 | Erato, number II |  |
5
THE CONQUEROR,
A VISION.
I.
How, with the texture of our very brain,
The history is wov'n
Of Greatness, and its fate!
Thought, in the hour of unrepose,
So rambles in the grave-yard of great deeds,
Among the dark and leaning stones,
Copying upon the mind
The records written there,
That Sleep but forms a world, where o'er again
Greatness enacts the god, or plays the fool.
The history is wov'n
Of Greatness, and its fate!
Thought, in the hour of unrepose,
So rambles in the grave-yard of great deeds,
Among the dark and leaning stones,
Copying upon the mind
The records written there,
That Sleep but forms a world, where o'er again
Greatness enacts the god, or plays the fool.
In a large library of various books,
Where the gilt trifle of our tinsel age
Contrasted strangely with the folio huge,
Whose venerable back was dark with eld,
And bending with its weight,—I had, all day,
Been brushing off the dust, that months and years
Of undisturbed repose, had gathered thick
On many a curious work; and glancing through
Neglected volume after volume, charged
My mind with food for years of after thought.
The heroes of the times of holy writ,
And seers and sages of those ancient days;
The poets, orators, historians,
And wise philosophers of olden Greece,
And haughty and imperial Rome; and those
Of this our late but not degenerate day;
Were ransack'd, in that mood we sometimes feel
For opening, helter-skelter, many books,
To gather bits of knowledge here-and-there.
Where the gilt trifle of our tinsel age
Contrasted strangely with the folio huge,
Whose venerable back was dark with eld,
And bending with its weight,—I had, all day,
Been brushing off the dust, that months and years
Of undisturbed repose, had gathered thick
On many a curious work; and glancing through
Neglected volume after volume, charged
My mind with food for years of after thought.
The heroes of the times of holy writ,
And seers and sages of those ancient days;
The poets, orators, historians,
And wise philosophers of olden Greece,
6
Of this our late but not degenerate day;
Were ransack'd, in that mood we sometimes feel
For opening, helter-skelter, many books,
To gather bits of knowledge here-and-there.
The Life had just been published of a man
Whose dazzling genius had amazed the world;
But whose ambition him had led astray,
Until the world revolted at his crimes.
I took it to my room; and midnight came,
And found me poring o'er its pages still.
An hour, and then another, pass'd; and then
A generous gust of the delicious wind
Of June, came through an unseen broken pane,
And quench'd the midnight taper. Feverish,
And worn, upon the cool and open book
I laid my cheek; and soon was fast asleep.
Strange visions crowded on my fancy; strange,
And awful some of them: And this is one.
What an infinity of space, and time,
The mind will travel in an hour of sleep!
Whose dazzling genius had amazed the world;
But whose ambition him had led astray,
Until the world revolted at his crimes.
I took it to my room; and midnight came,
And found me poring o'er its pages still.
An hour, and then another, pass'd; and then
A generous gust of the delicious wind
Of June, came through an unseen broken pane,
And quench'd the midnight taper. Feverish,
And worn, upon the cool and open book
I laid my cheek; and soon was fast asleep.
Strange visions crowded on my fancy; strange,
And awful some of them: And this is one.
What an infinity of space, and time,
The mind will travel in an hour of sleep!
II.
Methought an empire, old,And vast, and populous,
Was, on a sudden, of its king deprived;
And busy Faction, stalking o'er the land,
Shouted that a new age had come, and now
New forms of government, new men, new laws,
Must supersede the old. His trumpet-tongue
Soon call'd the peasant from his healthful plough:
The laborer dropp'd his hod; the artisan
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And lords, and rights divine, and liberty,
Republics, and elections; and so on:
Ambition, Ignorance, and Craft, were loud
In praising these, and in condemning those.
All talk'd, some argued, but few understood.
Day after day, and week pass'd after week:
Men hurried through the streets, scarce knowing why,
Or where their steps were bent; neglecting quite
Their business, and in large and anxious groups
Gathering, and talking of—they scarce knew what.
But Faction's clamorous tongue was never still;
And Anarchy, with wild and callous step,
Was trampling ancient usages, and laws,
And well-tried institutions, to the earth.
Carnage and Blood appeared upon the stage,
And universal Chaos closed the scene.
III.
Soon the strange vision changed.And one with dazzling powers,
—A bright creation of th' events and times—
Midst the confusion dire, arose
The great disorder to adjust.
The elements were separated soon;
And then,
Upon a model different from the old,
New institutions framed. And Liberty,
—A dangerous word when wrongly understood—
Was shouted through the land, and blazon'd high
Upon their banners; but the characters
Were traced with human blood! He who had ris'n
In beauty from the wild disorder, moved
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Deep penetration throned upon his brow,
And strong determination on his lip.
Riding upon the tide of great events,
He rose superior to the current's force;
And digging channels where he listed, said,
‘This way!’—and it was so. Achilles-like,
He moved amidst destruction without harm,
Seeming impregnable. Gray-headed men,
Whose prime of manhood had been spent in war,
Gazed on the brilliant pathway that he trod,
And thought, in wonder mute, of Monte Notte,
Mondovi, Mellessimo, and the Bridge
Of Lodi—and gave admiration tongue.
IV.
Again the vision changed.The chivalry and strength of Gaul
Were ravaging the ancient shores of Nile;
Their objects doubtful, but their conquests great.
The crumbling walls of Egypt's hoary towns
Were level'd; the old mosques were trod by feet
Unholy, and profaned; the female face,
Whose beauty in that clime is ever veil'd
At the approach of man, was rashly bared
To the coarse gaze of a lascivious eye;
And beauty's shrinking form was roughly clasp'd
In the unhallowed arms of lechery.
Thus was the ancient land of Pharao,
And Ptolemy, abased: Its cities sack'd;
Profan'd its churches, and its virtue forced;
Its scorch'd plains fertilized with human blood,
And dotted here and there, with human bones
Heap'd up like pyramids! And he, who late
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In Italy the bright, led on this host.
Him had they followed o'er the trackless sea;
And him they followed now—a tarnish'd star—
Yet still they faltered not; but clung to him
With that strong faithfulness Abaddon knew
From his fallen myriads. And he led them on,
O'er burning sands, where pestilent air, and heat,
Poison'd their life-blood; them inspiring oft
With that surprising strength which bore him up,
By sharing their privations and their toils.
He led them on, through the primeval world,
Victorious everywhere. The pyramids,
—Eternal relics of Egyptia's glory—
Before them rose, sublime. And in the dark
And secret chamber of her kings, inurn'd
Thousands of years before, the Conqueror stood,
Renounc'd the Christ, and tongued the Moslem creed.
He led them on—and paused upon the plain,
By the Red Sea, which spread in awfulness
Where God in justice smote Gomorrah down,
And Sodom,—sinful cities of old time.
He led them on—and by the holy well
Of Moses paused, and on Mount Sinai;
And, fearless, risqued his life upon the sands
That had engulph'd the multitudinous hosts
With which th' Egyptian sought to force again
The Hebrews into bondage. And he came
To Gaza, city of the Philistines,
And Joppa,—and they fell at his approach.
And, oh! what racking thoughts must have been his,
When into Nazareth his cohorts pour'd—
Nazareth!—a name so hallowed in the land
Of old Judea—so associated
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Whom he had late renounced! What scorpion thoughts!
V.
Again the vision changed.But on my sight an indistinctness pass'd,
And objects were less palpable.
Methought I saw
—But indistinctly—an ambitious spirit,
Gazing, with well feign'd earnestness, upon
A statue of the goddess Liberty;
And swearing, while his right hand grasp'd his sword,
To use it in her cause: but then—e'en then—
His left was reaching for a Bourbon crown,
Which he could almost seize, but seem'd to fear
Detection of his base hypocrisy.
Then this same spirit, methought,
Appear'd a sable fiend,
Ambition hight:
Blood-red his arm;
Of feature horrible, and hateful shape,
But syren-tongued;
He, born in Heav'n when Lucifer rebell'd,
Thence banish'd, since existent upon earth:
A never-slumbering fiend;
Whose days are spent in butchering mankind,
And mounting to a gory eminence
Upon the heap'd up corpses of the slain;
Who drinks the scalding tears from widows' eyes,
And feasts amid the starving orphan's groans;
Whose nights are pass'd in some unknown recess,
With the world's chart before his greedy eyes,
Marking off lands to conquer!
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The vision grew again; and soon assumed
Man's features and proportions.—Then methought
I saw, 'mid glaciers and eternal snows,
Who late was reaching for a Bourbon crown,
Leading his chosen legions o'er the Alps—
Smiling, 'mid toils which overcame all else—
Cheering, and urging them with gentleness
Along the dangerous and dizzy height,
Where nothing living but the goatherd trod
Securely, and the chamois; where one foot,
If blindly placed, a hoary avalanche
Might loosen from its hold of years, and bring
Destruction upon hundreds. Watching then
While slept his hosts, their greatest labor done.
And then, quick mounting up the rocky height
Of Albaredo, point a forceful gun
Upon St. Bard, his squadrons to protect
In passing by this fortress of their foes;
Then cast himself upon the herbless rock,
And sleep, to dream of conquests, not of home!
And soon methought he sprang upon his feet,
As much refresh'd as though he had enjoy'd
A downy couch, and a whole night's repose:
And cheering onward his admiring bands,
St. Bard was taken, and Marengo won—
And Italy was his.—And soon again,
—So quickly dreams encompass time and space—
This master-spirit stood where he had pledg'd
His sword to Liberty. But now he fear'd
Detection less; and seized the glittering crown
With careless air, and tried the bauble on,
To see how it would suit his laurel'd brow.
None murmur'd, but none cheer'd him; and he fear'd
The time unripe, and put it off again.
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And fame was his, for which he long had toil'd;
Honors fell thick upon him; but his brow
Was gloomy; for the common fame of earth
Was valueless to him, without the pow'r
To wield the scepter, and to wear the crown.
Ambition urged him onward; and he cast
Dissimulation off, and seized once more
That crown, and fixed it firmly on his brow,
And sat in gloomy grandeur on the throne!
And then I recognized the Conqueror
Of Pharao's ancient land.
VI.
Again the vision changed.The emperors of Europe, and the kings,
Each trembling for his throne,
United, to depose the Conqueror,
And tear his ill-got diadem away.
Their legions pour'd into the field of war;
The Austrian Cesars, and Imperial Czars
Of Russia, counsel'd on the field of fight;
But he, whom they opposed, stood all alone—
Sublime in his great confidence and strength!
And ere ‘the sun of Austerlitz,’—which rose
Cloudless upon the serried hosts, the flow'r
And chivalry of three imperial crowns,—
Had set, the seeming ‘Man of Destiny’
Had Europe's haughtiest monarch at his feet.
And here he stood, and parcel'd kingdoms out;
And dukedoms gave, and principalities;
Made soldiers kings, and kings in exile sent;
And granted peace to Europe!—Dazzling height!
But there was yet a star he had not reach'd,
And even then his eye was fix'd upon it.
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VII.
Again the vision changed.
Where dwells the iron-sinewed Muscovite,
In the far, icy North,
The legions of the Conqueror pitch'd their tents,
And dared the bearded Russian to the field—
The Russian, scourge of Kosciusko's land.
The ancient spirit of the Pole was rous'd;
And Warsaw's nobles join'd the Gallic hosts,
To combat 'gainst the oppressor of their race.
The Conqueror led his hosts, thus multiplied,
To battle; and the brave and hardy Russ
Receiv'd the onset, nor recoil'd one pace.
Where dwells the iron-sinewed Muscovite,
In the far, icy North,
The legions of the Conqueror pitch'd their tents,
And dared the bearded Russian to the field—
The Russian, scourge of Kosciusko's land.
The ancient spirit of the Pole was rous'd;
And Warsaw's nobles join'd the Gallic hosts,
To combat 'gainst the oppressor of their race.
The Conqueror led his hosts, thus multiplied,
To battle; and the brave and hardy Russ
Receiv'd the onset, nor recoil'd one pace.
The meeting was as if the East and West
Should send two hurricanes o'er the teeming earth—
Two hurricanes, charg'd with woe;
Furious they rush along,
Leaving destruction in their wake—
Dashing the scared and panting birds to earth;
Fright'ning the prowling panther from his prey;
And to their dens,
The rocky caverns of the mountainous land,
Driving the wildered beasts,
With terror almost overcome;
And striking man
With awe profound;
Then in some desert vast
They come together, sudden, furious,
Each from opposing points, of equal force!
Their roar of terror fills the ambient air—
Their roar of terror shakes the cavern'd earth—
The dreadful clashing of th' uprooted trees,
That interlock their branches, and ascend
In spiral columns to the dusky sky,
Howls loudly through the subterranean earth,
And by its dismal dens is bellowed back.
A furious moment pass'd, on the scathed earth,
Rent, and in terrible disorder piled,
Lies the tall forest's pride,
In desolation low,
To scorch and wither in the noonday sun!
Should send two hurricanes o'er the teeming earth—
Two hurricanes, charg'd with woe;
Furious they rush along,
Leaving destruction in their wake—
Dashing the scared and panting birds to earth;
Fright'ning the prowling panther from his prey;
And to their dens,
The rocky caverns of the mountainous land,
Driving the wildered beasts,
With terror almost overcome;
And striking man
With awe profound;
Then in some desert vast
They come together, sudden, furious,
Each from opposing points, of equal force!
Their roar of terror fills the ambient air—
Their roar of terror shakes the cavern'd earth—
The dreadful clashing of th' uprooted trees,
14
In spiral columns to the dusky sky,
Howls loudly through the subterranean earth,
And by its dismal dens is bellowed back.
A furious moment pass'd, on the scathed earth,
Rent, and in terrible disorder piled,
Lies the tall forest's pride,
In desolation low,
To scorch and wither in the noonday sun!
In such destructive fury met those hosts;
Thousands on either side were mown to earth;
And other thousands, rushing o'er the dead,
Fell as the first—hew'd down—corpse piled on corpse!
Thus fought they, from the dawn till close of day;
And when they ceased, each occupied the ground
As ere the strife began. And on the plain,
That lay between them, tens of thousands slept
The sleep eternal; other thousands pray'd,
And groan'd, and curs'd, unable to creep off,
And stretch'd their arms in agony severe,
Grasping the nearest corpse, and dying thus!
Victory belong'd to neither standard then,
Though claimed for both.—Time after time renew'd
Was the fierce contest; and the hosts of Gaul
Were laying waste the land, and thinning fast
Th' inferior numbers of the haughty Russ;
Until at length th' Imperial Autocrat
Ask'd peace, and granted terms which suited well
The ambitious spirit of the Conqueror.
Thousands on either side were mown to earth;
And other thousands, rushing o'er the dead,
Fell as the first—hew'd down—corpse piled on corpse!
Thus fought they, from the dawn till close of day;
And when they ceased, each occupied the ground
As ere the strife began. And on the plain,
That lay between them, tens of thousands slept
The sleep eternal; other thousands pray'd,
And groan'd, and curs'd, unable to creep off,
And stretch'd their arms in agony severe,
Grasping the nearest corpse, and dying thus!
Victory belong'd to neither standard then,
Though claimed for both.—Time after time renew'd
Was the fierce contest; and the hosts of Gaul
Were laying waste the land, and thinning fast
Th' inferior numbers of the haughty Russ;
Until at length th' Imperial Autocrat
Ask'd peace, and granted terms which suited well
The ambitious spirit of the Conqueror.
And now he stood upon the dazzling height
For which he long had labor'd. In his view,
The Gallic Eagle held the world in awe:
He deem'd the liberties of every land
Which would not do it homage, in his pow'r;
And took his seat upon his throne again,
In splendid loneliness—from all apart!
For which he long had labor'd. In his view,
The Gallic Eagle held the world in awe:
15
Which would not do it homage, in his pow'r;
And took his seat upon his throne again,
In splendid loneliness—from all apart!
VIII.
Again the vision changed.
Again the icy land
Of the old Czars, was trod by hostile feet—
Hostile—and numerous—
And deem'd invincible:
The legions of the Conqueror, by himself
Marshall'd again for fight.
But, ah! the Conqueror!
Long years of care, and unrepose of mind,
Corroding conscience, solitude of soul,
And grandeur unenjoy'd, have mark'd that brow.
He heedeth not the bauble crown it bears.
Fate, as he deems, hath higher things for him.
He lives not in the Present, nor the Past;
But hath a world, of magnitude extreme,
Peopled by his own burning thoughts alone,
Yet full!—And here he reads his destiny,
Traced by Ambition's finger, not by Truth's.
Again the icy land
Of the old Czars, was trod by hostile feet—
Hostile—and numerous—
And deem'd invincible:
The legions of the Conqueror, by himself
Marshall'd again for fight.
But, ah! the Conqueror!
Long years of care, and unrepose of mind,
Corroding conscience, solitude of soul,
And grandeur unenjoy'd, have mark'd that brow.
He heedeth not the bauble crown it bears.
Fate, as he deems, hath higher things for him.
He lives not in the Present, nor the Past;
But hath a world, of magnitude extreme,
Peopled by his own burning thoughts alone,
Yet full!—And here he reads his destiny,
Traced by Ambition's finger, not by Truth's.
On—on he rushes! From the darken'd sky
Shoots the red lightning; but his serried ranks
Flash from their bayonets the vivid blaze,
Against the murky clouds that rage above.
On—on he rushes! And at his approach
The scatter'd Cossacks fly, with terror struck.
On—on he rushes! Lithuania's plains
Are traversed, and its capital is his.
On—on he rushes! But the flames arise
From every hamlet now. The noble fires
His castle, and the vassal serf his hut;
And armed men are gathering thick and fast
Around old Moscow's venerated walls.
Shoots the red lightning; but his serried ranks
Flash from their bayonets the vivid blaze,
Against the murky clouds that rage above.
On—on he rushes! And at his approach
The scatter'd Cossacks fly, with terror struck.
On—on he rushes! Lithuania's plains
Are traversed, and its capital is his.
16
From every hamlet now. The noble fires
His castle, and the vassal serf his hut;
And armed men are gathering thick and fast
Around old Moscow's venerated walls.
On rush the legions of the Conqueror—
Potent—impetuous;—but like the surge
That rolls, with force tremendous, 'gainst the rock
Immovable which rises from the sea,
Were they receiv'd; and back recoil'd a pace,
In dire confusion: then to either side
Wheeling, the master-spirit form'd again
The solid phalanx; and with gathered force,
And desperate fury, shouting to the charge,
He rush'd upon a single point, and broke
The lines compact, and won the gory field.
Potent—impetuous;—but like the surge
That rolls, with force tremendous, 'gainst the rock
Immovable which rises from the sea,
Were they receiv'd; and back recoil'd a pace,
In dire confusion: then to either side
Wheeling, the master-spirit form'd again
The solid phalanx; and with gathered force,
And desperate fury, shouting to the charge,
He rush'd upon a single point, and broke
The lines compact, and won the gory field.
But naught of triumph smooths the Conqueror's brow:
Silent, and stern, and gloomy still, he walks
The gorgeous palaces of the old Czars.
—Aha! what mean yon brilliant lights, that rise,
Pillars of fire to Heav'n, on every hand!
Moscow in flames! fired by the patriot Russ,
With slow and secret trains.—He could not leave
His monument of art, ancient and lov'd—
The palace-halls of the old capital—
The temples of the olden time—the tombs
Of reverenc'd chiefs and sages—and the aisles
And altars of his faith—to be profaned
By ruthless soldiery.—Ha! now he starts,
The Conqueror, from his hermit-world of dreams:
“Scythians, indeed!”he mutters, and is still
Silent, and stern, and gloomy still, he walks
The gorgeous palaces of the old Czars.
—Aha! what mean yon brilliant lights, that rise,
Pillars of fire to Heav'n, on every hand!
Moscow in flames! fired by the patriot Russ,
With slow and secret trains.—He could not leave
His monument of art, ancient and lov'd—
The palace-halls of the old capital—
The temples of the olden time—the tombs
Of reverenc'd chiefs and sages—and the aisles
And altars of his faith—to be profaned
By ruthless soldiery.—Ha! now he starts,
The Conqueror, from his hermit-world of dreams:
“Scythians, indeed!”he mutters, and is still
17
IX.
Again the vision changed.
In a low hut,
Filthy, and fitted for the meanest boor,
Paced one with a stern look and knitted brow:
The Conqueror—but how palaced!—It is night:
And a dim taper's flickering light is cast
Upon his ghastly features. O, how bounds,
In its fierce tempest-seat, his aching heart!
How is his spirit humbled! and how swells
His bosom, with emotions terrible!
—Ha! uncommuning one! thy countenance,
Writhing in agony, reveals what tongue
Of thine would never tell. How readst thou now
The writing on the page of Destiny?
All-grasping spirit, does it bid thee on?
How rolls the tide, whose channels thou hast dug?
In a low hut,
Filthy, and fitted for the meanest boor,
Paced one with a stern look and knitted brow:
The Conqueror—but how palaced!—It is night:
And a dim taper's flickering light is cast
Upon his ghastly features. O, how bounds,
In its fierce tempest-seat, his aching heart!
How is his spirit humbled! and how swells
His bosom, with emotions terrible!
—Ha! uncommuning one! thy countenance,
Writhing in agony, reveals what tongue
Of thine would never tell. How readst thou now
The writing on the page of Destiny?
All-grasping spirit, does it bid thee on?
How rolls the tide, whose channels thou hast dug?
Oh, how I pitied him! as back and fore
He paced the filthy hovel; audibly
His bosom throbb'd the while; his neck was bare,
And swol'n; his lips were press'd together hard.
Sudden he now-and-then would seat himself
Upon a rough-hewn bench, and spread a chart;
And then his eye would wander here and there
With frightful speed and earnestness; and then
He'd dash the instrument upon the bench,
And bend his haggard gaze into that gulf
Which swallow'd all his thoughts; his face the while
Changed utterly, disfigured by despair.
Anon he'd sudden start upon his feet:
“What numbers have I, Duroc? Is all lost?
What! beaten by the Russian serf and slave!
No! by the Eagle that has cross'd the Alps,
Waved o'er the mighty pyramids of Nile,
Twice conquer'd Italy, and bent the proud
And haughty knee of Austria's emperor!
No! by the Eagle of Imperial France!
Murat! Davoust!—What come ye hither for?
Do your hearts fail ye? Hence till 'tis my will!”
And then with short and hurried step he'd pace
The floor again—and seize the chart, and press
His palms, with painful force, upon his hot
And aching temples.—And thus pass'd the night.
He paced the filthy hovel; audibly
His bosom throbb'd the while; his neck was bare,
And swol'n; his lips were press'd together hard.
Sudden he now-and-then would seat himself
Upon a rough-hewn bench, and spread a chart;
And then his eye would wander here and there
With frightful speed and earnestness; and then
He'd dash the instrument upon the bench,
And bend his haggard gaze into that gulf
Which swallow'd all his thoughts; his face the while
Changed utterly, disfigured by despair.
Anon he'd sudden start upon his feet:
“What numbers have I, Duroc? Is all lost?
What! beaten by the Russian serf and slave!
No! by the Eagle that has cross'd the Alps,
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Twice conquer'd Italy, and bent the proud
And haughty knee of Austria's emperor!
No! by the Eagle of Imperial France!
Murat! Davoust!—What come ye hither for?
Do your hearts fail ye? Hence till 'tis my will!”
And then with short and hurried step he'd pace
The floor again—and seize the chart, and press
His palms, with painful force, upon his hot
And aching temples.—And thus pass'd the night.
O, what an agony of soul was his!
Baffled, just in the moment of success;
Thwarted forever, just as he had reach'd
The pinnacle of pow'r, and raised his foot
To plant it firmly where his eye had long
Been fix'd, unblenching. Cold upon his heart,
Hopeless and lacerated, roll'd the tide
Of consciousness—freezing the springs of life—
Bearing away the cherish'd dreams
Of years of restlessness and strife—
Dreams which he long had nurst,
Hugging them to this heart;—
Cold swept that tide,
Marking the bound
That Destiny had fix'd for him—
And whispering,
That hence his march must be a retrograde.
O, how could his proud soul,
Whose eye had ever been upon the stars,
Reading what was not writ for common men,
Bear to retrace the steps by which it climbed
To such a dazzling eminence!
But, lo!
Baffled, just in the moment of success;
Thwarted forever, just as he had reach'd
The pinnacle of pow'r, and raised his foot
To plant it firmly where his eye had long
Been fix'd, unblenching. Cold upon his heart,
Hopeless and lacerated, roll'd the tide
Of consciousness—freezing the springs of life—
Bearing away the cherish'd dreams
Of years of restlessness and strife—
Dreams which he long had nurst,
Hugging them to this heart;—
Cold swept that tide,
Marking the bound
That Destiny had fix'd for him—
And whispering,
That hence his march must be a retrograde.
O, how could his proud soul,
Whose eye had ever been upon the stars,
Reading what was not writ for common men,
Bear to retrace the steps by which it climbed
To such a dazzling eminence!
But, lo!
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Day breaks upon the mountains; and the hosts
Of the stern Conqueror are rushing down
Upon the watchful foe. They meet—he strikes
Again for victory—but in despair,
And desperate hence; they for their trampled homes,
Nerved by necessity, and dawning hope.
Hard is the contest, man with man engaged.
—'Tis done! and fly the Conqueror's hosts at last!
But HE, a little way retired,
Casts but one look upon his routed ranks;
The next, like lightning, shoots
Down, down, into that dark abyss
By him created. Seated there, engulf'd,
He feels his iron throne
Beneath him shake, and fall;
And the rich bauble, lifted from his brow,
Borne far away beholds!
Then, crownless—throneless—he exclaims,
In that extremity of ill,
“ Lost! lost!” No more;
Man's eye is on him—and his face reveals
Naught of the inward, killing agony.
Of the stern Conqueror are rushing down
Upon the watchful foe. They meet—he strikes
Again for victory—but in despair,
And desperate hence; they for their trampled homes,
Nerved by necessity, and dawning hope.
Hard is the contest, man with man engaged.
—'Tis done! and fly the Conqueror's hosts at last!
But HE, a little way retired,
Casts but one look upon his routed ranks;
The next, like lightning, shoots
Down, down, into that dark abyss
By him created. Seated there, engulf'd,
He feels his iron throne
Beneath him shake, and fall;
And the rich bauble, lifted from his brow,
Borne far away beholds!
Then, crownless—throneless—he exclaims,
In that extremity of ill,
“ Lost! lost!” No more;
Man's eye is on him—and his face reveals
Naught of the inward, killing agony.
X.
Again the vision changed.
O'er mountains, clad in crusted snow,—
O'er dangerous streams, with treach'rous ice half-bridg'd;
Through half-frozen bogs, that broke
At every step, and peel'd
The numb flesh from the wet and shivering leg,
Laying bare the white and senseless bone,—
Labored the scattered wreck,
The meager fragments of the Conqueror's hosts.
The fierce and hardy foe pursued them close:
And Cossack bands forever scourged their rear,
Striking the worn and wearied to the earth.
And ever and anon, in the still night,
Broke threat'ningly upon their bivouac,
The Hetman's wild hurra!
And many, where they pitch'd their tents for rest,
O'ercome by hunger, and fatigue, and cold,
Lay down, and slept, and never woke again.
Thus driven, thousands perish. Thousands more,
Old veterans, reach the fatal stream, since call'd
The stream of myriad bones.
Hanging upon their rear, the Russian hordes
Harass, and capture, and fast thin their ranks.
—Now, crowded close upon the miry bank,
The hovering Cossacks, like a murky cloud
O'ercharged with lightning, pour their volleys forth;
And cannon, thickly planted on the heights,
Hurl down their thunderbolts.
O, execrations terrible—and prayers
From lips that know not how to fashion them—
Ascend to Heaven; but, ere done, the tongues
That shout them forth, are still'd in death forever.
Thousands now rush upon the treacherous ice;
Too weak, it breaks; and the engulfing stream
Becomes their sepulcher.
Thousands escape across the creaking bridge;
But, throng'd by thousands still behind, behold,
It bendeth with its weight of human woe!
Down, down it sinks!—Among the broken ice,
A momentary struggle of weak limbs—
A shudder—then an agonizing shriek,
That peals above the loud artillery,
And Cossack's wild hurra—
And they are buried in the swelling flood.
Those that escape the devastation, fly;
But Famine overtakes them. Some lie down,
And die—and their companions gorge their fill,
Ere cools the shriveled flesh, and fevered blood.
O'er mountains, clad in crusted snow,—
O'er dangerous streams, with treach'rous ice half-bridg'd;
Through half-frozen bogs, that broke
At every step, and peel'd
The numb flesh from the wet and shivering leg,
Laying bare the white and senseless bone,—
Labored the scattered wreck,
The meager fragments of the Conqueror's hosts.
The fierce and hardy foe pursued them close:
20
Striking the worn and wearied to the earth.
And ever and anon, in the still night,
Broke threat'ningly upon their bivouac,
The Hetman's wild hurra!
And many, where they pitch'd their tents for rest,
O'ercome by hunger, and fatigue, and cold,
Lay down, and slept, and never woke again.
Thus driven, thousands perish. Thousands more,
Old veterans, reach the fatal stream, since call'd
The stream of myriad bones.
Hanging upon their rear, the Russian hordes
Harass, and capture, and fast thin their ranks.
—Now, crowded close upon the miry bank,
The hovering Cossacks, like a murky cloud
O'ercharged with lightning, pour their volleys forth;
And cannon, thickly planted on the heights,
Hurl down their thunderbolts.
O, execrations terrible—and prayers
From lips that know not how to fashion them—
Ascend to Heaven; but, ere done, the tongues
That shout them forth, are still'd in death forever.
Thousands now rush upon the treacherous ice;
Too weak, it breaks; and the engulfing stream
Becomes their sepulcher.
Thousands escape across the creaking bridge;
But, throng'd by thousands still behind, behold,
It bendeth with its weight of human woe!
Down, down it sinks!—Among the broken ice,
A momentary struggle of weak limbs—
A shudder—then an agonizing shriek,
That peals above the loud artillery,
And Cossack's wild hurra—
And they are buried in the swelling flood.
21
But Famine overtakes them. Some lie down,
And die—and their companions gorge their fill,
Ere cools the shriveled flesh, and fevered blood.
Sickening, the Eye of Vision turn'd away—
But a dim recollection still remains,
Of the fall'n Conqueror banish'd to an isle
Which his proud spirit spurn'd, and he soon left,
And seized again the scepter and the crown;
And something, of a hard-fought field, where set
An Empire's star in blood,—
And the proud Eagle to the earth was dragg'd,
And maim'd forever.
But a dim recollection still remains,
Of the fall'n Conqueror banish'd to an isle
Which his proud spirit spurn'd, and he soon left,
And seized again the scepter and the crown;
And something, of a hard-fought field, where set
An Empire's star in blood,—
And the proud Eagle to the earth was dragg'd,
And maim'd forever.
XI.
Again the vision changed.
Dismal, and dark, a sterile isle
Rose from the desert Deep;
Unpeopled, cheerless, frowning, wild and bleak—
A wart on Ocean's bosom. And I thought,
Gazing on that excrescence without shape:
Whether, at the creation, when went forth
The mandate, that old Chaos should give place
To Order, and the earth to being sprang,
The dregs of the chaotic mass, which could
No form of beauty take, nor fashion'd be
To fertile soil, rich gem, or precious ore,
Were not, from every quarter of the earth,
So beautiful in that its younger day,
Gathered, and by the Hand Omnipotent
Sent quick careering through all space, till caught
In the lone bosom of the sea, cut off,
Hundreds of leagues on every side, from land;
Where they have ever been, a constant mark
For the fierce bolts of elemental strife.
Dismal, and dark, a sterile isle
Rose from the desert Deep;
Unpeopled, cheerless, frowning, wild and bleak—
A wart on Ocean's bosom. And I thought,
Gazing on that excrescence without shape:
Whether, at the creation, when went forth
The mandate, that old Chaos should give place
To Order, and the earth to being sprang,
The dregs of the chaotic mass, which could
No form of beauty take, nor fashion'd be
To fertile soil, rich gem, or precious ore,
Were not, from every quarter of the earth,
So beautiful in that its younger day,
Gathered, and by the Hand Omnipotent
Sent quick careering through all space, till caught
In the lone bosom of the sea, cut off,
22
Where they have ever been, a constant mark
For the fierce bolts of elemental strife.
Unpeopled? Not forever! What is that,
With the proud step and bearing of a god,
Moving upon the ocean isle? A man!
Ay, and a kingly one. How would that head
Become a crown! And that firm step, methinks,
Might fearlessly mount upward to a throne!
A smile! oh, such a one might millions win;
And what an eye to awe them! Nearer—ha!
Mem'ry—But what hath memory to do
With that lone dweller on the ocean isle?
He grows familiar—Ha! that attitude!
The lip—the scowl—the folded arms—the whole
Bearing and aspect! ''Tis the Conqueror!
And art thou fallen, wonder of the age! Self-raised,
And self-supported despot, art thou fallen!
Dealer of destinies! who hath dealt thine?
Conqueror of kingdoms! who hath conquered thee?
—Ay, gaze upon the heaving Deep—and there
Behold thy bosom's synonym! Thou need'st
No other mirror; for thou art as wild,
And restless as the ocean, and as chafed!
It has its limits, and thou now hast thine:
Each deluged once the world; thou worst, with blood.
But both are bounded now; and both alike
Rage 'gainst the world, and murmur angrily;
But there's a Power upon ye— and ye go
Not forth again to fill that world with awe.
Gaze then upon the deep—gaze on; and hold
Companionship with darkness, and with storm—
The elements alike of it and thee!
Well can'st thou hear, unmoved, the thunder-shock,
And fearless look upon the lightning-shaft:
What are they?—what is all the strife, the war
Of elements, to one whose word hath shaken
Kings from their thrones, and in the ruins laid
Themselves, and those that were most true to them!
—But still thou hast the bearing, and the look,
Of him who sat upon his self-got throne,
And sway'd so many millions. Is it so,
That they have only clipt the Eagle's wings,
Not tamed his daring nature? Ay, it is.
Thou still art he in heart, in will, in wish,
The same in all but freedom. Only bent,
Not broken—though subdued, unconquer'd still:
Like some proud horse, caught on his native plains,
Whose mettle is untouch'd, though curb and bit
Have cramp'd his mighty action.
What a change!
Thee prison'd on this narrow bound, whose soul
Empires and kingdoms could not satisfy!
O, must not, thus confined, thy proud heart ache!
All-grasping as it was, must it not burst!
With the proud step and bearing of a god,
Moving upon the ocean isle? A man!
Ay, and a kingly one. How would that head
Become a crown! And that firm step, methinks,
Might fearlessly mount upward to a throne!
A smile! oh, such a one might millions win;
And what an eye to awe them! Nearer—ha!
Mem'ry—But what hath memory to do
With that lone dweller on the ocean isle?
He grows familiar—Ha! that attitude!
The lip—the scowl—the folded arms—the whole
Bearing and aspect! ''Tis the Conqueror!
And art thou fallen, wonder of the age! Self-raised,
And self-supported despot, art thou fallen!
Dealer of destinies! who hath dealt thine?
Conqueror of kingdoms! who hath conquered thee?
—Ay, gaze upon the heaving Deep—and there
Behold thy bosom's synonym! Thou need'st
No other mirror; for thou art as wild,
And restless as the ocean, and as chafed!
It has its limits, and thou now hast thine:
Each deluged once the world; thou worst, with blood.
But both are bounded now; and both alike
Rage 'gainst the world, and murmur angrily;
But there's a Power upon ye— and ye go
Not forth again to fill that world with awe.
Gaze then upon the deep—gaze on; and hold
Companionship with darkness, and with storm—
23
Well can'st thou hear, unmoved, the thunder-shock,
And fearless look upon the lightning-shaft:
What are they?—what is all the strife, the war
Of elements, to one whose word hath shaken
Kings from their thrones, and in the ruins laid
Themselves, and those that were most true to them!
—But still thou hast the bearing, and the look,
Of him who sat upon his self-got throne,
And sway'd so many millions. Is it so,
That they have only clipt the Eagle's wings,
Not tamed his daring nature? Ay, it is.
Thou still art he in heart, in will, in wish,
The same in all but freedom. Only bent,
Not broken—though subdued, unconquer'd still:
Like some proud horse, caught on his native plains,
Whose mettle is untouch'd, though curb and bit
Have cramp'd his mighty action.
What a change!
Thee prison'd on this narrow bound, whose soul
Empires and kingdoms could not satisfy!
O, must not, thus confined, thy proud heart ache!
All-grasping as it was, must it not burst!
XII.
Again the vision changed.
But days, and months, and years, had come and gone,
While its pain'd eye was turn'd.
But this sad revelation was the last;
For that bright star, which had so fix'd the spell,
Shorn of its beams, and going dimly down,
Soon lost the pow'r to keep the waking mind
Subservient to the sleeping.
But days, and months, and years, had come and gone,
While its pain'd eye was turn'd.
But this sad revelation was the last;
For that bright star, which had so fix'd the spell,
Shorn of its beams, and going dimly down,
Soon lost the pow'r to keep the waking mind
Subservient to the sleeping.
24
It was so.
That heart was conquer'd, to itself a prey;
Broken, by the humiliating sense
Of what it was, and ever-crowding dreams
Of what it once had been; broken at last!
And the colossal wonder of the age,
Whose name had been a terror unto kings;
Whose deeds alone, of good and ill, would fill
The trump of Fame for ages; whose success
Had been without a modern precedent;
This idol of capricious Fortune, now
Was a mere man, upon his bed of death;
With weeping friends around, to close his eyes.
That heart was conquer'd, to itself a prey;
Broken, by the humiliating sense
Of what it was, and ever-crowding dreams
Of what it once had been; broken at last!
And the colossal wonder of the age,
Whose name had been a terror unto kings;
Whose deeds alone, of good and ill, would fill
The trump of Fame for ages; whose success
Had been without a modern precedent;
This idol of capricious Fortune, now
Was a mere man, upon his bed of death;
With weeping friends around, to close his eyes.
'Tis done!
Shrouded and coffin'd is the silent clay;
Its pall, a martial cloak.
Rough cheeks are pale, hard hearts are touch'd with grief;
And eyes long used to gaze upon the field
Of battle and of blood, are dimm'd with tears,—
Which, as the passing soldier comes to take
His farewell look, and press the clammy hand,
Fall, and bedew the all-immortal dust
Of ill-directed Greatness.
Proud of their burthen, soldiers—gallant foes—
Now bear the body to its lowly grave;
And, while the service for the dead is said,
Loud booms the minute-gun.
Now, lower'd amid the volleying cannon's roar,
The coffin'd clay sinks to its narrow bound;
And on that little Isle,
The heart which had so long convulsed the world,
Was still'd forever
Shrouded and coffin'd is the silent clay;
Its pall, a martial cloak.
Rough cheeks are pale, hard hearts are touch'd with grief;
And eyes long used to gaze upon the field
Of battle and of blood, are dimm'd with tears,—
Which, as the passing soldier comes to take
His farewell look, and press the clammy hand,
Fall, and bedew the all-immortal dust
Of ill-directed Greatness.
Proud of their burthen, soldiers—gallant foes—
Now bear the body to its lowly grave;
And, while the service for the dead is said,
Loud booms the minute-gun.
Now, lower'd amid the volleying cannon's roar,
The coffin'd clay sinks to its narrow bound;
And on that little Isle,
The heart which had so long convulsed the world,
Was still'd forever
| Erato, number II | |