
In the face of earthly lot
In the works of power and war
His comrades, sons:
And noble Sheremetev,
And Bruce, and Bour, and Repnin,
And, happiness, the rootless darling,
Semi-powerful ruler.
And in front of the blue rows
Their warlike squads,
Carried by faithful servants,
In a rocking chair, pale, motionless,
Suffering from a wound, Karl appeared.
The hero's leaders followed him.
He quietly sank into thought.
He portrayed an embarrassed look
Extraordinary excitement.
It seemed that Karl was brought
The desired fight is at a loss...
Suddenly with a weak wave of the hand
He moved his regiments against the Russians.
And with them the royal squads
They came together in the smoke in the middle of the plain:
And the battle broke out, the Battle of Poltava!
In the fire, under the red-hot hail,
Reflected by a living wall,
Above the fallen system there is a fresh system
He closes his bayonets. A heavy cloud
Squads of flying cavalry,
With reins and sounding sabers,
When knocked down, they cut from the shoulder.
Throwing piles of bodies upon piles,
Cast iron balls everywhere
They jump between them, strike,
They dig up the ashes and hiss in the blood.
Swede, Russian - stabs, chops, cuts.
Drumming, clicks, grinding,
The thunder of guns, stomping, neighing, groaning,
And death and hell on all sides.
Among anxiety and excitement
On the battle with the gaze of inspiration
The calm leaders look
The military movements are being watched,
Anticipate death and victory
And they talk in silence.
But near the Moscow Tsar
Who is this warrior with gray hair?
Two supported by the Cossacks,
Heartfelt jealousy of grief,
He is the eye of an experienced hero
Looks at the excitement of the battle.
He won't jump on a horse,
Dry in exile, an orphan,
And the Cossacks to the cry of Paley
They won't attack from all sides!
But why did his eyes sparkle?
And with anger, like the darkness of the night,
Has the old brow become covered?
What could outrage him?
Or did he, through the swearing smoke, see
Enemy Mazepa, and at this moment
I hated my summers
Disarmed old man?
Mazepa, immersed in thought,
He looked at the battle, surrounded
A crowd of rebellious Cossacks,
Relatives, elders and Serdyuks.
Suddenly a shot. The elder turned.
In Voinarovsky's hands
The musket barrel was still smoking.
Slain a few steps away,
The young Cossack was lying in blood,
And the horse, covered in foam and dust,
Sensing the will, he rushed wildly,
Hiding in the fiery distance.
The Cossack sought the hetman
Through the battle with a saber in hand,
With mad rage in his eyes.
The old man, having arrived, turned
To him with a question. But the Cossack
He was already dying. Extinguished vision
He also threatened the enemy of Russia;
The dead face was gloomy,
And the tender name of Mary
The tongue was still babbling a little.
But the moment of victory is close, close.
Hooray! we break; The Swedes are bending.
O glorious hour! oh glorious view!
Another push and the enemy flees.
And then the cavalry set off,
Murder dulls swords,
And the whole steppe was covered with the fallen
Like a swarm of black locusts.
Peter is feasting. And proud and clear
And his gaze is full of glory,
And his royal feast is wonderful.
At the shouts of his troops,
In his tent he treats
Our leaders, the leaders of others,
And caresses the glorious captives,
And for your teachers
The healthy cup is raised.
But where is the first, invited guest?
Where is our first, formidable teacher,
Whose long-term anger
Has the Poltava winner humbled?
And where is Mazepa? where is the villain?
Where did Judas run in fear?
Why is the king not among the guests?
Why is the traitor not on the chopping block?
On horseback, in the wilderness of the naked steppes,
The king and the hetman are both racing.
They're running. Fate connected them.
Danger is imminent and evil
Grant power to the king.
He wounded his grave
Forgot. Hanging my head,
He gallops, we are driven by the Russians,
And faithful servants in droves
They can barely follow him.
Observing with a keen eye
A wide semicircle of steppes,
The old hetman gallops next to him.
In front of them is a farm... What suddenly
Did Mazepa seem scared?
What rushed past the farm
Is he sideways at full speed?
Or this deserted yard,
Both the house and the garden are secluded,
And there's an open door in the field
Some forgotten story
Has he been reminded now?
Holy destroyer of innocence!
Did you recognize this monastery?
This house, once a cheerful house,
Where are you, inflamed with wine,
Surrounded by a happy family,
Have you ever joked at the table?
Did you recognize the secluded shelter,
Where the peaceful angel lived,
And the garden, from where on a dark night
You brought me to the steppe... I found out, I found out!
Night shadows embrace the steppe.
On the banks of the blue Dnieper
Lightly dozing between the rocks
Enemies of Russia and Peter.
Dreams spare the hero's peace,
He forgot the damage to Poltava.
But Mazepa's dream was troubled.
The gloomy spirit in him knew no peace.
And suddenly in the silence of the night
His name is. He woke up.
He looks at him, threatening his finger,
Quietly someone leaned over.
He trembled as if under an ax...
Before him with developed hair,
Sparkling sunken eyes,
All in rags, thin, pale,
Standing, illuminated by the moon...
“Is this a dream?... Maria... is that you?”
Ah, hush, hush, friend!... Now
Father and mother closed their eyes...
Wait... they might hear us.
Maria, poor Maria!
Come to your senses! God!... What's wrong with you?
Listen: what tricks!
What kind of funny story do they have?
She told me a secret
That my poor father died
And she quietly showed me
Gray head - creator!
Where can we run from slander?
Think: this head
Was not human at all
And the wolf - you see: what it is!
How did you want to deceive me?
Isn't she ashamed to scare me?
And for what? so I don't dare
Run away with you today!
Is it possible?
With deep sorrow
Her lover listened to her cruelly.
But, betrayed by a whirlwind of thoughts,
“However,” she says, “
I remember the field... a noisy holiday...
And the mob... and the dead bodies...
My mother took me to the holiday...
But where have you been?... It’s different with you
Why do I wander in the night?
Go home. Hurry... it's too late.
Ah, I see, my head
Full of empty excitement:
I took him for someone else
You, old man. Leave me alone.
Your gaze is mocking and terrible.
You are ugly. He is beautiful:
Love shines in his eyes,
There is such bliss in his speeches!
His mustache is whiter than snow,
And the blood has dried on yours!..."
And she screamed with wild laughter,
And lighter than a young chamois
She jumped up and ran
And disappeared into the darkness of the night.
The shadow thinned. The East is red.
The Cossack fire burned.
The Cossacks cooked the wheat;
Drabanty on the banks of the Dnieper
The unsaddled horses were given water.
Karl woke up. "Wow! it's time!
Get up, Mazepa. It's dawning."
But the hetman has not slept for a long time.
Melancholy, melancholy consumes him;
Breathing in the chest is constricted.
And silently he saddles his horse,
And rides with the fugitive king,
And his gaze sparkles terribly,
Saying goodbye to family abroad.
A hundred years have passed - and what remains?
From these strong, proud men,
So full of willful passions?
Their generation has passed -
And with it the bloody trail disappeared
Efforts, disasters and victories.
In the citizenship of the northern power,
In her warlike destiny,
Only you erected, hero of Poltava,
A huge monument to yourself.
In a country where there are a row of winged mills
Surrounded by a peaceful fence
Bender desert rumbles,
Where the horned buffalos roam
Around the war graves, -
The remains of a ruined canopy,
Three sunken in the ground
And moss-covered steps
They say about the Swedish king.
The mad hero reflected from them,
Alone in a crowd of house servants,
The Turkish army is attacking noisily,
And he threw the sword under the horsetail;
And in vain there is a sad stranger
I would look for the hetman's grave:
Mazepa has been forgotten for a long time!
Only in a triumphant shrine
Once a year is anathema to this day,
The cathedral thunders and thunders about him.
But the grave remained,
Where the ashes of two sufferers rest;
Between the ancient righteous graves
The church sheltered them peacefully.
An ancient row blooms in Dikanka
Oak trees planted by friends;
They are about the forefathers who were executed
To this day they tell their grandchildren.
But the daughter is a criminal... legends
They are silent about her. Her suffering
Her destiny, her end
Impenetrable darkness
They are closed from us. Only sometimes
Blind Ukrainian singer,
When in the village in front of the people
He strums the hetman's songs,
About the sinful maiden in passing
He speaks to young Cossack women.
The east is burning with a new dawn.
Already on the plain, over the hills
The guns roar. The smoke is crimson
Rises in circles to the heavens
Towards the morning rays.
The regiments closed their ranks.
Arrows scattered in the bushes.
Cannonballs roll, bullets whistle;
Cold bayonets hung down.
Sons beloved victories,
The Swedes are rushing through the fire of the trenches;
Worried, the cavalry flies;
The infantry moves behind her
And with its heavy firmness
Her desire is strengthening.
And the battlefield is fatal
It thunders and burns here and there;
But clearly the happiness is fighting
It's starting to serve us.
The squads repulsed by gunfire,
Interfering, they fall into dust.
Rosen leaves through the gorges;
The ardent Schliepenbach surrenders.
We are pressing the Swedes, army after army;
The glory of their banners is darkening,
And God fights with grace
Our every step is captured.
Then inspired from above
Peter's voice rang out:
“Get to work, with God!” From the tent
Surrounded by a crowd of favorites,
Peter comes out. His eyes are shining.
His face is terrible. The movements are fast.
He is beautiful,
He's like God's thunderstorm.
It's coming. They bring him a horse.
A faithful horse is zealous and humble.
Sensing the fatal fire, Trembling.
He looks askance with his eyes
And rushes in the dust of battle,
Proud of the mighty rider.
It's almost noon. The heat is blazing.
Like a plowman, the battle rests.
Cossacks are prancing here and there.
Leveling up, shelves are built.
The battle music is silent.
On the hills the guns, hushed,
They stopped their hungry roar.
And so, announcing the plain,
Cheers rang out in the distance:
The regiments saw Peter.
And he rushed in front of the shelves,
Powerful and joyful, like battle.
He devoured the field with his eyes.
A crowd rushed after him
These chicks of Petrov's nest -
In the midst of earthly lot,
In the works of power and war
His comrades, sons:
And noble Sheremetev,
And Bruce, and Bour, and Repnin,
And, happiness, the rootless darling,
Semi-powerful ruler.
And in front of the blue rows
Their warlike squads,
Carried by faithful servants,
In a rocking chair, pale, motionless,
Suffering from a wound, Karl appeared.
The hero's leaders followed him.
He quietly sank into thought.
He portrayed an embarrassed look
Extraordinary excitement.
It seemed that Karl was brought
The desired fight at a loss...
Suddenly with a weak wave of the hand
He moved his regiments against the Russians.
And with them the royal squads
They came together in the smoke in the middle of the plain:
And the battle broke out, the Battle of Poltava!
In the fire, under the red-hot hail,
Reflected by a living wall,
Above the fallen system there is a fresh system
He closes his bayonets. A heavy cloud
Squads of flying cavalry,
With reins and sounding sabers,
Colliding, they cut from the shoulder.
Throwing piles of bodies upon piles,
Cast iron balls everywhere
They jump between them, strike,
They dig up the ashes and hiss in the blood.
Swede, Russian - stabs, chops, cuts.
Drumming, clicks, grinding,
The thunder of guns, stomping, neighing, groaning,
And death and hell on all sides.
But the moment of victory is close, close.
Hooray! we break; The Swedes are bending.
O glorious hour! oh glorious view!
Another pressure and the enemy flees:
And then the cavalry set off,
Murder dulls swords,
And the whole steppe was covered with the fallen,
Like a swarm of black locusts.
Peter is feasting. And proud and clear,
And his gaze is full of glory.
And his royal feast is wonderful.
At the shouts of his troops,
In his tent he treats
Leaders of your own, leaders of others,
And caresses the glorious captives,
And for your teachers
The healthy cup is raised.