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. |
| VII. |
| VIII. | CANTO VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
294
CANTO VIII.
I.
Evening's o'erspreading mantle dunHath quenched the last signs of the sun,—
Those signs he leaves behind awhile,
When veiled is his monarchic smile;—
War's wild and deadly tumults cease,—
'Tis silence—shadow—all, and peace!—
World-Wakener!—Man of dread-armed Power!—
How passed with thee, the softened hour?—
Paused not his wild impatient mood,—
Lulled not his fiery Storm of Blood,—
The Strife might stand—the Shock might cease,—
For him there comes no Pause of Peace!—
The Fight is checked without—within
It doth but deadlier triumph win!—
No peace can be his bosom's guest,
No rapture of repose and rest!—
What seemed his Hundred-Empired Pride,—
Millions embattailled at his side,
Command—Sway—Mastery—far and wide,—
And Conquest's yet unbroken tide,—
In the Hour to feverish Hope allied?—
295
He might uprear—yet undepressed
Red Glory's meteored mountain-crest!—
Wear Ermined Empire's jewelled vest,—
See monarchs kneel for his behest,
His foot 'gainst their crowned foreheads pressed!—
And seem The Chosen—and The Blessed—
No peace—no bliss—his thoughts possessed,—
In billowy tides they roll!—
What hath he—in this troublous hour,
While wages every thought in power—
War,—hopeless of controul!—
What hath he?—Greatest of the Great!—
Girt with unprecedented state,—
With Triumphs yet unmatched—elate!—
Boasting dread attributes,—as Fate,
Should minioned to his mandates wait,—
Nothing!—if not the whole!—
What hast thou?—Lord of the outstretched Zones!—
Conqueror of Earth's Time-stablished Ones!—
Thou—of the thousand thundering Thrones,
Whose name shakes Heaven, with whirlwind tones—
Who hold'st half Earth in thrall?—
Answer!—thou Wild Chaotic Mind!—
Thus rent and raging—wrung and blind,—
Answer!—What hast thou?—feel and find!—
Nothing!—since yet not all!—
II.
The Emperor was encamped that nightBehind Italia's host of might!
296
The Old Guard's thick-serried squares remain!—
Ere long the enkindled flames shew bright
Spread o'er the emblackened brow of Night!—
The opposing Russian Troops appear
'Camped on vast Amphitheatre,
Where blaze ten thousand watchfires fair,—
Still clearly glows with steadfast glare
The enormous Semicircle there!—
For such the shape in which these fires
Were spread—with their innumerous spires!—
On the other hand, those flames that played
Where Gallia's wearied ranks were laid,
Shewed feeble,—faint,—irregular;—
Each like some cloud-o'ertaken star!—
Irregular,—and faint,—and few,—
Wavering, and weak, and wan of hue!—
Late—and in haste—on the unknown ground
Arriving—all things strange around,—
Scant means, there—the outworn troops had found!—
The appliances were slight and spare,
That served their sore-grudged comforts there!—
Deepeneth the Night—and sudden now
'Gan lower her stern, portentous brow;
Tempest and Terror ravening fly,
Till Air is one wide Anarchy!—
III.
Through the old black woods the wild winds go,The roaring pines rock to and fro,—
297
Rehearsing desperate shows of strife!—
Wild goblin groans they seem to send,—
As those fierce blasts their pathways rend
Through the awe-struck trees—that shadowy crowd—
Now groans,—now bellowing shouts,—and loud!—
These earthwards bend their ruffled brows,—
The Blackness stirs in all the boughs,
The Darkness leaps, alive with all
The Uproar that shakes his shadowy Pall!—
The sounds of Storm—and sounds of Night,—
Loud as some army's March or Flight,—
Make all the wild and restless Time
Seem even immortal and sublime!—
Hath not the Wind a kingly tone,
As from the old buried ages flown?—
Doth not its Voice seem chiming out,
With strange unearthly deafening shout,—
The Mysteries of the Lost—the Past,—
That give such sound and sign at last?—
As Death were stirring in his shroud,
Uplifting the icy head long bowed,
And with a hollow, rolling cry,
Dirging out dimly, “Here am I!”—
IV.
Yes!—seems, while echoeth far and deep,The clamour of the wind's wild sweep;—
The Old Time recalled—to rise and reign—
And live—and breathe—and move again!
298
As though it reigned immortally!
Sound on! thou many-languaged blast—
And tell us of the Unperished Past!
Tell,—where it waiteth dim and pale,
To give yet in, its wond'rous tale!—
Sound on!—and tell us of the Lost,
Of many a buried Conqueror's host!—
Of the ancient martyrdoms and chains—
Of King-like Slaveries—Slave-like Reigns!—
Of the exultations—the agonies—
The strifes—the old deeds—that shook the skies!
Shake them again—Oh! blast of Night!
While thou repeatest them thus aright!
Search the air-stored archives of the Past,
And drive them through our souls—Thou Blast!—
V.
The storm-tossed Pines rage on and roar,—Like huge waves dashed on rock-bound shore!
The Wind!—the Wind!—he hath a voice—
That well can mourn—despair—rejoice—
And hark!—a proud, triumphant thrill
Seems running through its changes still—
As though he bore some echo dim
Of the old Supreme Creation-Hymn!—
Which lingering loads the conscious air,
Till stirred up by his footsteps there!—
That Angel song—that wandering came—
Full of the Eternal Maker's name;
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Shall the Universe not understand?—
Not hear and know by whom 'twas wrought,—
And keep the knowledge-hints it caught?—
Till all the old Tablets of the Air
Are written with its memories fair!
The mighty-rushing Wind is heard!—
It saith all things without a word!—
It turns our Thoughts to Voices all—
They rise and speak—they thrill and call—
And sounding—sounding through our souls—
The billowy Tempest-Anthem rolls!—
The sounds of Storm—the sounds of Night—
They rise like Prophet-tones of Might;
And deep, disturbing mystery lies
In the Under-strain's profundities!—
What said they—Conqueror!—to thine ear—
On that stern night of gloom and fear?—
Say!—King of Myriads!—watching lone—
What heard'st Thou in their solemn tone?—
VI.
Formed round thy Tent—a faithful Band—Thy dauntless Warrior-Watchers stand!—
There—none may enter to molest,—
Who guards the Approaches of Thy Breast?—
Who watches the Avenues of Thought?—
A fearful train was surely brought—
To awe—and startle—and dismay—
Even Thee!—Oh!—Mightiest in thy Sway!—
300
Thy casqued and laurel-laden brow?—
Was something said unto thy soul,
That Conquest never could controul—
That all Earth's triumphs could not still,—
That taught the life-quick chords to thrill?—
Throned Arbiter of Wars!—didst bend
(Though robed in glory without end!—)
Before a Thousand Judges, joined
In mighty conclave, and combined?—
Those judges—who and what were they?—
The Conqueror's thoughts—that woke to sway,—
In strong and terrible array!—
Then!—Lord of myriads!—then—thy dreams
Rolled dark—like wintery-swollen streams,—
Strewn thick with wrecks—that heave and rise—
Deadly memorials to the skies!—
Thou Crowned One!—flushed with victories!—these
Were thine own dread remembrances!—
Remembrances—full thickly sown
Of Deeds once thine—made thee—Their Own!—
Wild Vision-Visits of the night,
Mastered Earth's Master in his might!—
Bound—chained—and as their prisoner made—
Whom not united worlds could aid!—
The Queller of the Kingdoms stood
In soul-antagonizing mood!—
That self-inquisitorious glance,
Could bind him in such trammelled Trance!
301
VII.
Not banded Nations in their pride,Were such now arming at his side—
Could save him from that Power of Powers,
The soul—that ruled through those strong hours!—
He feels that soul—which standeth forth—
And chides him—Tyrant of the Earth!—
He hears his Thoughts!—and like a child,
The Armed Titan owns those Teachers wild!—
Titan of thrones!—piled mountains-high!—
Towering and towering—'gainst the sky!—
For such!—Napoleon!—such thou art—
Man of the Victory-maddening heart!—
That still thyself liest grovelling low—
Because no soaring soul hast thou!—
The height of Pride—the height of Place—
Made guerdon of thy glorying Chase—
Still, liest thou at the Ladder's base!—
Earth-bound—Earth-grovelling—day by day,
And soldered down with Living Clay!—
Dominion would exalt Its head,—
In pride, on high,—austere and dread!—
But Selfishness can nothing trust,—
Save still she cling—even dust to dust!—
Shalt Thou,—high Titan!—to the sky,
For steps heave Thrones on Thrones on high!—
Nor mount thyself,—nor deign to use
The privilege thou dar'st abuse!—
302
Thou dar'st not rise up to be great!—
Afraid art thou of being free,
From foul Ambition's Tyranny!—
Afraid of mounting—soaring high—
Lest each loved dust-divinity—
The Idols of thy whole worship shew
Their very nothingness below!—
Still shadows of himself are they—
Ashes—and Earthliness—and Clay!
Pride—pomp—and vanity, and more,
Mortalities that cannot soar!—
VIII.
Therefore would he still house beneathWith These—and Changefulness,—and Death,—
With these,—where half concealed they dwell,
Shrouded in Earth's gloom deeply well,
Did he upspring from low desires—
And all Ambition's Worst inspires—
And from such Height, fling one pure ray,
Down on those pettier toys of sway,
Their Soullessness should melt away!—
And he—reproved—his choice, should know
Had been The Little and The Low!—
Therefore he followeth ill his Fate—
Nor takes its holy hint,—“be great!”—
Still grasping the outward Forms and Shows—
Still gaining, thus—alone to lose!—
Best loving all the Vain—the Vile—
And turning from The True—the while!—
303
He lifts the crown—but bows the head!—
And shewn the guerdon—shewn the goal—
He builds the throne—to bend the Soul!—
IX.
The heavy night is almost past—But still her shroud round all is cast—
The fir-trees creak, and toss, and groan,
Heaved on their boughs doth quake thy throne,
Old Darkness!—desolate—and lone—
While charioted thou seem'st to go,
Where howling maniac storm-winds blow
Their clanging trumpets, fast and free,
Loud as Heaven's Angel Alchemy,
When her bright ranks armed—winged—and crowned—
Wake with sunned lips the upstartling sound!—
The heavy Night is almost done,
But comes a Morn without a Sun—
The rain beats down into the gloom,
Which, like a wild-lashed Deep, doth boom,
And rolls—as 'twere a mighty Cloud,
With death, and doubt, and terror bowed,
Weep it away!—Ye rains!—that fall
Like tears from eyes angelical—
Dropping adown from light on high—
The living fountains of the sky—
Not from a cloud sent rushing fast—
Seem'st thou—to pour through air aghast—
Oh!—Rain!—on earth's cold forehead cast—
304
In one portentous Gloom—at last!—
No!—wilder pours the hissing rain—
No Heavenly tears for Earthly pain!—
For all the horrors that are near,
Gathering the mysteries of their fear!—
The arrowy rain drives o'er its path—
And adds but furious wrath to wrath!—
X.
At last the storm hath died away,Slow come the footsteps of the Day.
Yellow September seeth shine
Her Sixth Morn o'er the horizon's line;
Up rise the soldiers, wan and cold,
The midnight storm so sternly rolled,
Their bivouack fires of cheering light,
Well-nigh extinguished in the night.—
Up rose they—cold and wan—but yet
Full soon their sufferings they forget,
When smiles before each anxious eye
The gracious morning in the sky!—
Napoleon,—roused with the earliest dawn,
From harbouring tents, hath pleased, withdrawn—
From Heights to Heights his way he took,
Far gazing round, with searching look,
Along the whole stern front of Pride
Of Russia's Armies, vast and wide!—
305
XI.
O'er many an Eminence's head,—In mightiest Semicircle spread,
Those hostile forces of the foe—
Covering full two fair leagues I trow—
From the Moskowa continuous went,
Imposing in this wide extent,—
To the old highroad that led—proud thought!—
Toward Moscow—long desired—and sought!—
Bordered the Kologha their Right—
From where that river checked its flight
In Moskowa's stream—to where beyond—
Bleak Borodino's huts were conned;—
Their Centre,—that from Gorcka led,
To Semmonowska's hamlet spread,—
The salient part of all their line
Appeared—by many a certain sign!—
Their Left and Right—the Emperor's eye
Observed—receded visibly—
Rendered the Kologha their Right
Approachless to the hostile might!—
Far off—and skreened from all access—
This threatened little—promised less!—
XII.
A sharp projection meets his view—More neighbouring—and more dangerous too—
And this his glance hath told him true—
306
Withal a deep ravine doth bound,
War's threatening Terrors cloathed its peak,
Stern-lowering from those summits bleak,—
From Gorcka—'tis then—and from Thence—
For him, doth Russia's Host commence!—
The point of its steep height revealed,
O'er-looked old Borodino's Field,
Strongly entrenched—its lofty crest
Defiance and Defence expressed!—
(On leaving Borodino—there
Upclimbed the highroad—broad and fair—)
A separate work upon the right,
Of Russia's centre to the sight,
This bulwarked point appeared to be—
Of this, too,—'twas the extremity—
Rose a detached Hill on its left—
And not of Mighty Works bereft—
Commanded this, the whole wide plain,
Right strong to menace and maintain!—
A dread redoubt austerely crowned
That bold and elevated ground—
There threateningly the cannons frowned!—
XIII.
In front, and on its right, anear,The murmuring Kologha flowed clear;
Its left inclined, where the eye descried
A table-land—full long and wide,—
307
That frowning—stretched along the scene;
Out-branching from the nobler stream
This miry, marshy hollow came!
The crest of that high land—thick-lined
With Foes—receded and declined,
And lowered as towards the left it ran
In the great army's threatening van!—
There gradually it rose,—even where
Thick clouds of smoke obscured the air,
From Semmonowska's cabinned Fold,
Whose ruined heaps not yet grew cold!—
'Twas this conspicuous point of land
That finished Barclay's broad command!
The Russians' centre, too, ceased there,—
A Battery strong and stern it bare;
By deep entrenchments 'twas secured,—
Well was the post fenced—skreened—assured!—
The left wing of the Russians spread
From thence—by brave Bagration led!—
The less exalted ground—that day
It occupied—sloped soft away
Receding smoothly—more and more—
(By those thronged troops thus covered o'er—)
In gradual undulations still,—
A long declining wave of hill,
Towards where Utitza's hamlet stood,—
Ere sank in flames its sheds of wood;
Just on the Old Moscow road 't was placed,
And there the Field of Battle ceased!—
308
XIV.
Armed with redoubts, two hills arose,Strong for protection of the foes;
Well marking out Bagration's front,—
Mighty to brook the Battle's brunt!
These hills diagonally bore
Upon the entrenchments—that before
Well-guarded Semmonowska frowned—
Which flanked them,—strengthening much their ground—
From Semmonowska to the wood,
That near Utitza's ruins stood,
An interval appeared to the eye
Of some twelve hundred paces nigh:
The waverings of the ground compelled
The disposition thus beheld;—
To suit the shrewd Commander's views—
This Wing—compelled him—to refuse;—
While here commenced that broad Ravine,—
Whose muddy stream flowed thick, and green—
That, which beneath the centre seen
Of yon high table-land yawned deep,—
But here its banks shewed little steep;—
These sloped with mild declivity,—
And far those summits that might be
(As straight the experienced eye could see,—
Straight—straight the unslumbering sense could tell—)
For dread artillery suited well!—
XV.
Seemed most accessible this side!—Since the armed Redoubt late occupied
309
No more the approach its strength defied!—
Here, well Napoleon guessed, I trow,
Ends not the left wing of the Foe!
He knows behind yon Wood of Pine
Runs of the Old Moscow road, the line—
(That Wood which sweeps from this redoubt
Toward that—which seemeth to mark out
The end of the Russians' line of might,
Stretched wide before the Conqueror's sight,—)
The Old Road sweeps round—in full fair course,
The left wing of the Foeman's Force,
And passing on behind their host—
Not to his mental vision lost—
In front of Mojaisk pointing then
Joins the New Moscow track again,—
This, judged he, must be occupied—
By those who now his Powers defied!—
The Experienced Mind did well decide!—
Tutchkoff,—at the entrance of a wood,—
Athwart it with his warriors stood,—
Covered by two fair Heights was he,
Thick-bristling with Artillery!—
XVI.
Little of this still the Emperor deemed—O'er things of mightier weight he dreamed—
Of small account,—in sooth, it seemed;
Since, 'twixt the corps detached placed there,
(In gallant martial order fair—)
310
Perchance—six hundred fathoms clear!—
A covered ground withal—even so,—
Slight scathe should chance from this brave Foe!—
Should France not straight commence the fight,
By fast o'erpowering Tutchkoff's might—
They well might occupy it—pass,
'Twixt him and his collected mass,
And staunch Bagration's last redoubt,—
Scattering dismay and dread about!
Then take in flank the Foe's left wing,—
Still seemed this all a dubious thing!—
The Mighty Soldier's piercing eye
Sought vainly, farther on to pry;—
The advanced posts of the Russians still—
And dark deep woods—sore 'gainst his will
The approach he wished—forbade—and drew
A curtain dense before his view!
XVII.
Sheathed—sank the lightnings of his glance!—And closed was his recognisance!—
Exclaimed he as he passed from thence—
With earnest energy intense—
“It is The Right that must commence!—
Eugene shall be the pivot good!—
Then—favoured by yon sheltering wood,
Soon, as falls conquered by our Right,
Yon stern redoubt of threatening might—
This, instant to the left, must make
Its movement—Aye!—its course must take—
311
To march—and drive them rank by rank—
Thus sweep artillery,—foot and horse—
Sweep their whole Army's gathered force
Back on their Right without resource!—
Even where yon river rolls its course!”
The anticipated triumphs beam
From his keen eye with sunbright gleam;
This general plan sketched out—conceived—
From vast weight seemed his mind relieved!
To all details with this allied,
Strictly his thoughts their strengths applied!—
Commenced in the Hours, when day-beams flee
The approaching Night—raised fair and free—
Fast formed—fast finished—Batteries three
'Gainst yon Redoubts shall 'stablished be!—
Their left by two must straight be faced—
The third before their centre placed!
XVIII.
At day-dawn Poniatowski's host,—Sore 'minished 'twas by slain and lost!—
Shall by Smolensk's old road advance;
And turn the wood where resteth France
Her right wing—and the Muscovite
His left!—Even thus shall it aright—
Harrying the foe—flank Gallia's might!—
All shall await unmoved around
Of this first shock—the opening sound!—
312
The whole Artillery's Might shall burst!—
With stern—dread—all-o'erpowering sway,—
Tearing along its desperate way!—
While fast the astounding thunders play!—
Redoubts and Ranks—opposed in vain—
Riven—raked—and sundered shall remain!
Cleft—opened, all—for the onward course
Of France—and Her victorious Force!—
Davoust and Ney shall rush allied,
Far in those yawning gaps spread wide—
Junot, supporting these—with all
Westphalia sends to aid the Gaul!—
Murat too,—he—the unchecked—the free—
With his Resistless Cavalry!—
And last, Napoleon—dreaded name!—
With his choice troops of flame and fame!—
His glorious guards—that never bowed!—
Red Battle's pillared strength avowed!
Napoleon—shall triumphant come—
His Shadow—death!—his Presence—doom!—
XIX.
'Gainst those two strong redoubts displayed,Their first fierce efforts shall be made!—
These vanquished—they should pierce, elate—
And conquering, plunge, and penetrate,
Through all that hostile army straight!—
Which, thenceforth,—shattered—spent—half-crushed—
No more should strive—where triumph rushed!—
313
By fierce, resistless strength o'erborne—
Should lie uncovered to the Foe,
Well-nigh hemmed in—full soon brought low!
Still—as the Russians struck the sight,
In Masses of redoubled Might,
Thronged, on their centre and their right—
(Threatening the important road that leads
Toward Moscow—where Expectance treads!—
For Gaul's Grand Army the only line
Of operations deep and fine!—)
And as—in throwing boldly thus
Even his chief force adventurous—
Himself too,—on the Russians' left,—
(He yet might struggle wrung and reft!)—
The Kologha was placed between
Himself—and that proud Causeway's scene!—
The only path for his Retreat,
Should he yet learn to rue defeat!—
He purposed to augment at length,
The army of Italy's proud strength,
Which occupied this road—and willed
Davoust should two divisions yield—
To serve—with these brave forces joined—
With Grouchy's Cavalry combined!—
XX.
He frames still many a fresh device—Still start his schemes to forms precise!—
Shall one Division well suffice—
314
Joined with Ornano's troops of horse—
Bavaria's cavalry, withal,—
To cover his Left Flank—thus all
Is weighed with judgment critical—
Such were his plans—his views were such—
Now, the wished goal he seemed to touch!—
He lingered yet—once more to gaze
O'er that proud Battle-Scenery's maze—
From Borodino's Heights he took—
A last, long, keenly-searching look—
A final and a fresh survey—
Ere yet he back retraced his way!—
XXI.
His parting glance pierced far and wide—When sought Davoust the Monarch's side—
With the ardent look of hopeful cheer,
He prayed awhile the Emperor's ear,—
Implored him,—under his command—
To place a vast and mighty Band,—
With Poniatowski's force combined—
(Too weak, save thus, with others joined—
To shake their Foe—in strength enshrined!—)
Next day should these in motion see!—
Urged 'gainst that well-placed Enemy!—
The last faint shades of favouring night,
Should shroud their stealthy march from sight,
Withal, the wood,—that did support
The Foe's left wing, they thus should court—
315
To fence them from espial keen—)
Beyond which purposed he to pass,
With his o'erpowering warlike mass,—
Following the old road that leadeth straight,
Toward Moscow's walls of strength and state,—
Forth issuing from Smolensko's gate;—
Then by manœuvre swift, should he
Deploy in haste,—full suddenly,
His forty thousand French and Poles—
(Like the ocean, when uproused, it rolls—)
Full on the Flank,—and in the Rear—
Of that left wing—Amazement,—Fear,—
And Ruin,—scattering far and near!—
Strange fierce confusion—spreading wide—
The while attacked—and occupied—
By Gaul's Great Chief—and destined there
The general onset's shock to bear—
Should be the hostile Armies' Front—
Thus brooking the opening battle's brunt!—
Then scattering havoc dire about,
Despite resistance,—stern and stout,—
Fast from Redoubt unto Redoubt—
Reserve unto Reserve—should he
March on unchecked—triumphantly!—
Make all succumb along his way—
And seize the Acknowledged Victor's sway!—
Sweep all o'erpowered, from left to right,
In mad destruction—hopeless flight—
316
Mojaisk displays her turrets fair!—
And Victory's Tenfold Triumphs share!—
XXII.
So should the long-drawn strife be o'er—The battle thus should rage no more—
The Russian Powers—the Strife should be
Swallowed in one Vast Victory!—
Yea!—thus should set pale Russia's star,—
Fall—crushed beneath the Conqueror's car,
Her Hosts—Her Battle—and the War!—
That stroke should blast, and scatter far!—
XXIII.
One moment seemed Napoleon's faceThe tablet—where great thoughts their trace
Stamped deep—and sway dim-shadowing won—
Like Spots upon a living sun!—
Before the vision, then a veil,
Dropped coldly o'er those features pale,—
But in their Awful Paleness bright,
With Soul-Born mystery of all light!—
Answered he brief—“No!—no!—not thus!—
Too rash were this—too hazardous!”—
He said—for further word stayed not—
But turned abruptly from the spot!—
317
XXIV.
How calm is all—how hushed and still—O'er wood,—and plain,—and bulwarked hill!—
You hear the river's slumberous sound,
Soft chiming through that hush profound,
You hear the leaves—that scarcely play,—
Save where some light bird wings its way,
And gently flies from spray to spray,—
And starts to song—a short faint strain!—
They thrill—and then grow still again!—
The gracious quiet is so deep—
Seems Nature tranced in some sweet sleep,
And stirring but as Dreamers stir—
(As is't with them,—so is't with her!—)
When tenderest visions minister
To slumber's bliss of solemn calm,
And all is peace, and rest, and balm!—
Yes! Nature seemeth far and wide,
Breathless as One Beatified!—
Deluged and drunk with deep repose
To her profoundest heart that flows,—
And even as 'twere o'erborne—oppressed,
By the over-rapture of her rest!—
XXV.
An hour is this for Lovers' dreams!—To young De Courcy such it seems,
To Moscow now his thought he turns—
The expectancy within him burns!—
318
Chance, yet may bloom his flower of flowers,—
He minds full well, the Father said,
Ere yet from fallen Smolensk they fled;—
That Moscow—nurse of Russia's race
Of Princes—was their Native Place—
Moscow—the metropolitan!—
The blessed of Heaven—the loved of Man—
The crowning City of the Land—
Girt round with mastery and command—
The Queen enthroned 'mid tower and dome—
Old Moscow was their Hold and Home!—
XXVI.
Listen!—another sound is heard!—Is't of soft leaves and waters stirred?—
Continuously it seems to flow,
And less observed it spreadeth so,—
While fall unbroken on the ear,
(Which thus forgets to heed and hear!—)
Those echoed mutterings—far and near!—
Ever—that Other Sound is heard—
And is't of leaves and waters stirred?—
No!—Sullen o'er those Battle-Grounds
Brood Preparation's measured sounds!—
With no slight feuds—no partial strife—
That hour, of solemn mood, was rife—
No broils—no bickerings—came to break
The Pause those Two Grand Armies make—
The Peace—more deep—more touching far—
On the edge, and point, and brink of war!—
319
When all shall be decided!—done!—
Wherefore inflict,—ere this rise free,—
Wanton and wasteful injury?—
Wherefore anticipate that Hour,
So near—so dread—so full of power?—
Pluck not chance grains with curious hand,
When Harvest soon shall load the land!—
Shed not Fate's brackish drops around—
When comes—with conquering Strength and Sound,
Her whole Great Sea to mock its bound!—
Silent those mighty hosts remain
Thronged on the broad and Peaceful Plain,—
Peaceful—though all War's signs of wrath
Outspread along its breast it hath!—
XXVII.
Still seem those gathered Hosts!—as stillAs Nature, ere She start and thrill
To some great Giant Tempest's burst,
The fiercest—wildest—and the worst!
For chained down like a prisoned thing,
She waits till lashed by that strong wing!—
Then She that was One calm—so deep,
Her moving Worlds seemed fallen asleep,—
Or made but Silent Spheres of Death,
Unconscious all of Life or Breath!—
Grows all a Madness—a Despair,
On Earth disturbed—and anguished air!—
320
Her heart seems swinging to and fro;
Her trees rock—bend—now seen—now lost,—
As though ten thousand arms she tossed
In passionate phrenzy toward the skies,
And sought from her great roots to rise!
Her mountains—raked by rushing clouds,
Now snatch—now shift—pale-changing shrouds,—
Her Soul—her Life seems gasping there,
Dying through the agonizing Air;
You look to see Earth's fragments strown—
Spread far o'er space—rent—split—undone!—
Even so the Peace—before the Strife—
Languished along that World of Life—
Even so—when once the charm is done—
Shall Fury's worst o'erwhelm and stun!—
XXVIII.
Through the French army's ranks so still,Sudden there ran a hurrying thrill;
Yet Quiet still preserved her part—
It was a tumult of the Heart!
The Mind was moved—the Soul was stirred—
Such stir as is nor seen nor heard,—
Their Emperor's Proclamation 'twas
That then from heart to heart did pass!—
And thus the appeal—the all-powerful—ran,
Which made those hosts, as one strong man!—
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XXIX.
“Soldiers!—that Battle ye so longHave sought—with strenuous hope and strong—
That Battle now before ye see!—
Hangs on yourselves the Victory!—
We need it!—thus shall we be blest
With shelter—peace—abundance—rest!—
And all these blessings to enhance,
Bright hopes of prompt return to France!—
Act as at Austerlitz ye did!—
As Friedland's storms of strife amid!—
Behave as ye before behaved,
When near Witepsk the Foe ye braved!—
As at Smolensk—where, crushed and bowed,
The Hostile Powers—the unwarned and proud—
Full tremblingly your might avowed!—
So shall the last Posterity
The admirers of your valour be!
Nations shall celebrate your name,
And Generations sound your fame!—
All tongues, with thrilling tones, shall say—
Remembering this momentous day—
All tongues shall cry, ‘He too was there!—
He, too, claimed his immortal share
In that Great Battle, high and haught,
Beneath the old walls of Moscow fought!—
That Mighty Battle!—fought before
The old walls of Moscow's Pride—of yore!’”—
322
The Unconquered and the Invincible
Ere long with deathless deeds replied
To that appeal—felt far and wide!—
XXX.
Meanwhile in Russia's camps beholdA scene of sacred pomp unrolled!—
Napoleon there, himself could see
Some mighty movement spreading free;
But strange to him had surely been
The nearer view of that deep scene!—
The whole of Russia's army vast—
The United Host, from first to last—
Stood there,—drawn up and under arms,
Peace-rapt 'mid rugged War's alarms!—
He, who did that great host command,
Full in the midst then took his stand,
Surrounded close on every side
By hallowed pomp and martial pride!—
Then crowned Religion spread forth there
Her solemn ceremonials fair!
Her missioned ministers displayed
Her gracious rites—while thousands prayed!—
XXXI.
The Priests and the Archimandrites stood,Uproused to Inspiration's mood!
Their sweeping robes far glistening spread,
With strange magnificence and dread,
323
As with a gorgeous weight of light!
Loading with many a ponderous fold
(Blazoned and bathed with burning gold!—)
The illumined ground—the quivering air—
Such wond'rous splendours bickered there,—
Such jewelled sumptuousness of show
Set all that ground and air aglow!
Religion's high insignia all
Bearing,—they moved majestical!—
In proud procession, slow and long,
They passed before the reverent throng,
Then raised all the honoured symbols high—
Before each rapt enlightened eye—
Of that Religion—whose appeal
Now trebly fired the Patriot's zeal!—
Forth shone in clear conspicuous place
That holiest Image of all grace—
Smolensko's Patroness of yore,
Which sacrilegious hands forbore!—
For they averred when Havoc reigned—
When hideous siege Smolensk sustained,
This Image blessed, was unprophaned!—
Miraculously saved from those,
The accursed—and stained—and impious Foes!—
Those legions of unhallowed France
Then turned aside their godless glance—
And checked upon their furious path,
Their desecrating steps of wrath—
Where that high Holiness was seen
With bright and beatific mien!
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XXXII.
The assembled soldiery right wellHailed that Heaven-hallowed spectacle!
Their kindling eyes their thoughts attest—
Their firm lips—rigidly compressed—
The fluttering brow—the labouring breast—
The emotions of their minds confessed!
Lo!—the upraised countenances all,
On which the outglancing sunbeams fall—
Were brightened with the enthusiast Ray,
Which only from the soul can play!
And this—this keen Celestial Flame—
Made those mid-sunbeams cold and tame;—
Tame, dim, and pallid in compare—
It shone!—the Sun was shadow there!
As stars grow where he shines afar,—
The aroused soul beams—a crowning star!
The Russian Leader gladly saw
Their zeal—their ardour—and their awe;
And ere these cooled within the breast,
That marshalled concourse he addressed!
The enkindling hopes he fanned—inflamed—
Stirred the roused energies—the untamed;—
And lashed the awakened storm's wild might,
To fiercer sweep and nobler flight!
His words rushed forth to sway—convince—
With 'wildering earthquake-eloquence!
To their profoundest hearts they thrilled—
Their minds he moved as e'en he willed!
325
With the ardours of terrific thought!
Their deep souls woke with wond'rous power,
In that unutterable hour!—
And—stirred and roused with rage and scorn—
Rose—rose—as from their roots uptorn—
As wrenched apart—and upwards borne!—
Like loosened mountains heaved and hurled—
Self-heaped into a loftier World!—
Heightened and heaped—till towering near,
The arched Heavens—a new, more soaring sphere!—
Themselves up-piling—till they climb
Thus, to a prouder Earth sublime!—
Nay!—rather from Her entrails riven—
Even to another glorious Heaven!—
XXXIII.
And he had argument to make—Man's spirit to its centre shake!
A kingly argument and high,
To madden roused Mortality!
And well their lightning-thoughts he swayed—
And well unto their eyes pourtrayed
Their stern—dread—high Position there—
And urged them still to do and dare—
And prove (that thought was Life—Light—Air!)
Their Land's Deliverers from Despair!—
“Arm!—arm—Deliverers!—do the Deed!—
And serve your trusting Country's need!
326
Save from the chain that half enthralls;
For even the chain that dares to threat,
But visioned far and faintly yet—
Can gall with sore and wringing smart,
The proud, free Patriot's sentient heart!
Its very shadow is a sting,
That sharply stern—can wound and wring!
Up!—for your Living and your Dead!—
The air you breathe—the ground you tread!—
Your Fathers—slumbering in their Fame!—
For the unborn Bearers of your Name!
For all things fair and holy here,
All venerable things and dear!
For all things—strengthening Heart and Will,—
From an Hereafter holier still!—
For the honoured Memories that command
The reverence of the generous Land—
And more—the Hopes that kindle higher—
The immortal soul's own sacred fire!—
For tomb and fortress—tower and spire!—
Your Shrines—your Altars—Creed—and Laws—
Bind on the Armour of your Cause!
Brace on your towering Helm of Right—
Then—then, shall quail the Invaders' might—
Dazzled to death before your sight!—
XXXIV.
“Let Vengeance—virtuous Vengeance—steelYour hearts—where 'twere a crime to feel!—
327
Who—leagued with demons—stand your foes!
Let your sacked smouldering cities rise,
And dry the pity from your eyes!
Your fields blood-bathed—with ruin fraught—
Frown back all mercy from your thought!
Strike!—Russia calls on every son!—
Strike!—for her Clime—her Shrine—her Throne!—
Strike!—let the World your triumph see!—
Strike!—those who may survive shall be
On Earth even—(high, and brave, and free!)
Crowned with their Immortality!
All the Immortality sublime—
Of Fame—that leaveth no more Time!—
And those who die shall be deplored—
And in their Country's heart adored!”
Nor failed he deeply to excite
Their startling Indignation's might!—
Their wrath—their horror—while he spoke—
In tones that hoarse and burthened broke
From Grief's full breast—of the Image high
Witness 'gainst Gaul's impiety!
That which had now ta'en refuge blest,
With them—and there set up its rest!—
The French their altars had o'erthrown—
Had left them helpless, lowered, and lone;
Blood-stained and reeking to the skies—
Made foul with human sacrifice!—
They had exposed Heaven's mysteries too—
E'en the Everlasting and the True—
328
Shadowed and represented there!—)
To all the inclement airs—the wrath
Of changeful seasons in their path
Of wild uncertainty and gloom,—
Torn from the high—the hallowed dome!—
Withal, to Man's rude general gaze—
Unsoothed by Piety and Praise!
XXXV.
And he—the dread Terrific Form—Troubling the chastened World with storm;
And round it writhed—as writhes the worm—
(In the agonies of wicked will—
The Suffering-maker—suffering still!)—
Sent all her evil to repay,
And on her vitals deep to prey—
With hideous heinousness of hate,
He comes to crush—to immolate!—
And he had crushed—had ruined—wrung—
Too much—too well—and scourged, and stung!—
“But, Russians!—to the rescue!—arm!
And save old Russia's heart from harm!”
XXXVI.
These exhortations—this address—This pomp of princely sumptuousness—
The inspiring words their captains all
Spoke proudly forth to charm—and thrall!—
Their death-deep hatred of the Gaul—
329
They felt—they fevered to the appeal!
Their Priests' grave benedictions—showered,
With warmth that touched—disturbed—o'erpowered—
Ennobled every thrill they felt—
Even while they softening seemed to melt!—
Their Priests—those venerable men—
Much moved with strong emotions then—
Poured forth their voices deep in prayer,
With inspiration's solemn air—
All seemed one consecration round—
The breezeless air—the peaceful ground!—
Earth seemed one Heaven-roofed temple made,
Their service and their rites to aid!
XXXVII.
It was a touching sight shewn there—A banded nation rapt in Prayer!—
An armed World—bowed—o'erwhelmed—subdued—
To Adoration's breathless mood!—
Like Patriarchs old those Priests appeared,
With flowing hair—with snow-white beard,—
While wond'rous and unearthly all
Shewed that strange scene majestical—
In beatific splendours bathed—
Since all in gold and purple swathed
The Princely Archimandrites swept,
Where girt with dignity they stepped,—
Well the old Greeks' pomp of show they kept!—
330
Religion's high Regalia still!—
All the antique habits they retained—
Long in the people's love engrained—
With all their pomps—unchanged—unwaned!—
While, cumbered with that ponderous state,
They scarce might brook its crushing weight!—
They moved in jewel-blazoned gold,—
Gem-crusted thick, their draperies' fold
Shewed the magnificence of old!—
That sacerdotal rich array—
That proud pontifical display—
Heavenly and princely pageantry—
Raised every thought—chained every eye!—
(Beyond Regalities seemed these
High apostolic dignities!—)
Lifting from earth, and clay's dull bound,
The rapt spectators glorying round;
And heightening their high feelings all
To fervent pitch fanatical!—
XXXVIII.
Nor be such flights of rapture blamed—All roused—shook—tempested—inflamed—
Those heaving bosoms into strife—
Maddening to even a storm of life!—
Their Country's danger,—and the doom
That threatened All, should they, o'ercome
Upon the dark and desperate field,
To their abhorred opponents yield!—
331
That day respired no common air,
But deemed himself commissioned—sent—
In Heaven's dread hand an instrument!—
For glad deliverance of the Land
From those who came—with scourge and brand,
To waste and blast—to grind and wring—
To stab all Earth—Heaven's self to sting!—
And they were called—high watch and ward—
The Lord's Eternal Ark to guard!—
From godless foes—that rack and rend—
Religion's Peace-shrines to defend!—
Aye, Heaven itself, those sons of spoil
Seemed threatening in that sacred soil—
But let the Wronged and the Injured stand
To watch the shrine—and fence the Land!—
And who their most august allies?—
Who but all the Armies of the Skies!—
Invoked they then the aid sublime—
Above all earth—beyond all time—
Of dread Saint Michael's awful Sword,
Wreathed round with Victories of the Lord!—
In the unloosed zodiack bauldrick slung,
(Once o'er his sacred shoulders flung,—)
High 'midst a pomp of meteors hung!—
Before the praiseful eyes of all—
Who best the Day of Days recall—
It gleams intolerably bright,
A fountain of celestial light,—
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Blazed 'midst ten thousand victor-helms!—
(Like glorious metal-mountains reared—
Remembrancers—by all revered!—
Mountains of glorious metal piled
In triumph there—unstained—unspoiled—
Shine those proud Helms of The Undefiled!—)
In those bright realms it hangs displayed,
Of which 'twas once the Saviour made—
The Eternal Sword—hangs firm and fast
O'er myriad blazoned banners vast—
Recalling still That Victory past!—
Banners from those foul Rebels riven,
Who dared to brave the King of Heaven!—
(Thick-meteored Firmaments—half furled—
Each like the glory of a world!)—
And Pyramids of kingless Thrones,
Once filled by the ever-vanquished Ones!—
XXXIX.
The croziered churchmen gathered now,Before the Throne of Thrones to bow,
Thus claimed with strenuous zeal—and prayed
Saint Michael's sword—Saint Michael's aid!—
Implored the help of all that move,
Conquerors for evermore above!—
The angels and all the archangels crowned!—
All Heaven's throned companies renowned,
333
(Glistering insufferably bright)
Cloathed—beautiful with joy and might!—
For aye with mastery and command—
And Conquest grasped in each strong hand!—
The Eternal Sabaoth up in arms,
Mightiest to guard 'gainst mortal harms!
The hosts and hierarchies of Heaven—
To whom the victory's strength is given—
The embattailled powers—that vanquished Sin—
Of Cherubin, and Seraphin!—
XL.
These—these implored they, deeply stillTo guard their Land from threatened ill—
And Lo!—strange sight!—the men of steel—
The assembled Hosts—they kneel!—they kneel!—
And where thus sank armed thousands round,
As with some earth-shock quaked the ground!—
Each strengthened arm shall wave, ere long,
An hundred hundred thousand strong!—
That Kneeling Army shall arise
Inspired by yon still-listening skies—
O'ershadowed by the Almighty wings—
More glorious than a Host of Kings!—
More glorious on the Battle-day
Than armaments of Kings, shall they
Stand forth in Heaven-approved array!—
Magnificently marshalled there—
To strike—to charge—to do and dare!—
334
Do all but pardon—all but save!—
In might—to chasten, and assail—
Aye!—teach those Hosts of Hate to quail—
Do all things but Forgive—or Fail!—
And though that Victory's wreath was lost—
Unvanquished towered the unblenching Host!—
Still strong,—Disaster's front to meet—
Thrice glorious Conquerors of Defeat!—
XLI.
The Priests that thronged assembling there,To strive in the awfulness of prayer,
And all grouped round them—thrilled and taught,
To join with full responsive thought—
Hailed, praised, and worshipped, knelt and prayed,—
Till they might need not such proud aid!—
Since the Most Highest deigns to shed,
Dread strength from Strength's bright Fountain-head,—
Himself inspires—Himself uplifts—
And scatters Power's unearthly gifts—
And bids the Champions of the Right,
Be dowered with deep and deepening might—
Until the heart, alive with prayer,
Quick with its felt Creator there,
Itself—(sufficient be such aid!—)
A whole Celestial Host is made!—
END OF CANTO VIII.
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