 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
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CANTO VII.
I.
Where the Kolowdnnia's currents gleam—Where flows its tributary stream—
Rippling to every passing breeze—
Into the old Borysthenes;
And marks with its fair maze of light,
The base of Valoutina's height,—
A high and hallowed spot is found—
A spot of consecrated ground!—
Grey Superstition hovereth there,
And breathes her spell upon the air:
Traditionary tales are told
Of this much-honoured place of old;—
'Tis called—a solemn name and proud,—
Which wraps it, as in Glory's cloud—
“The Sacred Field!”—Plumed Victory waves
Her standard there o'er heroes' graves!—
For there these antique tales repeat
The Russian arms ne'er knew defeat:—
There, many a foeman—battling well—
In rising seas of slaughter fell!—
In the olden days of brave renown—
Struggling till bowed and overthrown,
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Seeming to strive when life was past!—
With looks of fury—hands of hate—
Though crushed beneath Death's frost-like weight—
Hands—clenched with wreathing grasp,—though chill,—
Round gore-clogged weapons dripping still:
In vain they fought—in vain they died—
Still Victory smiled on Russia's side!
Still on that “Sacred Field,” to Fame
She gave Rejoicing Russia's name:—
And there she wrote that name in light—
“The Unbowed—the Invincible in might!”—
II.
And now upon this Field renowned—With high resolve and hopes profound—
The ranks of Russia's war behold—
Brave as their dreadless sires of old!—
Terrific is the shock and stern,
Seems wavering Victory now to turn—
And on the arena of her boast
Decides 'gainst Russia's gallant host!—
Her generous sons are doomed to yield,
On that—the immortal Sacred Field!—
Yet noble still in their defeat,
And proud are they—in even retreat!
They have well saved what they would save,
Though filled is many a reeking grave,—
Their cannons and their baggage all—
Their wounded comrades, too, from thrall!
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To guard from wrong—for this they fought;—
And well their fair retreat they make,
And with them, these,—unconquered take!
And those who scarce the victory gained,
A hard and heavy loss sustained!—
Upon Kolowdnnia's bridge, but ill
Repaired of late with dubious skill—
But ill and carelessly repaired
Where he, the dangerous passage dared—
Fell Gudin!—noblest of the brave—
Whom half his host would die to save—
And thousands, thunderstricken, stood,
As from their heart-veins gushed that blood!—
They stood—they paused—they held their breath—
All wounded by that single Death!
So well beloved by all was he—
Gentle and generous—frank and free;
Of large and elevated mind—
Principle-strengthened, and refined!
III.
Then Valoutina's Victory seemedTo lose the light wherewith it beamed;
And dark that day of Conquest proved—
The death-day of their chief beloved—
These tidings sad were swift conveyed
To him—whose haughty joy must fade,—
Whose triumph must be dashed with gloom—
The night of that too-neighbouring tomb!—
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By service, time and worth endeared.
Keen Sorrow wrings his breast, but now
He must uplift the o'ershadowed brow,—
He must with iron business bind
His bosom-sore—his wound of mind;
And all his energies apply
To many a sharp necessity;—
Since he must issue orders straight,
Of moment deep and pressing weight!
His Sorrow now he waves away,
Till fitter Season for its Sway;
Adjourns his Anguish, and defers
The Suffering through his heart that stirs,—
Frowns back the encroaching pain he feels,—
And the inly-bleeding bosom steels,—
Suspends the Risings of Regret,
As he the appointed times should set,
And regulate the periods all,
When the armed heart's pulse shall rise and fall!—
Adjust the Emotions and controul,
Which come to sweep along his soul,
And give—thus holding them in thrall—
His Fiat to his Feelings all,—
As they upon his will must wait,—
Himself his own o'er-dooming Fate!—
IV.
'Twere well!—if thus he could o'er-ruleIn rigid, stern, self-mastering school,
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Drives all his rushing soul along!—
Would he could this awhile adjourn,—
And gaze around,—and weigh and learn,—
Adjust—adapt it,—and constrain,
As he hath done his Grief and Pain!—
But now his lofty course he shapes
(While thus from thoughtful woe he 'scapes!—)
To Valoutina's blood-stained field,
Where sights of terror frown revealed!—
The troops of the ever-gallant Ney,
Who shared the honours of the day,—
Gudin's division—gashed and gored,
That mourned in glory, and deplored,—
Late widowed of its valiant lord,—
Were drawn up on the attesting ground,
Midst all its signs of conflict round!—
There lay, in wild confusion spread,
The corses of their comrades dead,
Midst scattered arms and shivered trees,—
Whose trunks, like rocks beneath the seas,—
All jagged and pointed, threatening frown,—
While some uprooted near are strown;
Dismounted guns, too, heaped—hurled down,—
Far round confusedly mixed are thrown;
Ploughed up with balls, Earth's self seemed gashed,—
Like those who in mid-combat dashed!—
And gave their bosoms to the blow,
And dying,—still felt zeal's stern glow;
Sore trampled was the sod beneath
Those feet—fierce shod with doom and death!—
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V.
Such are the trophies that remainUpon the Enlaurelled Victory's Plain!—
Midst countless corses heaped about,
The Emperor takes his dreadful route;
There Death in every shape intrudes,
In Agony's own attitudes,—
On his—the great War-Maker's sight,—
And bids him, shuddering, own its might!—
But he hath come to shed and throw
A light o'er all this Wild of Woe!—
Rise—silent Glory!—at his call—
Let Death even own thy dazzling thrall—
Come Fame!—come Honour!—heavenward rise—
From this red dust of agonies!—
He speaks!—the assembled thousands live—
In the new life these proud words give—
He lauds them!—Not the world's acclaim,
Out thundering loud each several name,
Should move their spirits—glorying high,—
So strongly—so o'erwhelmingly—
As his great Praise—supreme—sublime!—
It seems to echo on through Time—
His solemn praise,—that cannot die,
Of their great general Bravery!—
VI.
But more than this!—again that voiceBids every bounding heart rejoice—
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The history of their separate deeds;
And they who had outshone the rest,—
Who hotliest 'mid the tumult pressed,—
Hear from those lips whose breath is Fame,—
Their own yet undistinguished name!
They weep with joy—they shuddering feel
A rapture sharp as foeman's steel!—
What!—celebrated thus by him—
Whose winged words pass the Horizon's rim,—
Each like a Time-transfixing dart,
Quivering in the universal heart—
Teaching those moments filled with fame,
A deathless heritage to claim!
By him—whom all the nations wait
With their Great Thoughts to celebrate!—
Too glorious 'mid his triumph's blaze,
For even the world's storm-voice to praise!—
By him—for whom Futurity,
A conquest, too, consents to be!—
The intoxicating strong delight
Subdues these Lions of the Fight—
Like children, hurrying, gather these
Around their awful Father's knees!—
And now those separate bands are bade—
Each countenance with triumph clad—
Successively round him to stand,
And take high tokens from his hand!—
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VII.
Promotions—decorations now—Showered round—flush many a rugged brow;—
And generous gifts exalt their souls,
With gratitude no doubt controuls:
They look not on their Dead that lie
Unstraightened round, with unclosed eye—
Since still they gaze on him alone,—
For whom these fell—the Ambitious One!—
Up to that fatal eye they gaze—
Fixed upon future battle-days!—
And there he might appear to be
A Father 'midst his Family!—
Dear Heaven!—and he would see them all
In racking anguish bleed and fall—
To grasp some other glittering gem,
He dreams should light his diadem!—
Yet haply, at that hour his breast,
With kindliest feelings throbbed impressed—
While human-tender grew the excess
Of Earth-o'ershadowing Selfishness!
He loved them with a self-sprung love—
As they for him, endured and strove—
As they to him, were linked and bound—
As they with him had Triumph found—
As they might speed his onward way
To Empire's yet unheard-of sway!—
But not one shadow of his Power—
Even for one little fleeting hour—
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From tortures and the untimely grave!
VIII.
This felt they not—this scarce he knew—So filmed was all his soul's self-view;—
The while his Myriad-sided Mind—
Reflecting light—that made the earth blind—
Could leave all Worlds of Thought behind!—
Never did Field of Fight yet shew
So proud a spectacle below!—
Oh!—who could see that show and say,
Woe worth the conflict's deadly day?—
That Spectacle's imposing pride,
Could war's worst terrors cloak and hide!
The bannered eagles in that air,
Of haughty victory—fluttering fair—
As though 'twas all one lustrous sky—
Their pride of place still where his eye
Made earth beam like the Sun on high!—
(Those Eagles well on troops bestowed,
That trod ere this their storm-ward road—
Without such emblems 'mid them shewn—
Not yet by merit made their own!—)
Those ranks of warriors—crowd on crowd—
With conscious recent glory proud!—
Full many a billowy, wavering throng,
Heaving with exultations strong,—
The Circumstance and State of War—
Glittering and towering free and far—
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Of these promotions, brave and fair,
Made solemn Valoutina seem
The Scenery of some wizard dream!—
But now the festal pomp is past,—
The mighty stir subsides at last,—
The joy and triumph are no more,
The Splendour—like the Strife—is o'er!—
IX.
Yea! like the Battle lost and won,—The high rejoicings all are done!—
Slow gathering o'er Napoleon's brow
Brood shadows of disquiet now;—
Back to Smolensk must he return,
And now, he may have time to mourn,—
And sights and sounds of pain and fear,—
Sad sights!—stern sounds!—afar and near,
Well suit that heavy, joyless mood,—
So Sorrow reigneth unsubdued!—
Long files of wounded wretches crawl
Along the roads—in anguish all,
And ghastly creatures nearer Death,
Still breathing agonizing breath,
Are borne along, as to the grave,—
And surely nothing here can save!—
In pale Smolensko's streets behold—
New horrors hideously unfold,
While still the new surpassed the old!—
The tortured Thought in Carnage swims,—
Tumbrils of new-dissevered limbs,—
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To shelter,—then laid down and slept,—
All things most terrible and dire,
Make the sad stricken heart expire!—
Within the hospitals, pale Want,—
While helps are few,—and means are scant,—
Her iron rule makes sorely felt,
By those to whom sharp pangs are dealt;
In vain would the Chirurgeon's skill
These pangs assuage—these sufferings still;—
Medicaments are sought in vain!—
And must they bear their maddening pain?—
At length in the archives—scrolls are found,
That bind and staunch the gaping wound,—
Parchments for splints must serve at need,
Birch-cotton stand in lint's apt stead!
X.
But pass we o'er their sufferings drear,Events of mighty weight draw near,—
Questions are mooted now that bear
A whelming freight of serious care!—
Resolved from drear Smolensk to go,—
Where shall Napoleon seek his foe?—
Where shape his course with skilful art,
To strike dismay to Russia's heart?—
Kieff,—Petersburg,—and Moscow seem
Each tempting to Ambition's dream,—
Each doth advantage clear present,—
Fair furtherings of his high intent!—
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He might secure and safe remain,—
Envelope Tchitchakoff's strong force,
And seize on many a rich resource,—
Free from embarrassment and clear,
Withal, his own right flank and rear;
While fortified cantonments—well,
Of noble strength—impregnable—
(At Riga,—Mohileff,—and where
Smolensk lies pale in her despair,—
At Dünabourg—Polotsk—beside—
Witespk, too, where he late did bide,—)
Should the other portions of his host
Defend—none scattered and none lost!—
XI.
There,—while dark Winter's ice-months roll,With terrible and stern controul,—
Might he reorganize and raise,
Through labouring—yet through leisured days,—
The whole of Poland—conquered now,
And proud beneath his yoke to bow!—
Thus might he hurl—when Spring returns
And Winter flies (—but flying—scorns,
And flings back Parthian arrows pale,
Light shafts of sleet and partial hail—)
'Gainst Russia's might—this fearless Foe,—
Nation 'gainst Nation arming so!—
And rendering equal—thus at length—
This contest deep of Strength with Strength.
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Twenty-nine marches well should bring,
From where they now have ta'en their stand,
To one Crowned City of the land!—
Proud Petersburg!—the unbowed—the unbent—
Centre of Russia's Government!—
Where in one knot of weight and might,
The Administration's threads unite—
In one firm knot—close wreathed—and clasped—
The Administration's threads are grasped!
Together gathered there, and twined—
Concentered closely and combined;
There, too, her vast war-treasuries be—
Her arsenals of Land and Sea!
Now—as her noblest riches shown—
Battle-Regalia of her crown!—
Kingliest Regalia!—prouder far
That jewelled Pomp,—her metalled War!—
XII.
There, too, should he secure and seize(And strong inducements all are these—)
The single point—there marked and fixed—
Of clear communication 'twixt
Russia and England—now commixed—
In close confederacy—well joined
Through interests deep,—in heart and mind!—
The intelligence of victory, too,
Which flushed his arms with triumphs new,
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That brave Saint Cyr—from straits relieved—
At bleak Polotsk had well atchieved,—
Seemed urging him that course to choose—
Nor further time in doubt to lose;
In concert with Saint Cyr, should he
On Petersburg march instantly,—
And there—their mustered masses join,
He should envelope Wittgenstein—
And cause proud Riga's leaguered wall,
Before Macdonald's force to fall—
(Macdonald!—Caledonia's child!—
Sprung from her heathery mountains wild!—)
XIII.
But Moscow!—Moscow!—beckoning still—With keener hope his breast doth fill—
There the ancient nobles make their stand,
The Proud—the Princes of the land—
Propped high on Honour's fiery boast—
The old Honour they shall yet see lost!—
There circling them on every side—
Shine treasures, luxuries, power, and pride—
Their rich possessions there are found,
On the old hereditary ground,
The Nobles there—the Nation all—
Should totter to a desperate fall!—
More neighbouring, too, to where they are,
(Kieff—Petersburg—are severed far!—)
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To sway him in the choice he made?—
That road yields more resources, too,
While the obstacles seemed slight and few,
There—argument to sway his mind!—
Russia's Grand Army he should find!—
Those hosts that he must not forget—
Those hosts that he must ruin yet!—
That long-sought Battle tempts him on,
Which Hope a thousand times hath won,
The expectancy, on which his heart
Preyed still, eternally—apart!—
There may he strike the astounding blow,
Which through all the Empire's veins shall go;—
There shock the Nation's Soul,—and smite,
With his unconquerable might,—
The deep heart of the invaded Land—
And all constrain—and all command!—
XIV.
In conflict sharp and short, Saint CyrO'er Wittgenstein advantage clear
Had gained, with skilful toil severe—
The chief who this high deed atchieved,
Ere long from the Emperor's hand received
The mareschall's truncheon-staff—proud meed
For those who served their country's need!—
'Twas in that storm of Battle died
Two noble warriors—true and tried—
Deroy and Liben,—seemed to reign
Strange sympathy between the twain!
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They came enrolled in that vast Band:
The self-same hour beheld their birth,
And ushered them to changeful Earth!—
Brothers in Battle they had been,
Still side by side divideless seen,
Seldom had danger frowned between!—
The same campaigns had still beheld
These sword-companions in the field,
Bent one triumphal course to steer—
One glorious and unchecked career!—
At length—a common Death awaits!—
Each soul bursts forth through gory gates,—
Those yawning wounds, that set it free!—
They lived and died in sympathy!—
So closed their linked and likened Lives—
Where each for Victory's guerdon strives!—
In one same proud victorious field
Their fate is stamped—their doom is sealed—
Yes!—set the Star of either Life—
In that same proud victorious strife!—
Shall their survivors dare divide
Those—Life and Death had thus allied?—
No!—dust with dust together joined
One tomb in solemn league shall bind,
And Ages leave to Peace resigned—
One sepulchre receives their clay—
May their winged souls track One bright way!
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XV.
From Echmühl's Prince ere long arriveTidings that hopes more ardent give—
To him whose enterprising soul
Ill bears the events that must controul!—
Pass we Suspense—Success—Survey—
The various orders of the day—
Arrangements—method—or delay!—
Forth from Smolensk the march was made—
Proud gleamed the pomp and gay parade—
Poured thousands, the onward paths along,
Ablaze with Hope—that kindleth strong!—
The Viceroy's gallant troops behold,—
Shining in sunlight's burning gold—
Zazélé's castellated pride,—
Its sky-kissed towers—and walls stretched wide,—
There Grouchy's horsemen brave appear,
(These had encamped already here),
Bordering a Lake of Beauty clear—
While the Emperor marched yet more advanced,—
The anticipated triumphs glanced
From every look—through every word—
He moved like Empire's Victor-Lord!—
Thus he advanced rejoicing still—
Shall all succumb not to his will?—
He felt as though his hand unfurled
The fate of Europe and the World!—
That where he was, the place must be
Where fixed is all Earth's destiny,—
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Till his dread voice shall tell it out!—
And recklessly, neglects he so
The banded armies of the Foe?—
The host of Essen—strong to guard
Riga—for proud defence prepared—
And Wittgenstein's—that still remains,
On drear Polotsk's blood-flowing plains;
And Hœrtel's sternly threatening powers—
Where frown Bobruisk's embattailled towers,—
And where Volhynia's regions spread,
Brave Tchitchakoff's strong force and dread!—
XVI.
He passes o'er their marshalled might,As they were specks on his great Light!—
As they should vanish from the Earth,
When his grand thoughts bound into Birth!—
They might surround him—but in vain;—
He feels that he shall rule and reign!
His haughty, enterprising mind
Leaves these in its wild dreams behind!—
Pass we the lengthened march—the advance—
The forward-hurrying War of France!—
Pass we the martial movements, too,
Of those removed from the Emperor's view;
Those portions of his force afar—
The scattered Strengths of Gallia's War!—
Pass we the various plans designed—
Suggested by his Master Mind!—
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Of those whose Eagle-banner flies
Like Earth-born meteor to the skies!—
But flames from all its turrets rise!—
The Foe once more hath called to aid
Fire's element—that well obeyed!—
He speaks with thousand tongues of flame,
To those who come, to crush and tame!
And they in consternation gaze
Upon the growing mounting blaze!—
XVII.
Their March a gloomy March had been,Through many a desolated scene;
From swamp to swamp,—their foe had still
Drawn them with strange and fatal skill,—
From Conflagration made them tread
To Conflagration fiercelier spread!—
Strong indignation prompts—inspires—
Their hands extinguished soon the fires!—
The advanced guard rushing rapidly—
Those waters ford—that bridgeless be,
And check the wild flames rising free!—
Then fiercely they attack—destroy
The incendiaries with savage joy!—
Vengeance for Vengeance thus they take,
And Chastening bring for Chastening's sake,—
Judgments for Judgments so they give,
And Wrath and Hate before them drive,—
Those who light flames in foeman's way,
Those flames shall choke with their own clay,—
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Shall quench its fury with their gore!—
XVIII.
To the Emperor is, ere long,—made known,While halts he in Wiazma's town,
The Russians' haught assumption now
Of triumphs that adorned his brow!—
Enraged—infuriated—he hears
They claim each conquest-wreath he bears,—
And far, and wide, and loud protest,
Their arms have been by Victory blessed,
In every strife—on every side,—
He maddens with the indignant pride!—
Their bells—triumphant peals ring out—
Ascends on high the Earth-shaking shout!—
Hymns of Thanksgivings echoing rise,
With heart-poured tones to shake the skies!—
While published to the exultant crowd
Are hundred proclamations proud!
'Twas thus, in truth, the Russians tried
To rouse and raise the general pride—
To kindle the universal thought,
Till Patriotism's high work was wrought!—
Part Policy—part Piety—
They trust their Future all to Thee,
Lord of the Faithful and the Free!—
As still anticipating all
That yet from Heavenly helps shall fall,—
As though they felt Thy gracious will
Must aid their righteous efforts still!—
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XIX.
Now their Arch-Enemy enraged,His wrath with savage words assuaged!—
“What!—dare they lie then—Here—and there,—
Beneath—Above—and every where?—
Lie on the Earth,—and in the Air?—
Teach the iron tongues of solemn bells,—
That yet shall sound their country's knells,—
To swing their falsehoods to the sky,—
And with thanksgivings—thundering high
To Heaven Itself even lift their Lie?—
To Heaven!—as unto Earth—are told
These falsehoods—blasphemously bold?—
And—while, through shuddering Time, swelled free—
Shall thus too—the impious Boast, even be—
Sent sounding through—the Eternity?—
Must Men and Angels lend their ear,
Such frontless infamies to hear?—
Must Nature—the Elements—the Whole—
Of which Great Truth was made the Soul—
Echo, and spread the false—the wrong—
That darkeneth from the lying tongue—
Till all is one untruth displayed—
And Falsehood frowns in might arrayed,
Creation's new condition made!—
No!—Hell alone hath heard—and Said!”—
But bade to triumph and rejoice—
With lifted hands and heart and voice,—
The Nation yet, much disbelieved—
Much deemed itself betrayed—deceived—
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Came tales of terror deep—not loud,
Unhinging all their hopes and trust—
Casting their triumphs down to dust!—
XX.
Sacked towns and cities left a preyTo dreadful Conflagration's sway,—
Their country's consecrated sod
By all the Invader's armies trod—
Their own retreating from his Might,
As in an ever-lengthening flight,—
Their ancient Battle-fields all stained
With blood, from native sources drained,—
Their Altars and their Homes prophaned—
These hints like snakes hissed round their hearts—
Sorely each tortured bosom smarts—
At length their smouldering rage and strong
Broke forth in tempests loud and long!—
A voice of awful might is lent
To this far-spreading Discontent!—
The popular distrust outbreaks—
And all around it, thrills and shakes—
Rise murmurs hoarse to deafening sounds,
Fierce clamouring—that o'erflow all bounds,
The will of Millions is made known—
“Down with the Stranger Leader!—down!—
Have we no warriors sage and brave?—
A Russian shall our Russia save!”—
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XXI.
For Koutousoff these Millions call,Still clamouring for De Tolly's fall,—
The Czar grants what the Land requires—
Barclay from his high post retires—
Well had he planned—and well had wrought—
With keen astucious searching thought!—
But wild Impatience, fevering high—
Hath lashed itself to Agony!—
And while thus speaks their phrenzied tongue,
The People's inmost hearts seem wrung,—
By raging Furies' hands of Fire,
Till all is the Infinite of Ire!—
Barclay hath yielded his command,
But yet forsakes he not the Land—
Nor chafed with idle rage withdraws
His skill and valour from Her Cause!—
Nobly he bears with steadfast will—
Reverses—wrongs—and trials still—
And he who hath commanded all
Knows well with dignity to fall!
XXII.
He rises as he sinks, who shewsHis soul above Earth's weal or woes,—
And takes revenge of loftiest kind—
Not merely with exalted mind—
Forgiving utterly his foes,
But heaping benefits on those
Who bowed him under bitterest blows,
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When he resigned the staff of power,
A generous zeal did well display,—
As prompt and ready to obey,
As ever in command—to sway:—
Obedience, too, is hard to learn
By those—who, in their own high turn,
Have ruled and governed,—hard to be
Learned by deposed Authority!—
An art abstruse and difficult
For those who did in Power exult!—
But faithful in high-hearted mood,
By Koutousoff—the Expelled One stood!—
Stood to the last with bearing brave,
To guard—to strengthen—and to save!—
Th' animadversions harsh and rude
Of the inconsiderate multitude,
Were surely checked by thoughts more just,—
Of nice respect, and conscious trust!
XXIII.
But all the Land is raging nowFor instant Battle!—high and low—
Serfs—peasants—merchants—nobles—all—
For battle—instant battle—call!—
“Let France—proud France—or Russia—fall!—
To arms!—it should be—and it shall!—”
And 'twere as madness to withstand
The aroused—incensed—determined Land,—
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From the ignominious Slavery's grave!—
The high-souled Czar,—and those who share
His counsels,—and his weighty care,
Inclined to open combat too,
And took, at length, the self-same view!—
Intoxicated—flushed with joy,
And burning—panting to destroy,
The Russian Troops at once are led,—
Their new Commander at their head,—
(Suwarrow's comrade—rival—he!—
Whose presence even seems victory!—)
Toward Borodino's wide-spread plain,—
Their Foe no more shall seek in vain!—
No more, in vain the inquiring eye
Shall strain to follow those who fly,—
No more shall ask the Horizon still
For those,—they cannot check at will!—
They come to rush on Battle's broil,
To share stern Conflict's splendid toil,—
To root themselves to that dear soil,
To blast or bear—to do or die,—
Conquer or perish—gloriously!—
XXIV.
These tidings reached the Invader's ear,—Right welcome, too,—did such appear!—
To him shewed Battle's promise bright,
As Land to weary seamen's sight!—
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That well confirmed the intelligence:—
A Russian warrior—one who bears
The honoured flag of truce—appears;—
On some pretence he seeks the Foe,—
'Tis doubtless but to sift and know
The true state of the Invader's host;
His aspect breathes but haughtiest boast,—
Defiance darkles from his mien,
While Hatred in his glance is seen;
They question him in careless way,
And thus to the adverse listener say,—
“'Twixt Wiazma and Old Moscow's gates,—
What thwarts our March?—what yet awaits?”—
Bursts thundering forth the fierce reply—
“Pultowa!”—brief answer—stern and high!—
Severely blunt,—and sternly brief,—
Till half-cowered back each wondering chief!—
Those savage tones—so wild—and loud—
Ev'n startled all that dauntless crowd!—
Grated with something like a fear,
“Pultowa!” on even Napoleon's ear!—
That prompt, fierce answer—harsh and bold,—
Even through his mind deep-echoing rolled!—
XXV.
Yet soon his heart throbbed mountain-high—The Conflict then,—at last, is nigh!—
Without precaution they permit
The Stranger, as he thinketh fit,
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Remeasuring so his former track!—
Lightly had he access obtained
To their head-quarters unrestrained,—
Lightly the advanced posts passed, when he
Returned upon his passage free!—
No guards along his path he met,—
No sentinel and no vidette!—
Strange negligence would all declare—
No watchwords—no patroles were there!—
Seemed to despise these nice details,
In power that still o'er all prevails,
Those Wearers of immortal scars—
Those Soldiers of an hundred wars!—
Lo!—they are girt on every side
With Glory's triple mail of Pride,—
They are the assailants!—they can well,
In conscious strength impregnable,—
Aye!—well and loftily dispense
With such nice careful diligence!—
To Russia 'tis they leave Defence!—
If danger lurking near awaits,
Ten thousand Victories guard Their Gates!—
'Tis such rash pride of long success
That yet may make those Glories less!
XXVI.
Napoleon by a river stands—That shimmereth bluely through the lands;—
That river is the Gjatz, which flows—
While seems its motion all repose—
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Into the Wolga's mightier stream—
There he—in Victor-Monarch's mood—
Conqueror of many Rivers stood—
Emotions full of proud Unrest
Were blent, or wrestling in his breast—
Himself as master hailed he there
Of those unconscious waters fair;—
That yet shall greet the old Asian clime—
Dusk—strange—and gorgeous—and sublime!—
He thrilled to think they haste to bear
High tidings of his triumphs there!—
The glory even his Presence gave,
Like Treasure shrining in their wave—
As though they rushed to tell his tale
To other worlds—struck wonder-pale!—
His tale of Pride—Power—Strength—and Sway—
To kingdoms of the opening Day—
And the Ancient Empires in decay!
XXVII.
Now starts September into birth,And much of beauty dies from Earth—
'Twas in her earliest days marched forth,
From Gjatz, the Invaders of the North!
Murat pressed on some leagues before—
His heart with stormy joy ran o'er—
His breast—where strife's quick rapture reigned—
The Battle-business well contained!—
The coming Battle's business there,
Was well rehearsed and acted fair!—
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Was that proud breast, with passion fraught—
Triumph to every pulse was taught!
Ere long, vast clouds of Cossacks came—
Clouds—whence seemed flashing tri-forked flame—
And round the Gallic columns' heads
(Where high assurance towering treads)—
Fluttered and flew—with fierce intent—
Chafing and harrying as they went!—
The haughty King enraged beheld—
Shall such wild daring not be quelled?—
Then—all resistlessly impelled—
Dashed forward suddenly alone—
Straight towards their line—the Undaunted One!—
Within a spear's length of them, then—
While wondering stared these savage men—
Halting—he reined his foaming steed—
Checked in that tempest of his speed,—
With the ardour of his haste on fire—
As kindling with his Master's ire!—
As though his Rider's storm of soul
Raged through his veins with brave controul!—
XXVIII.
There stood the dreadless Warrior-Lord—High brandishing his blinding sword!
He stood before them—face to face—
In circling Danger's pride of place,—
And signed and motioned to them there
With such commanding port and air—
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Calm—as his will had force of Fate;—
That, wildered with the amazement, they,—
Struck with strange trouble of dismay,
Confess his soul-o'erruling sway,—
And falling back,—at once obey!—
With their barbaric leaders all,
Back at the imperious sign they fall!—
Though marvellous might seem to be
Such feat of conquering gallantry—
Such wild exploit of valorous might—
Of venture—rash to phrenzy's height—
And crowned with full success aright!—
'Twas well believed by all who heard—
And scarce to them,—thus strange appeared!—
Those warriors—who had seen—admired
His deeds of daring zeal untired,—
All who had e'er delighted gazed
On those high deeds—o'erpowered—amazed—
With faith implicit still received
The tales of what Murat atchieved!—
XXIX.
Seemed boasting still red Victory's brandAcquaintance with his mighty hand!—
His high ascendant Valour bright—
His rushing soul's exultant might,—
The indomitable zeal, that still
Bore him along through good or ill—
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Enshrined in Glory's atmosphere!—
His dazzling deeds, of matchless pride,
The observant calmer gaze defied,—
His princely garb, that like his port
Did Danger's wildest threatenings court—
Strange adventitious lustres lent,
To such heroic hardiment!—
Rich was his proud monarchic dress—
His Battle-garb's adorned excess—
Blazoned with warlike sumptuousness—
So dazzling bright shone each rare fold—
Thickened with broideries—rough with gold—
He seemed to draw the high sun down,
And make its rays one blinding crown,
Like lightnings, when their arrowy play
Is checked upon their shining way,
Attracted to one spot, where all
Their keen unearthly splendours fall!—
XXX.
Not long the King his troops hath led,In order fair,—with measured tread,—
Ere they, by unexpected bar,
Opposed in their proud progress are!—
'Twixt Gjatz and Borodino's plain—
Which these brave columns strove to gain—
Did suddenly the broad road lean—
Descending to a deep ravine;—
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Where a vast platform did disclose
Its breadth—thick-bristling o'er with foes!—
Defended 'twas by chosen bands,
Through Koutousoff's express commands,
And fierce their stout resistance proved,
Ere from their strong position moved.
XXXI.
'Twas on the Russians' Right engaged—The advanced guard of the Viceroy raged—
And there,—though briefly,—had withstood
The unpolished ranks of Scythians rude
The fiery charge against them made—
(While matchless valour shone displayed!—)
By Italy's plumed chasseurs brave,
That rushed like foamy-crested wave—
Whose sweep the tempest's force contains,—
On that wild foe their pride disdains!—
Awhile, there intermixed remained—
The battling crowd—that strove and strained—
The armed Multitude—together thrown
Confusedly heaped—till France hath won!—
Since Italy's proud gain must be
Her 'Vantage—and Her Victory!—
XXXII.
The Russians, vanquished, have retired—Brief while, the conquering troops respired—
Then—o'er their blood-stained track—they passed—
Then—followed the o'er-pressed Foemen fast—
Toward old Kolotskoi's Abbey vast;—
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Out-glistering glowed with Sunlight's smile—
Its thousand coloured tiles had caught
The beams, as though with rainbows wrought,—
And brightly through the dust's light shrouds,
That round the squadrons rose in clouds,
It shimmered fair with many a hue—
A Fairy-Fabric to the view!—
Yet solemn was its antique pride—
While strongly stood it fortified,—
Relique of the olden Gothic time,
It raised its towery front sublime,
Half Citadel—half Convent—shewn—
For rugged were those ages flown—
Even in the Abodes of Peace, wild War
Intruded oft his godless jar!—
Even these,—in fortressed strength, did stand
And frowned upon a frowning land!—
Not at Kolotskoi paused the foe—
His troops made there no threatening show—
Still onwards these, did hurrying go!—
Not there they made their stand—but pushed
Their march right on—and forward rushed—
Still following them the French pressed on,
And well their rapid way they won!—
XXXIII.
Debouching soon from hamlet small,The advanced guard marked, where ravaged all
The plains and fields of rye appeared—
The corn was cut—the woods half cleared—
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Dire havoc, on all sides, was found!—
Doubtless, that battle-field they see
Which waits for Them and Destiny!—
The future Battle-Field designed
By Koutousoff's strong master-mind,—
The woods and plains,—afar and near,
Swarmed with wild, uncouth forms of fear;—
Covered with Cossacks groaned the ground—
They scoured and swept the country round!—
The Russian Riflemen were seen
Where the intervals spread broad between
Three hamlets—(glimpsed through those dense crowds
Of Cossacks—Earth-besprinkling clouds!—)
The intervals intersected were
By deep ravines and woods half bare!—
XXXIV.
There came a stir—a joyous strife,A flush of fresh redoubled life,
Throughout those ranks—whose proud display
Lit all the glowing Light of Day!—
The Gallic ranks!—that pausing here—
Beheld their Sovereign-Captain near,—
For suddenly appeared in sight
Napoleon on the neighbouring height!—
Thoughtful,—the country he surveys,
With searching, comprehensive gaze,
The horizon-overtaking glance,—
Left nothing there to Doubt or Chance;
290
And nought escaped the Mighty Man!—
Plains—waverings—boundaries—changes—turns,—
Lines—parts—and portions he discerns—
All obstacles—all helps—he learns!—
At once these strongly seemed defined,—
The Whole mapped out upon his mind!—
His circumambient thought hath bound
In clear conception—all around!—
But those who hailed him as their Lord,
Their Chieftain and their Prince adored,—
The satellites of his great sway,
The lesser lights of War's wild Day,—
They gaze not round with anxious glance,
Nor yet do they leave ought to chance,—
They need not search with earnest ken
Ravines and rivers—wood and glen,—
Nor peer along the Horizon's rim,—
Enough!—they need but look on him!—
XXXV.
'Vails not to tell in terms precise,—With long details minute and nice,
The order observed on either side,—
Or various ground they occupied;
Suffice it that the Russian Right,
And Centre of their marshalled might,
In front no added strength displayed—
No marked resistance there was made!—
But not so seemed to be their Left,
Of aids additional bereft;—
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Each slight, chance 'vantage of the ground!—
There,—frowning rose a dread Redoubt—
Their weak side plainly pointing out!—
A mighty work of warlike art,
Proclaiming thus their frailest part—
Since covered 'twas with such strict care,
The accessible weak side was there!—
This flanked the great highroad beside,—
Flanked, too, of France the marshalled pride!—
Enough!—it shall not scatheless bide!—
From the Emperor's mouth the Signal Word
For its assault—at once was heard!—
The ruined villages—the woods—
Where threatening Preparation broods—
Were occupied without delay,—
Opened the business of the Day!—
Upon the Left and Centre see
The army of fiery Italy!
Compans' Division—and withal—
Murat's fine host heroical!—
The while appears upon the Right
Proud Poniatowski's mustered might;—
Nobly these three great masses strove,
And back on Borodino drove
The Rear-guards of the Russian force—
Destruction darkening in their course!—
Concentrated—shall now unfold—
The whole War's living Ocean, rolled
On one fixed point—while fast advance,—
The columned hosts of valiant France!
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XXXVI.
The Russians' first Redoubt appears—A Formidable Front it rears;—
But too detached—too distant far—
Grave fault of fearful weight in war!—
It fronts their proud position, whence—
Defending—gained it no Defence!—
The ground—which ampler choice withheld—
This insulated seat compelled—
Rushed to the attack—with fervent zeal—
Brave Compans, and his men of steel—
Forth harbingered, by clang and shout,
They dashed them 'gainst the doomed Redoubt!—
Even at the bayonet's point 'tis ta'en—
The Russians yet return—regain!—
Bagration—Reinforcements sent,
And thus from the ardent victors rent
Their conquest—yet they stood—unbent!—
Once more their desperate zeal is shewn—
And yet—once more—'tis all their own!—
Three times the wavering Victory veered!—
At length proud France it crowned and cheered!—
When afterwards, in triumph's mood,
These gallant troops their Chief reviewed,
“The Third Battalion!—where?”—he cried—
“Where doth the Third Battalion bide?—
In Victory's recent flush of pride!”—
“In yon Redoubt!”—a voice replied!—
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XXXVII.
Still thickly swarmed the neighbouring woodWith countless foemen, unsubdued,
Forth sallying thence, renewed they fast
Their fierce attacks—this shall not last!—
The shock, soon Schewardino bears
Of Morand, with his vengeful spears,—
Who well his dreadful passage clears,—
While Ellnia's woods confessed the might
Of Poniatowski's stormy Fight!—
Such tempest ne'er hath rocked before
Those woods, with wild terrific roar,—
Bagration's troops strove not again—
Murat's plumed Horsemen cleared the plain!—
'Twas said a Spanish Cohort well,—
In bravery's strength invincible,—
Contributed to Conquest's hour,
Castile's old War-Soul woke in power!—
In every Spaniard's veins might seem,
While lightening swept the impassioned stream,
The liquid flame of Xeres' vine,—
Heart-scorched by suns,—that shroudless shine!—
So gloriously their way they took—
Nor once that victor's path forsook—
They swept along—or dauntless stood—
In the ecstasy of Valour's mood—
Like some tossed wood, in stormy strife,—
Shedding about thick Leaves of Life!—
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