The Maiden of Moscow A Poem, in Twenty-One Cantos. By the Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | CANTO VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
206
CANTO VI.
I.
The princely Chieftain straightforth wentTo seek the Emperor's neighbouring tent,—
His entrance there at once he made,—
And disappeared beneath its shade!
De Courcy watched—(with anxious thought,
The while, his labouring breast was fraught;—)
Till issuing thence, he saw appear
That warlike king,—who straight drew near,
And ere he reached De Courcy's side,
In voice of joyous accent cried,—
“The Emperor hath vouchasafed to say,
He fain would see the Priest this day,—
Himself would question him, and hear
His tale of sorrow and of fear;
And learn from his own lips aright,
The story of the Fire and Flight!—
Do thou then seek thy friend at once!”—
Pleased,—heard De Courcy this response,
And prompt, when thus the King had said,
With glad alacrity obeyed!
Once more along those streets he strode—
A desolate and mournful road!—
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Some distant shout—some greeting word—
Exchanged in haste—in hurried tone—
Or steps as rapid as his own,—
Or caught faint glimpse of groupes that passed
'Mid tottering ruins heaped and massed—
And vanished then, from vision fast!—
Parties of pillagers were these—
Though little there, was left to seize!—
Now turned he down a cumbered path,
Heaped with scorched signs of fiery wrath—
Absorbed in deep and sorrowing thought,—
And startled,—met the man he sought!
II.
The Prophet-like pale Priest was there,With his loose robes and streaming hair,—
He seemed the Spirit of the Spot,
Wailing above the City's lot!
De Courcy promptly bade him learn
The motive of this swift return.
And then delivered, full and clear,
All the Emperor's message to his ear;
Then chid him much in friendly sort,
For leaving thus his hallowed fort,
And venturing out, at large to roam
From that supreme and sacred home,—
Exposing needlessly his life,
Perchance,—to prowling plunderer's knife—
208
He paused—his eye deep-kindling shone,—
And while warm colours stained his cheek,
He waited for the Priest to speak!—
III.
The venerable wanderer spoke—Observing scarce his altered look,—
Sighed forth,—his heavy business there
Was seeking victims of despair;—
In hopes to shield them and to save
From outrage dire or blood-stained grave;—
For many still he feared were left
Of house,—and friends,—and aid bereft—
Afraid to trust the open street,
Shivering in some unsafe retreat!—
Already some he thus had found,
Couched trembling on the blasted ground—
Their homes in blackened ruins round!—
Not many paces from the street,
Where now, he said, they chanced to meet,—
He marked a wretched woman laid,
With none to soothe—and none to aid—
Outstretched upon the scorching stones,
And uttering deep her piteous moans,—
Till rang the air alive with groans!—
A new-born infant to her breast,
With clutch of agony she pressed,
With the agonies of life and death,
(Full fast was ebbing out her breath—)
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But shewed the worst extremes of ill!—
With agonies of frame and heart,—
Since Misery racked through every part,
And Love and Tenderness arose,
To add new wildness to her woes!
IV.
She clutched that child with raging grief—She could not yield it dear relief!—
But this it asked not—cold, even cold—
It grew in that impassioned hold—
Cold 'gainst that burning—beating heart,
Where fevered pangs terrific smart!—
“And when,” pursued the reverend man,
“To soothe her wild despair I ran,
Her feeble form she struggling raised,
Alarmed, and startled, and amazed;
Then, bending down her pallid head,
Discovered that her babe was dead!—
Her new-born infant—'twas her first!
Thus cried she in her phrenzy's burst,—
‘The hoped-for—doated-on—desired—
And scarce it breathed ere it expired!’—
‘Be comforted,’ I urged!—‘Oh! yet,
'Tis best its opening sun should set!—
Look round,—at this drear waste of woes,
And thankful feel for its repose!’—
Rejected she my words with scorn—
‘My Babe!—my Babe!—my sweet First-born!—
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His broken flower, and bless with me
This Lifelessness that once was thee!—
But, he is prisoner made by those,—
The authors accursed of all our woes,—
Who gird us round with death and doom,
Yet take sweet peace from even the tomb!’
The poor delirious creature raved—
In phrenzy's torturing bonds enslaved!
In vain I urged—blamed—prayed—besought—
She sate there lost in maddening thought!
And what were succour—safety—aid—
To her who groaned—by grief dismayed?
That little, clay-cold creature there
Was all she wished to save or spare!—
But hoarse, rough voices muttering near,
Even shook the Desolate with fear:
A glazing terror in her eye
Whitened its blood-shot agony;
And woman's natural dread rose strong
Above her sorrows' mingling throng;—
She rose—she staggered to my side—
Stopped—forwards fell—and moaned—and died!—
Her child,—round whom her arms were clasped,—
With wild, fond, wreathing passion grasped—
Her child seemed wound into her heart—
I scarce could force the twain apart!”—
De Courcy heard with glistening eyes,
And deep, though suffocated sighs,—
That tale which the old man shuddering told,
Which well might make the blood run cold!—
211
V.
“But come,” he cried, “nor more delay,The Emperor's 'hest at once obey!—
To him reveal—to him declare—
These funeral tidings of despair!—
Be sure within his boundless Mind
The kindliest feelings dwell enshrined.”
“Alas!” the reverend man replied,—
“How strangely then, must maddening Pride—
And fierce Ambition's rage misguide!—
How fearfully must these controul—
The unbounded Mind—the immortal Soul!—
Could conquerors dream what ill they do—
Could this be bared before their view—
Could all the hideous sufferings—all—
That they have caused on man to fall,
Be shewn to them—revealed—displayed,—
Sweet Heaven!—the wretches they have made
Far less should need Thy pitying aid!—
Even blessed compared with those who wrought
Their dreadful wrongs—too dark for thought!—
The Conqueror from His World should fly,
Afraid to meet a human eye!—
Even from his conquered World depart,
With but a shadow at his heart,—
Resign his glory's pride of place,
Rather than view one human face!—
Since charactered its lines should be
With curses—black as Destiny!—
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Should smite the spirit—haught and bold;
And pierce through every fence and fold—
Then he, who bade in wrath to cease
The Heaven-born blessings of man's Peace,
Should feel the deadliest feud by far—
The eternal agonized Self-War!”—
VI.
De Courcy answered not—he fearedThat Truth which to his soul appeared
Arrayed too clearly well in light,—
Too keenly and distinctly bright;
And War had still his idol been,
The living sunbreak of the scene!—
The Hope—the Awakening—and the Life,—
Each breath a trumpet in the strife!—
The Pride—the Business—the Delight,—
Each thought a triumph in the fight!—
And must he change indeed his view?—
And are these new impressions—true?—
Was all delusion that was dear?—
And is the heavy truth then clear?—
The stars seemed lighting fresh their flames,
To pour new rays for heroes' names!—
And should they be, indeed, but bound
By cypress-seeming clouds profound,—
The blazon roll of glory—made
A firmament on earth displayed!—
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Where rushing ages seemed to crowd,
To dip their unexpanded wings
In Triumph's bright exhaustless springs!—)
And is't not then what it appears?—
Blotted with blood,—and stained with tears!—
Alas!—War's glories change and cease,—
And vanquished victories yield to Peace!—
VII.
These thoughts revolved he silently,With changing cheek and earthward eye,
As he with his companion strode
Along their heaped and blackened road!
Together silently they bent
Their swift course towards the Emperor's tent:—
The Churchman fevered and o'erwrought,—
The intrepid Soldier pale with thought!—
Now Vassilii's reluctant glance
Admired the proud array of France,—
The fearful masses of her might
Rushed on his pained and sickening sight!—
How is 't the ground forbears to rock
With every hostile footstep's shock?—
How is 't the dust on which they tread—
Heaves not to Mountains o'er their head?—
How can the Russian rivers flow,—
Reflecting thus—those arms' stern glow?—
How can their own—their native air
Play with the insulting banners there?—
214
To him in that indignant dream!—
But they shall yet perform their part,—
As each one bore a Russian heart!—
Hope whispers thus,—with that sweet voice,
That still proves stronger to rejoice!—
Encouraged by its own dear sound,—
And the echoes that it wakes around,
Until its first faint whisper grows
Deeper and louder as it flows!—
Till like a storm of music sweeps
That voice through all the heart's great deeps!—
Dreams—Thoughts—where Sorrow's death-frost lies,—
Hear that Archangel's tromp and rise!—
And all Futurity obeys
The Power that o'er the Spirit sways
(Or so that Spirit deemeth still,—
Moulded and moved by that soft skill)!—
The rosy days roll brightening on,
Until they drop back in the sun!—
All ends—as all begins—in light,
There spreads no gloom—there frowns no night,—
The very Past smiles back more bright!—
VIII.
Before the Leader's tent of stateThe Churchman and De Courcy wait,—
Not long in that suspense they stand—
Comes soon the message of command!—
215
No hesitating doubt disclosed,—
With firmest steps and loftiest gait,—
As one beyond all Time and Fate,—
He entereth now that tent of state—
Uplifted by the very grief
That once had mocked at all relief,
He followeth those who came to guide
To his—the Mighty Leader's side!—
Napoleon's arrowy glances keen
Explored that pallid brow and mièn—
That countenance so calm—so still—
So governed by the strengthened will—
Yet governed only to subdue,
The all-fitful change of suffering's hue,—
No guile dwelt there that asked a fold,—
No watchful calculations cold—
No policies astucious wound,
And worked in that great mind's profound!—
The Mighty Master could but be,
Perplexed by such simplicity!—
And now that silence brief, he breaks—
And many a quick inquiry makes—
And multiplies his questions fast,
As though with restless, fevered haste;
Then suddenly his strain suspends,—
And eager for the answer bends!—
Still as a statue,—there had stood
That Priest, as lacking breath and blood,
216
At much the Conqueror asked and said—
And petrified beneath that glance,
Which well might bind in frozen trance!
IX.
And is't the inquisitorial strainThat checks the life in every vein?—
And is't beneath that searching eye
His thoughts confused and darkened lie,
Till seems the fainting soul to die?—
That strain hath ceased—relaxed that gaze—
Which seemed to chain and to amaze!—
Now let the grey-haired churchman seek
Those things, required of him, to speak—
To answer each abrupt demand—
(As he before his judge might stand)
He starts—he breathes—the blood pours back
Full swiftly in each wonted track—
A spirit,—kindling up amain,
Seems breathing fast through every vein!—
So mightiest woods, on some still day,—
Might stand unmoved,—in cold array,
But suddenly,—should chance to wake
The gale, behold them change and shake,
They billowing heave,—in sea-broad strife,
Till every leaf is like a life!—
He starts—he breathes—he burns with thought—
He pants with passionate dreams o'erwrought;—
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Like some up-ploughed—yet prisoned sea!—
But no!—its bursting tides rush free—
His words in torrent-flow come forth,—
If Tropic Suns might thaw the North,—
(Should these once light her lesser day!—
And melt her ice-ribbed thrones away,—)
Thus might Her thousand fountains play—
Thus flashingly and fiercely wake—
And forth from all their trammels break!—
X.
“Bethink thee!—tremble—and—beware!—Heaven yet may pardon—yet may spare!—
Pause not—but now, while yet is time,
Reform thy course—repent thy crime—
For mercy yet may wait to hear
The prayer of penitence sincere!—
Await not then, till Mercy flown,
Shall leave her place to Wrath alone!—
Fall prostrate now before the Lord,
And break in twain thine impious sword,—
Or tremble at the unheard-of doom
That yet, to whelm thy pride shall come!—
For be thou sure great Heaven shall still
Perform its high and holy will,
As thou—thine evil one and ill!—
Be sure that Heaven its will divine
Shall brightly act—and mock at thine!—
218
Thy ruin bent to consummate—
No Understanding even thou hast
Of these thine Undertakings vast;—
Thou knowest not all that thou hast dared,—
Nor comest admonished and prepared!—
Heaven hath,—beyond the o'er-arching skies,
Its Armies—Hosts—and Hierarchies,—
The awful Sabaoth of its might,—
Strong 'gainst a War of Worlds to fight!—
To crush—if vast rebellion rose—
Through all that the All Unbounded shews—
Embattailled Universes down,—
Heaven's full armipotence their own!
And Heaven hath here—on Earth—even here—
Its deep-leagued hosts,—which Hell shall fear,—
Armies of ministers that still
Shall do—and must—its glorious will!—
Although they work,—unseen the while,—
Beneath the shelterings of its smile!—
XI.
“Oh, Thou!—that willest!—and it is done!—That where Thou lookest,—lightest up a sun!—
That where Thou breathest,—bidd'st overflow
The void with wonders none may know!—
That taught'st, whatever Is—to Be!—
To dare exist—exist with thee!—
Aye!—even while Thou—Oh! dread Supreme—
Dost filling all existence seem!—
219
Thou hast Thy Sabaoth in the Soul!—
Thine armies, Thou hast marshalled, too,
Within the humble mind and true—
Thine Hierarchies within the Heart,
Watch still to do their faithful part!—
There Love, that most Thy grace approves,—
All but Almighty—works and moves!—
A glorious retinue sustains
Its mystic might—nay! countless trains—
Deep feelings living—yet on Earth—
Half in the Heaven of their high birth—
And bearing even through weary Time,
The Eternity's own stamp sublime!—
High thoughts—that angels leave their thrones
To dwell on—as more Radiant Ones!—
And mysteries—tongue may never speak,—
Oh Love!—these gird thee—bravely meek!—
XII.
There, Zeal—whose lip would kiss the fire,Where Treachery doomed it, to expire!—
Sublimely lifts its glance above,
And dies—to melt but in that love!—
There Faith smiles back all shades of night,—
And deluges the grave with light!—
And more than these—within man's soul,
Assert the most august controul;—
And wage the Eternal's Awful War,
Till victory glorieth free and far!—
220
And bring thy ruin's certain hour!—
Through every turn of Time and Tide—
'Gainst scheme—'gainst strife—at every stride—
In every shape—from every side—
Within—without—thou art defied!—
Quail! sacrilegious spoiler!—Thou,
That bidd'st the Eternal's altars bow!—
Unwearyingly we watch and wait,
To guard our land inviolate;
Secure that He ordaineth still
The Good shall triumph o'er the Ill!—
Perish the foot that dares to tread—
Irreverent o'er a Nation's Dead!—
For what is still that Native Soil,—
Round which, men's conscious heart-strings coil,—
But the beloved dust and blest
Of our dead fathers in their rest?—
Perish the abhorred and impious hand,
That fires the shrine with barbarous brand!—
And taking all that Earth hath given,—
Would rob us too,—at last—of Heaven!”—
XIII.
His words' impassioned fervent flow,That rushing bore their weight of woe—
Till then unchecked—unstayed—poured on—
The listener's wondering ear was won;
But here,—ere yet the speech was closed,—
Abruptly thus he interposed,—
221
These flames on your doomed city feed?”—
“Assuredly!”—in steadfast tone
The Priest replied,—“Thine!—thine alone!—
Whose mind but thine could have conceived
The outrageous wrong?—whose hand atchieved?—
This dark and terrible design—
This deed of doom could but be thine!—
Whom deem'st thou wrought it,—Scourge of Earth!—
Scatterer of Desolation's dearth!—
Save thee—the Invader of the North?”
“Yourselves!”—the Emperor thundered forth!—
“Ourselves?”—the Priest's clasped hands are raised—
He stands there shocked—o'erwhelmed—amazed—
In breathlessness of wonder stands—
As bound by rigid iron bands!
Conviction slowly forced its way—
Rightly doth he—the accuser say!—
Full many a scarce-marked circumstance
Recurred, in that deep pondering trance!
And strange suspicions that awoke
Erewhile—now doubly strengthened broke—
Through clouds of doubt—while the Armed One spoke!—
XIV.
Lest such harsh measures might appal,Nor meet the free consent of all,
The Russian leaders had concealed,
(While thus to dictates stern they yield)
222
Which must such ruin's waste involve—
Broke forth the Priest's deep voice once more—
“Repentance wring thee to the core!—
Think!—think!—if this be so indeed—
Think how thou'st caused our souls to bleed!—
From every vein of Feeling—Thought—
With love and fevered zeal o'er-fraught;—
Think!—think!—what worse than wrong thou'st wrought!—
What worse than waste—what worse than woe—
And all thy Deed of Darkness know!—
Thou'st taught us desperate things, and made
Ourselves,—of our own deeds afraid!—
Beware!—ten thousand times beware!—
Lest worse thou bring us than—despair!—
Lest urged and stung—beyond our strength,
Thou goad'st us into crime at length!—
And arm'st our suicidal hands
With self-aimed bolts—self-pointed brands!—
XV.
“Tremble!—a thousand-fold I say!—And cower before thine own dark sway,
Lest Heaven such Horrors should design
As yet ne'er cursed a doom—save thine!—
Lest thou—who com'st with spear and sword—
That many a nation's heart hath gored—
Should, with tremendous ruin blast,
And kill—a people's soul at last!—
223
Murder a mighty nation's soul!—
O'erwrung with the anguish and despair,
And hardened with the inhuman care!”—
Well such reproach the Emperor bore,
His brow its calm expression wore,
No fury flashed from out his eye—
At this ungoverned, bold reply—
The accents from his lip that fell,
Of no enkindling wrath might tell!—
XVI.
“And was thy Church destroyed by fire,—Thou zealous minister?”—“Nay, sire!”—
The Priest triumphantly replied—
“Heaven turned the obedient flames aside—
Nor would their ravage there allow,—
'Tis doubly consecrated now!—
Since there the adopted of its breast,—
Adversity's sad children—rest—
Affliction's scattered ones—sore-tried—
Together, gathered there, abide—
Its walls within their circuit hold
The unhappy wanderers of the Fold;
And Powers not Earthly,—but Divine,—
Protect the trebly-sacred shrine,
Which miracles were wrought to save—
Which the elements dared not to brave!”—
“By whom were these asesmbled there?”—
Napoleon prompt rejoined,—“Declare!”—
224
With steadfast voice and kindling eye!—
“And, good Old Man!—thou didst right well,—
And there shall they uninjured dwell;
Or else removed from thence shall be,—
Spared—solaced—soothed—from dangers free!—
'Twere well if all like thee had done—
Taught fiend-like deeds of wrong to shun,—
In hideous wantonness of wrath,
Destroying all around their path!—
Better, like thee, to kneel and pray
That Heaven may turn the Storm away,
Than lash the Winds with maddening ire,
That all may in one doom expire!”—
XVII.
But o'er the Priest's expressive browA cloud of change comes rushing now,
Now thrill afresh his bosom's chords,—
“I do repent me of my words!—
Of mine unworthy thoughts repent;
The fearful deed,—so nobly meant,—
The proud Self-Sacrifice—the blow,—
Struck through our own hearts at the Foe,—
Can be no wrong—no darkling crime,—
An act even Sacredly Sublime!—
Not done in ‘wantonness of wrath,’
A loftier source it had—and hath!—
It sprung from judgments deep—matured,—
From stablished principles assured;—
225
Gigantic efforts to withstand;—
And deeds thus mighty and thus vast
Such sweeping shadows round them cast—,
So darkening spread on every side,—
Voluminously rolled and wide,
That gazing on the Immediate Ill
We half forget the Distant still!—
I do repent my words—retract!—
And bless the augustly awful act!—
Absolved my countrymen shall be!—
While their great deeds shall keep us free!—
Absolved my countrymen shall stand—
And their great deeds shall save the Land!”—
XVIII.
“Nay! say not so,” Napoleon cried;“In thy first judgment's truth abide,
And loathe with pure and pious mind
These phrenzies of the Unresigned!—
Their bitter cup they will not drain,—
Which Fate hath brimmed for them with pain,—
That cup fierce-dashing to the ground!—
Thus scattering thousand drops around,—
Embittering even the untainted spring—
Which holier hints, might round them, fling—
It is a foul and fearful thing!—
Enough!”—he saw that Priest prepared
Once more to speak—unchecked—unscared;—
226
That teemed with sharp reproach severe,—
“Return!—then, to the unshaken Dome—
Thy sacred stronghold's solemn Home;
Thy steps accompanied shall be
By guardians good, for thine and thee!—
A band of iron warriors strong
Shall shield from plunder or from wrong!”
He turned him to De Courcy then—
“Go thou!—and take some twenty men—
And with the Priest set forth at once!”—
But prompt came Vassilii's response.—
XIX.
“Nay!—Sire!”—he spoke in gentlier tone—“First suffer me to go alone!—
Since Fear—strange Fear—would surely slay
With utter wildness of dismay,
The unhappiest outcasts, gathered there—
In that protecting House of Prayer!—
Should these,—yet unprepared, behold
The dreaded foe break through their Fold;—
Thou know'st not how they shrink and blench
With loathing from the fatal French—
With shuddering agonies of dread—
Perchance even maddeningly misled,—
For still they darkly—deeply deem,
With fevered Superstition's dream,
That heathens all thy host must be—
Followers of Antichrist and Thee;—
227
To clear these errors of the brain,—
The cry was still, ‘They come, enrolled
In dreadful ranks—the demon souled—
'Gainst the Everlasting Shepherd's Fold!’—
But let me haste—and strive to hush
The terrors that distract and crush,—
And let me tell them—trembling yet—
That face to face we two have met;—
Perchance I thus may soothe their fear,
And calm their troubled minds and cheer!”—
XX.
“Go!—good old man!”—the Emperor said,“And teach them they have nought to dread!”
With deep obeisance—homage meet—
From that high Presence they retreat!—
De Courcy and the Priest, who now
Stepped forth with cleared and opened brow—
The glad assurance at his heart,
That he had well performed his part—
Nor blenched,—nor shrunk,—with dubious mind,—
From this—the important task assigned!—
They separate now,—the Priest proceeds
To seek the flock he guides and leads!—
De Courcy hastens to fulfil
The mighty Master's uttered will.
XXI.
Brief time hath now elapsed since bentThe Priest his way from the Emperor's tent—
228
To follow straight with fitting guard!
Once more he takes his gloomy way
Through those wild places of dismay—
And high his eager pulses bound
With sweet expectancies profound—
And wings seemed lent unto his feet!—
Once more shall he that Maiden meet,
'Tis like some glimpse of Heaven to greet!—
Whose image—traced on every thought—
Is ceaselessly before him brought;
And now,—since moves that arméd band,
Beneath another's fair command,
He deems he well may hasten on,
That sooner may the goal be won—
That sooner may be reached that place—
Even the unabandoned House of Grace!—
And then delightedly may he—
Entering the portals stealthily
Of that antique and hallowed Pile—
Bask in young Xenia's breathing smile,—
(For still unsmiling—still she smiled
And shewing grief—with grief beguiled!—
For still unsmiling smiled that face—
Transpierced with all the soul's bright grace!—)
Ere yet the crowd—the shock—the press—
Should trouble that supreme recess,
And startle that fair Loveliness!—
229
XXII.
He quickens now his pace, and hiesToward that most Blest of Sanctuaries;
But evening's shades frown gathering round—
Darkening the ruin-cumbered ground—
And by degrees, is he compelled,
With fevered, anxious hopes unquelled,
To slacken much his panting speed,—
While fast the lights of day recede!
Now suddenly assailed his ear,
A cry distressful—echoing near!—
And fast his inmost heart is stirred—
'Twas Vassilii's deep voice he heard!
In vain the gathering shades impede—
He darts along with reckless speed—
While oaths and threats, deep muttering, swell,
And guide him and direct him well!—
He speeds along—he strains his eyes—
And soon—a bowshot off—descries
The struggling Priest surrounded close
By numbers of unpitying foes;—
He, to the rescue rushing flew,
And tore his way, that circle, through;
And—well believe—with rage inspired—
With furious indignation fired—
He dealt round blows that even might make
The hardiest shrink—the boldest quake—
Their weapons—raised in threatening way
'Gainst the unarmed man they think to slay—
230
Without the fatal crimsoning stain!—
De Courcy's piercing eye detects
(And this his hurried thought expects—)
The same offenders that he saw,
Ere this, their desperate weapons draw
'Gainst the defenceless and the weak—
Fierce vengeance on their heads to wreak,—
Intent their sacred blood to seek!—
The same—that on that very day
Had sought the guiltless ones to slay!—
XXIII.
No doubt enraged, they had but gainedSharp reprimand—defeat sustained—
In ambush these had lain and stayed
For gathering evening's favouring shade,
In hopes—as it had chanced—they yet
The blameless Churchman might beset!—
While others,—urged by plunder's hope,
Had there, joined the evil-purposed troop!—
And surely then had fallen beneath
Their savage swords—athirst for death—
That venerable man who moved
Reverenced, and honoured, and beloved,
But that awhile their hands they stayed,
And yet the murderous stroke delayed,—
And questioned him of hidden gold,
And buried spoils of wealth untold!—
His answers roused their rage once more,—
And now had rushed his spouting gore,
231
And dazzled his undaunted eye,—
But that, once more, De Courcy sprang,
While loud his voice commanding rang,
To aid,—to rescue,—and to save,
And snatch him from that yawning grave,—
The grave that seemed to suck him down
Already, for all hope had flown!—
XXIV.
A measured tramp soon strikes the ear,And 'mid the gloom the files appear
Of those armed men—now sent to guard
The Desolate—preserved and spared!—
And now the leaders of that groupe—
That ruthless and dishonoured troop,—
Disarmed and bound, are marched away,
And forced, reluctant, to obey!—
The others to the Church proceed
Straightforth, with undelaying speed;
Fronting the portals now they stand,—
De Courcy springs before the band,—
First entereth in the holy fane
And sees the Adored One, once again!
In all her beauty she appears,
Though still in the atmosphere of tears!—
And pale with suffering—bowed with woe,
But yet a rose—without its glow,—
A rose of clear, calm, unsunned snow!—
And now the armed men behind advance,
Cloathed in the martial garb of France,—
232
And tramped along the wide-spread floors,—
Those hallowed pavements loudly rang
With their proud tread—a steely clang!—
XXV.
But louder rang upon the airThe shriek of maddening terror there,—
Far louder rose that curdling shriek
That seemed of phrenzied dread to speak;
Even though their Priest—their well-beloved—
Beside the dreadful strangers moved,—
Even though he entered there the first,—
Enough!—they glimpsed that garb accursed,
They marked those hated forms—they fled,
With hair unbound—with arms outspread,—
And clinging round their altars, rent
The air with many a loud lament!—
Shrieks, groans, and prayers, together smite
The astonished sense with thrilling might,
And every wildest Form of Fear
Becomes itself a Terror here!—
So startlingly and wildly shew
Their depths of dread—'mid depths of woe!—
Would that a painter there, had been
To snatch unto his soul that scene!—
Then fling it—with that mounting soul—
One beautiful and wond'rous whole!—
Upon the canvass—stirred to life,
And panting with the awakening strife!—
233
Some lowered—some hung—high overhead—
A partial light and trembling shed,
Save where the Soldiers moved,—and there
They cast a wild and fearful glare;—
The bickering arms strange radiance gave
To changeful Light's down-flowing wave,—
And many a beaming flash shot far
From these—the accoutrements of war!—
While—where the feebler radiance plays
In the attitudes of wild amaze,—
How many groupes enchain the Sight,
And lend the flush of Life to Light!—
XXVI.
Old men with beards in lengthening flow,Spread down their breasts—more white than snow,—
With shrivelled hands all quivering raised,
Up to their saints in anguish gazed,—
Saints they had all their lives implored,
Praised—prized—sought—reverenced—half-adored;—
While children grasped their upstretched arms,
All shuddering with the unknown alarms;—
Their little faces changed with dread—
Changed—ashy pale from rosy red!—
The laughter-lightnings of their eyes
Quenched in that terror's dire surprise;
Their tender features fluttering now—
Where Fear her ghastly path doth plough,—
Till furrowed seems even the infant brow!—
234
The blessed shrines, and trembling gasp!—
But Oh!—'midst these, how brightly shone
A matchless and transcendant One!—
All eyes must worship her alone!—
Though trembling, startled, and amazed,
Her eyes with patient hope are raised;
That glance lifts hope and trust yet higher,—
For Xenia sees her much-loved sire!—
She hurries breathless to his side—
Hears welcome words,—and turns to chide,—
While soothings are with blame allied,—
The agonizing fears of those
Who deemed they saw their deadliest foes!—
XXVII.
In vain the Priest had raised his handWith solemn gesture of command,
They marked not—saw not—would not hear,—
Tormented on that rack of Fear!—
But now amidst them they behold
Their sweet companion—brightly bold;
She rushes from her Father's arms
To soothe and silence their alarms;—
Amidst all the uproar of Despair
His voice had died along the air;—
But now they pause—while her sweet voice
Says to their listening hearts, “Rejoice!”—
They bless her cheering accents then—
Babes,—mothers,—maids,—and aged men!—
235
Their Pastor soon with trust profound,—
Their wails and shrieks of terror cease,
And all is confidence and peace!—
And now her sire, in few brief words,
That thrill her heart's profoundest chords,
Relates the dangers, dark and dread,
That late hung threatening o'er his head—
Then touched,—to his deliverer turns,—
While she, with grateful gladness, learns
De Courcy 'twas, whose valourous arm
Preserved her father's life from harm!
XXVIII.
Think—think!—how rose De Courcy's prideWithin his soul,—in boundless tide,—
When—“What!—a second time!”—she cried!—
“And what!—a Second Time hast thou,—
Brave stranger!—saved us!—how,—Oh!—how
Can we our grateful love avow!”
Yes, “love!—Love!”—was the enchanting word
His raptured ear half dubious heard—
In sweet simplicity it came
From those young lips—not breathed in shame—
They meant no light—no earthly flame—
A sainted and exalted love—
Such as the Immortals feel above—
With sacred sympathies imbued,
And sense of Heaven-blessed brotherhood,—
236
Was far beyond all Earth and Time,
Of gratitude's deep feeling born,
And Friendship in the heart's core worn!—
And yet, when she that word had said—
And saw the intense emotion shed
Deep hues—o'er all his aspect spread—
Her heart shrank back from that sweet sound,
Which from her heart had burst profound—
She felt the flush his forehead wore
Glowed deepening through its trembling core—
And thus resumed, in tones that greet
Less wildly fervent—still more sweet
The ear which drinks the sound, as might
The new-risen soul, Heaven's opening light.
XXIX.
“Saved us, I said!—I say so still—Oh!—had my father's heart grown chill,
I scarce could have survived to know
The whole stern fulness of my woe,
So close—deep love and duty bind
The hearts, by grief yet closelier twined!—
And—gallant Stranger!—from the grave
'Twas thine—twice thine—both lives to save!—
But words can slender part express
Of this—the o'erflowing thankfulness—
The gush of gratitude—I feel
At these—thy deeds of generous zeal!”
237
That he could wish should deathless stay—
But all his thoughts melodious grew
Beneath those words, and glances too!—
The love that seemed before so deep—
Now, o'er his soul did strengthened sweep
In clouds of tenderness so strong,—
They bore that rushing soul along!—
His life seemed lifted all above,
Yet lost in the Endlessness of Love!—
He felt, too, in that mounting mood,
That he was met—and understood!
That gleam of hope—that first sweet gleam,
Made all things round him smile and beam.
Deluged with the ecstasy of light—
Winged thoughts were checked upon their flight,
And back upon his heart they rushed
All fevered as they were, and flushed,
In rapture of confusion hurled,—
Riven parts of One most blessed World!—
As though the soul, by the o'er-delight,
Was shivered into fragments bright!—
That glassed ten thousand forms of bliss,
While that commingling—mirrored this—
Repeated still—reflected on,—
Till all were—in Division—One!—
Though severed all—yet all alike—
With self-same aspect still they strike!—
238
XXX.
And Xenia—did the electric chainThat round all hearts must twined remain
Thrill thee with pleasure—and its pain?—
(For even such pleasure pure and high
Hath hints of rich perplexity—
And keen and bitter partnery!—)
The electric chain of feeling strong,
That lengthening—strengthening, winds along!—
And makes our Being more than be,
Sublimed by quickening sympathy;
Until we feel we are not born
Into a selfishness forlorn,—
But linked into a world that thinks—
Lives—loves!—whose atoms all are linhs!—
A world—that framed of myriad parts,
Into one life harmonious starts,—
Its portions linked for evermore
Together—through Love's sacred lore,—
And those linked portions linked again,
Unto the throne of the Endless Reign,
Till all is in One Truth comprized—
All harmonies are harmonized!—
Oh! never shews that sympathy
So deep as—Youthful Love!—in thee!—
When in the heart of other seems
The Heart to pour its thousand streams;
When that receives it, and repays
The gifts with breathless love and praise—
239
As though eternally it rose
Without an ebb—in rushing rise,
To mark no boundary but the skies!—
Those thousand streams each heart pours there—
Deep Streams with Streams still mingling fair!—
All hues of Heaven appear to bear;—
Together then they seem to be—
The whole world in One Sympathy!—
XXXI.
Sweet Xenia!—did thy gentlest heartTo such divine existence start?—
Or did pale Sorrow yet chide back
The new guest hovering o'er her track?—
Ah!—surely Sorrow's softening power
Might best prepare for such an hour—
Charm every colder thought away,—
Bid all quick Feeling's touch obey;
And killing doubt, reserve, or pride,
Bare all the deep soul's softest side,—
Aye, turn its soft side to the Light,
And Life, and Love—with conquering might!—
And Xenia loved!—in hours of gloom,
Faint sparks as shining lights become—
And things that had but little moved
In happier days, now powerful proved!—
In hours of storm,—strife,—haste—and heat,
All hurryingly the Soul doth greet!—
Till years contracted seem to be
Even in bright moments as they flee.
240
As all must now be lost or won!—
The troubled Time hath cast around
Such semblance of itself profound,
That on its billowy surface stirred
Seem restless deed, thought, look, and word!—
XXXII.
And Xenia loved!—her guileless heartFelt new emotions thrill and start
Through every keenly-wakening part!—
Yet in that heart's soft budding youth,
Itself but little guessed the truth,—
'Twas friendship—gratitude—esteem,—
Aught but wild Love's delirious dream,
That made the world around appear
Itself more blessed and more dear!—
The common Earth, and Air, and Skies,
Sunlike,—upon each other rise!—
Each, lending each, a flood of light,
And starting as from depths of night!—
Not love!—not love!—it could not be—
Worthier of loftier thoughts is he!—
Aye!—holier sentiments should claim
One who as their Deliverer came!—
XXXIII.
Oh! maiden!—dared thy heart to dream—Now basking in that glorious beam—
That aught could holier—loftier prove
Than the Earth-emparadising Love!—
241
Bids every gate of glory ope,
And urgeth man to do and dare,
High lifting him from sordid care;—
This—this—can raise, guide, prompt, and fire,—
Crown,—arm,—illume him,—and inspire!—
Its bright commandments mightiest seem
To rule this Human Nature's stream;—
Whose every current—every tide—
Obeys his influence, free and wide.
All Truth, and Height, and Light, and Power,
From him seem lent—in his deep hour!—
He worketh miracles within!—
From darkness and the gloom of sin
Rises the Soul to strive—and win!—
Rises the Soul in Suns!—Each thought
A world of light—o'er-blazed, o'er-fraught!—
He teacheth high triumphant things,—
What Phantasies unfurl their wings—
What Visions far their scenes unroll,
When he is present in the Soul!—
From space to space they glowing spread,
Yet cause no wonder and no dread;
By his great power seem all things made,—
One life—far scattered—far displayed,—
One Universal Light's Excess,—
From Boundlessness to Boundlessness!—
Endurance strong—and tempered zeal
From him receive their stamp and seal;
242
By him are quickened from the dust,—
And fine Ambition is his own,
Immeasurably mighty shewn!—
XXXIV.
He smiles the stars from his bright path,That inborn—self-given splendour hath!—
And pulling down the veiling sky,
Would gaze through all the Eternity!—
No light, but his own light must dare
To gild his course through earth and air,—
A whole Eternity of Suns,
Though trebly-bright Celestial Ones,
With all their congregated rays
Concentered in one crowning blaze!—
Their ages of unceasing light
Blent to one midmost splendour bright,
Were nothing to the spirit-glow
Which he through Darkness' self can throw,
Till even that Darkness is more dear
Than worlds on fire with light, appear!—
Oh! Maiden! nought can be so fair,—
So worthy, radiant, pure, and rare,—
So mystically bright and high,
As Love's Soul-throned Divinity!—
And soon in all thy heart and mind
Right worthily was he enshrined;
And soon fair justice didst thou do
To him—the Wonderful and True!—
243
That gentle heart his seat and throne;—
To own it to thyself in fear,
With precious tremblings deep and dear,
And rapturous lingerings of distrust,
That yet shall end—they shall—they must—
In confidence so full and free,
That all seems Heaven's own certainty!—
Though still around deep glooms extend,
And heavy shadows without end,
And Destiny and Earth too near
To that divine delight appear!—
XXXV.
O'er all it triumphs!—Still it gives,While deep within the life it lives,
Its sweet commandments unto all,—
And what hath answered not its call?—
New Courage, Patience, Hope, awake,
Its calm, fair retinue to make!—
And clear imaginings arise,—
With the instincts native to the skies;—
And all the Thoughts like Trcasure lie,
Gladdened with immortality!—
Piled round that costliest treasure there,
Which makes them all so deeply fair;
And Grief itself hath learned to shew
What beauty can be found in woe,
What loveliness may yet be lent
To Sorrow's pale bewilderment—
244
Like Melancholy Moons shine forth;—
Illumined with a blessed ray
From the orb of all the Spirit's day!—
Till even their melancholy flings
A new charm o'er created things—
So tender and so beauteous made—
Like dubious births—half sun—half shade!—
XXXVI.
And was De Courcy happy?—Yes!—Earth grew one heaven of happiness—
Whene'er they met—'twas joy's sweet height—
Whene'er they met not—Fancy's might
Supplied a vision half as bright!—
And Hope and Memory sweetly strove
Which most could minister to Love!—
And rapidly, from hour to hour,
That passion deepened to its power,—
From bright beginnings, free and fast,—
To full perfections richly passed!—
And gathered all its glories round,
In one transcendant triumph bound—
While quivering joys—while rainbowed tears—
And breezy hopes—and kindling fears—
But added to that triumph still,
And taught each pulse a livelier thrill,
And all the soul appeared to bless,
With wealth of costlier consciousness!—
245
The rugged bosom of the storm!—
'Twas war without, and strife and din,
'Twas doubly Heaven and Light within—
Where once doth Love, the Blessed, reign—
There wrong nor ruin, wrath nor pain,
May wholly cloud with murky night—
Nor his ecstatic being blight!—
No!—these shall ravage not—nor shake
The Paradise two hearts can make—
Though each have hoards of Sorrow's store
Hidden within their throbbing core—
Together still they make in joy
A Paradise no pains destroy—
Together make—defying this—
A Paradise of boundless bliss!—
XXXVII.
And Love's Enchantments—brightening now—For them light Horror's frowning brow—
Dark the volcanic rage may lower—
Come strife—come storm—come doom's worst hour—
For them must bloom one blessed spot,
Where Doom itself shall enter not—
Even like those veins of verdure led,
Round the angry Crater, deep and dread!—
Borderings of bloom—bright gems of green—
Drear yawning rifts and rents between—
Which,—though all else they ravage there,
The lava-lightnings love to spare!—
246
These hang like smiles on Fate's dark lips—
Hang, sweetening still destruction's brink—
Of Hope a sign—to Heaven a link—
Since Nature's gentler hints seem given
To bind all Hearts to parent Heaven!—
XXXVIII.
And was De Courcy happy?—Yes!—His heart was its own happiness!—
So winged—so buoyant with delight—
Each heart-throb seemed a Heaven-ward flight—
The stormy joy of battle strong,
Its fiery rage of raptures, long
Had ruled his soul with maddening sway—
To him seemed like a feast the fray!
War's furious exultations shook
The soul—no weariness o'ertook,—
But now o'ertaken 'twas, and bound
By tendernesses too profound—
And yet not so!—for still the same
His spirit fevered after fame,—
But now, with nobler impulse fired,
Not urged—but rapt—not warmed—inspired!—
He sought for glories ne'er yet gained,
And vulgarer triumphs all disdained.—
XXXIX.
And worthy of his love was she,That flower of frozen Muscovy—
247
O'er her sweet life, had gently shed
Its best of beauty on her head—
And o'er her form—and o'er her face—
Its freshness, buoyancy, and grace—
And, Oh!—how pure a soul doth shine
Through her smooth forehead's crystalline,
Its soft expanse, like the Open Air,
Breathes of celestial mysteries there!—
A radiant ruler she appears,
In these—her gently flowering years,
A lovely potentate, whose sway
Spreads wide as even the realms of day,
All her beholders must be made
Her subjects—bowed—yet not afraid—
Fair Potentate!—whose living crown
Draws light from all Heaven's sweet stars down,
Wherewith she stands arrayed,—so bright—
Yet so unconscious of her might!—
And now she governs one deep soul—
That widening—wakes to her controul—
Exalted, wears her radiant chain—
Enriched—enlarged—adores her reign—
And moves—more nobly proud and free—
In that enchanted slavery—
Than all who wander unsubdued,
In liberty's most chainless mood,
Entranced to ecstasy seems all,
Beneath that most ambrosial thrall!—
248
XL.
Meanwhile,—far round them darkened still,Full many a gloomy form of ill,
Hate—Wrath—Strife—Discord—seemed to try—
To shake their bosomed harmony,
Where'er they looked,—one waste of gloom
Yawned round them, like an opening tomb;—
Little of old Smolensk remained,
Save shattered walls, all smirched and stained,
Riddled and raked by shell and shot—
Still smoking dark—and smouldering hot—
Barrier, and bar, and battlement,
Were standing still, but bowed and bent—
Gloomy and fearful to behold,
As though ten thousand ages old.
Smolensk, the sacred and the strong—
Praised, blessed, revered, and honoured long—
Drifts on the winds in ashes pale,
Made now the feeblest of the frail;—
And some few hours could thus o'erwhelm
The key of Russia's mighty Realm—
While round her huge defensive wall,
Her foes, gazed, wondering at her fall;
The old amphitheatre of heights
(Whence clearly marked were those stern sights)
Bristling with war were darkly made
The Eyries of Eagles that displayed
Their wings to whelm with crush of shade—
Their sweeping wings, in threatening way,
249
But to enshroud it and o'ersway—
Extinguishing in stormy night,
The very goal they sought of Light!—
Such reckless heat of rage doth seem
To madden through Ambition's dream;
And worse—that Passion-thirst for war,
Spreading and wasting wide and far!—
So grows its phrenzy day by day,—
Till all must be pursued as prey!
And they who feel that impulse stern,
For Action and Adventure burn,
Till Fame's own temple were o'erthrown—
If on their headlong path it shone—
These would fall out with Triumph even,
Were nought else to their fury given!—
XLI.
How mournfully come Night and MornDown on the hapless town forlorn—
The Sun's fair rising wakeneth not
Glad eyes on that much-altered spot,
No busy citizens repeat
Their cheerful rounds through square and street,—
No joyous throngs assembling there,
Wake hundred echoes in the air,
No proud processions lengthening go,
With lofty pomp and solemn show—
On high religious holydays,
Along the City's stately ways—
Threading all the architectural maze,
250
With lifted eyes and fervent mien—
Breathless with the Adoration's height,
O'erpowered by rapt Devotion's might,—
No festivals of lighter kind—
Kindling to joy the public mind—
Here brighten all the outspread scene,
With gladness earnest and serene—
While flowers along the paths are shed,
And banners proud waved overhead—
While tapestries fair, and verdurous boughs,
Are stretched and spread from house to house;—
And when the changing light of day
Hath vanished softly ray by ray,
A myriad lamps with wavering light,
Far banished still the 'sieging night—
Till seemed the Royal City there,
In midst of that triumphal glare,
To shine in self-illumined pride,
And shed round light on every side—
As though it had Its Thousand stars—
Bursting at once from cloudy bars—
Its fair ten thousand stars—its own—
A luminous and glorious crown!
XLII.
No merry groupes of children meetNow in thy pale and ghastly street—
With shout, and bound, and joyous play,
And ruddy smiles and frolic gay—
251
And shock the sickening passer-by,—
No bride from her loved home is led,
With white veil glittering round her head—
All faulteringly and gently forth—
The sweetest spectacle on earth!—
While blushing, young, companions near
Seem half-infected with her fear;
The wreaths—the blushes—where are they?—
Withered and vanished all away!
A cloud of gloom seems settled round,
In which the whole lies sternly bound;—
The princely City's haughty trust
Hath fallen to ashes and to dust;—
Her bulwarks might not save—in vain
Were all the glories of her reign!
Her sumptuous palaces are laid
In ruins dim—and disarrayed;—
Changed, all the splendours that of old
Made these a triumph to behold!—
A shadowy web of mourning falls
O'er these bowed domes and prostrate walls—
A shadowy web far-sweeping spread
Around thy Ruined and thy Dead—
Ill-fated City—that no more
May shew what thou hast been of yore!—
The Mansions of the Living lie
In funeral gloom, heaped frowning nigh;—
The Mansions of the Dead below
Wear livelier and more smiling show.
252
XLIII.
Ill-fated City!—thou art bowedBeneath Destruction's blackest cloud!—
While sundered shrine and plundered pile—
Confused in ruin's mouldering style—
Like ghastly monuments remain—
Aye!—of that ruin—not her reign!—
Played like twin Fountains clear and bright,
Midst all this dearth and all this blight—
Young Love and Hope—that all the gloom,
These hours of wild despair and doom,
Could sternly—sadly shed around—
But with more matchless brightness crowned!—
These Fountains in the Desert placed,
O'er-beautified the wondering Waste—
Till seemed the very Heart of Heaven
To that in light intenser given!—
So brightly doth heaven's mirrored pride
Shine out, where all is gloom beside!—
De Courcy's thoughts in music move,
Dark with all the Over Light of Love!—
The Light that doubts itself—and dies—
Of its own deep intensities;
Yet—live thy little life of Joy—
The armed hour comes—missioned to destroy!
In vain thine eyes shall seek that face,
Crowned with all beauty of all space;
Each thought of thine that ruled in might
Shall abdicate its Throne of Light!—
253
Thy Xenia charms thy sight no more!—
The idol of his soul is gone—
Now felt he on the earth alone!
The darkness of that change o'er all
He meets or sees, appears to fall;—
Yes!—She and Happiness are borne
From all!—like him left lost and lorn!
Forsaken seems the very Sun—
A vain and dreary race to run!—
And yet not so!—His beams, even now,
Win brightness, haply, from that brow!—
XLIV.
Deep Love had taught him precious things—And opened joy's uncounted springs—
Till all he met or saw was made—
Through time and tide,—through sun and shade—
A gladness, that from his own heart
Flowed out—pervading every part!—
The air seemed sown with unseen flowers,
Fell still around such odorous showers,
The Sky—far nearer to the Earth—
Looked like a new triumphant birth,
The common Ground was as a Sky,
Within whose bosom seemed to lie
Ten thousand—thousand Stars of Light,—
Half hidden—half revealed to sight;—
As 'twere a cloud of roseate hue,
Which they for ever sparkled through—
254
All things still exquisitely wore—
Afar or near—around—above—
The heavenly-human face of Love!—
But now,—they lost what they had gained—
When Love and Hope together reigned—
All disenchanted, dark and drear,
Gloomier than ever doth appear!—
The good old Priest hath left the spot,
His matchless Daughter, too, is not!—
'Twas strange!—no farewell word was said—
Suddenly—secretly, they fled—
Mysteriously they left the place,
Their parting footsteps none might trace!—
De Courcy, bowed by Sorrow's might,
In vain sought tidings of their flight;
No clue had he his Thoughts to guide
To his Beloved One's gentle side,—
And north and south,—and east and west,
They travelled,—and no more knew rest!—
Thus much was clear—thus much alone,—
The Daughter and the Sire were gone!—
XLV.
Meantime,—through changed Smolensk's pale streets,Where one stern waste the shocked eye meets,
The Gallic Army marched in pride,
While Ruin scowled on every side—
'Twas triumph, desolate and vain,
Destruction darkling filled their train!—
255
Dark hints seemed ever to repeat,—
The walls, that where they shook the ground
Fell inwards with a shock of sound,—
A sullen shock—yet stunning too—
Seemed uttering dire predictions true!—
All things around, all near and far,
Whispered dark things oracular,
And mournfully triumphant moved—
Still unapplauded—unapproved—
That Mighty Host, in pride and power,
Past shattered dome and prostrate tower!—
A Show that well might charm—inspire—
But no spectators to admire!—
And Victory seemed to hang her head,
Pale as some mourner o'er the dead,
While round her temples there, did frown,
The Likeness of her Laurel crown,
With thorns and cypress overgrown!—
Still Dead Sea fruits she scattered round—
Ashes to ashes—on that ground!—
| The Maiden of Moscow | |