The Maiden of Moscow :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Maiden of Moscow

A Poem, in Twenty-One Cantos. By the Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley

Stuart-Wortley, Emmeline (1806-1855)

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THE MAIDEN OF MOSCOW.

SONNET.

STANZAS WRITTEN ON FINISHING THE MAIDEN OF MOSCOW.

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THE MAIDEN OF MOSCOW.

CANTO I.

I.

Napoleon's warrior-millions heard
The fiat of his dread command!—
Now polished be the sword—the brand!—
Now cast,—ye founderies of the land,
Your death-balls at the word!—
Ye armouries, yield your stores, to gird
The mighty that in strength shall stand—
Leagued nations form'd in one vast band,
Nor be the shock deferr'd!
Be th' arsenals well served and scann'd—
The web of operations plann'd—
Seize, marshals!—seize your truncheon wand!—
War stretches wide his shadowy hand,
High soars the victory-bird!
Check'd are the labours of the plough,
The spade, the shears, the axe, the loom,
The trowel, and the flail!—Plume!—plume!—
Thou bird, thy wings,—well know'st thou how!—

Aye! soar and swiftly stormward spoom!
Hark! blows of pond'rous hammers boom
Along the air—a sounding gloom—
Like dreadful strokes of hurrying doom,
(And take the peaceful shuttle's room!),
While hour by hour their tasks resume,
Swarth men with broiling brow!

II.

Declare for why, in startling haste
Are crowded on, till lightning-paced,
(While promptitude with zeal seems graced)—
These preparations now?
Is't for some day of pleasaunce free—
Some glorious joy—some jubilee—
Some festival—some revelry,
All earth shall yet avow?
Not so—she soon shall grieve and mourn;—
Not so—she wakes at War's wild beck—
These works her lightsome mood shall check:
Worse chains are forging for her neck—
Chains—that shall, desolating, deck,
That crushing,—shall adorn!—

III.

'Tis not for festal triumphs fair
A labouring nation doth prepare.
Alas! the giant efforts there
Are but for wreck and waste!—
Fierce Slaughter shrieks along the air!

Red Murther waves her right hand bare—
Arm'd Vengeance dips his cloudy hair,
With upas-wreaths embraced,
In shadowy seas of blood!—While glare,
Mad Battle's horrent pomps!—Beware!
All earth!—and rise to do and dare,
Or thy worst doom is traced!
Fast dawns the swarth day-blush of War,
Fast fades away each gentler star,
That seem'd, while glow'd its soft rays far,
To promise peace and love.
Must Strife all happier prospects mar—
Hope die beneath the conqueror's car—
And Discord lift the deadliest bar
'Twixt earth and heaven above?

IV.

Seem'd those high preparations done!—
Shadowing the earth with too much sun,
A blaze of arms rush'd dazzling on
With fierce portentous light!—
Sure Dread is nought and Doubt is none,
Even now—(what force or fraud may shun
Those hosts that might a world o'errun?)—
Seem thousand towering victories won
By Gaul's o'erpowering might!
Far nations shudder with their dread:
By Conquest's hand those foes are led,
Breast-deep in laurels—Lo! they tread
To gain yet loftier name.

Their swords, with death-dyed victories red,
Unshrouded beams of glory shed;
The sky above them seems to spread
one Firmament of Fame!—
Yet fame to fame they still would wed;
Let fire by fire of glory fed,
By added glories flame!—

V.

Amidst the myriads of that host,
A youthful son of chivalry,
Whose blood was of heroic boast,
Then waved his sabre high!
Amidst those myriads, none might feel
A loftier hope,—a nobler zeal,—
None nurse a purer martial fire,
Than that which did that youth inspire:
Eugene de Courcy was his name.
His soul was frantic-fond of fame!
A brave, high-hearted youth was he,
Of daring mind, and spirit free,—
A gallant and a generous youth:
His soul was fire,—his thought was truth.
From lordly sires the scion sprung;
Tho' wealth he lacked, Fate's gifts among;
Since they,—before that era dread,
Which saw bow'd down full many a head
Of haughty mould and crested pride,
That vainly gloom and doom defied—

Their gold had scatter'd fast and free,
With heart and hand unniggardly;
And lower'd and lessen'd in estate,
Found shrunken means had stamp'd their fate,—
Found th' ills on Poverty that wait—
But ne'er for this did he repine,
That last son of a lofty line!

VI.

Not for the first time now he clasp'd
His helmet firm—his faulchion grasp'd;
When eighteen springs had paled and past,—
It little boots to say how fast,—
When eighteen springs had o'er him flown,
His father's sword was made his own!
And since had he full often worn
That honour'd steel, and proudly borne—
Right proudly, worthy of its weight,—
A dauntless son of strength and state!
And he, baptized in blood, had been
Into the warriors' service keen;
And oft had borne the battle's brunt,
And spurr'd his steed to War's wild front.
Nine glorious years had he borne arms,
And joy'd in Strife's august alarms;—
Nine glorious years had seen his might,
And hurrying valour in the fight:
Yet gentle was his soul, as brave
And prompt to succour and to save;

And oft his inmost heart had bled
With covert wounds more deep and dread
Than those that pierced and plough'd the breast—
At sight of conquer'd foes distress'd;
The fluttering gasp—the faultering groan
Found in his heart an answering tone.
Ill bore the hero others' pain,
Who mock'd his own with brave disdain;—
Ill bore the hero others' woes,
And best-loved friends seemed vanquished foes!

VII.

And he had shared th' imposing toil,
And bask'd in all the sweltering broil
Of Austerlitz' outshining sun,
That smiled his leader's lines upon—
(As proud to be his fortune's star!
Jealous that other light from far
Should beckon—beacon of His War!)
“The Battle of the Emperors,” there
It had been his to see and share;
And Jena's crimson'd field of death
Had given his brow another wreath.
Jena!—which saw high Brunswick's lord,
Wielder of well-redoubted sword!—
In prime of pride, hope, valour—all,
A patriot-martyr—bleed and fall.
Borne from that fatal field of fight,
Ere long was dust his dreadless might.

But deep the oath his followers swore
To venge their prince—alas!—no more!
And Brunswick's shrouded star uprose
To light to death Her chasten'd foes!
Brave Brunswick's unextinguish'd star,
Its rays of glory scattering far,—
Broke forth from clouds of sorrow's trance,
To dazzle-scathe the front of France.
But Jena's long-lamented field
The prince and patriot's doom beheld,—
He, who commanding there in chief,
Closing his bright career and brief,
Thus first might cause his people's grief!
A grief—that never doomed to fade
Their gratitude—his glory made
Eternal—as his guardian shade!
Jena!—whose day of terrors view'd,
The house of Brandenburgh subdued:
Jena had seen De Courcy's arm
Deal—stoutly deal—the desperate harm,—
Had seen De Courcy's prowess shine,
And speak by many a venturous sign.
And when great Warsaw's battled walls
(Where raged indignant, Russia's thralls)
The conquering van of France received—
While hailed her heroes—long aggrieved,
Those heroes (who from fears reprieved)
And liberators well believed,
Those brothers, of their bosoms nursed,
Like them in glory's sunlight burst!—

De Courcy, with his countrymen,
Threaded the throng'd streets' labyrinths then,
And marked how Freedom's startling call
Waked to new hope that capital!
'T was then that Poland placed her trust
In France' proud promises—and dust!—
While Gnesena's palatine adored
Napoleon as creation's lord!—
While many a Polish potentate
Address'd him as almighty-great!—

VIII.

In other strifes had he borne part,
This noble youth—this gallant heart;
And well he loved war's mighty art!
And every battle where he blest
The Victor-Eagle's sun-kissed crest,
The ardent votary keener made
In his beloved, but dreadful, trade.
For him no charms might luxury bring—
The siren there in vain might sing,
He pass'd by pleasures—on the wing,—
Aye! on the wing, even more than they
That smile and shine—but never stay!
For onward rush'd his fiery heart,
To claim in glory's ranks its part;
And forward sped his storm of soul,
More breathless as more near the goal!
Love—melting power!—had never come
To stint his manhood's lofty bloom.

Love—where that eye imperious flash'd—
Had sunk and shrunk away abash'd,
His fires out-beggar'd by the blaze
Of that bright soul whose thoughts were rays—
Whose hopes were beams—whose dreams were lights,
That left deep noons like starless nights.

IX.

And now his childhood's home he seeks,
Where waits, with pallid lips and cheeks,
His mother, to embrace once more
The son, she lives but to adore.
Th' intrepid heart strange tremours feels,—
A softness o'er the arm'd soul steals;
A gush of deepening tenderness
Makes weakness more, and valour less.
The bold—the brave—was coward here,
Th' undaunted learn'd to shrink and fear.
His thoughts, while onward fast he sped,
Began—continued—closed in dread!
His mother's certain, coming grief,
Made his lip tremble like a leaf.
His cheek was blaunch'd, his head was bow'd,—
His forehead darken'd with a cloud;
His hand, no longer firm, in vain
His headlong courser would restrain,
That mocked the light and loosen'd rein!
Wild rushing on, in foaming speed,
Soon bears him—that sagacious steed—

To his old home of boyhood's years.
There, smiles his mother through her tears,—
There, pale, his lovely sister stands,
With the out-stretched arms—with the upraised hands,
That speak affection, doubt, dismay,
And seem at once to bless and pray!
No tenderer mother o'er a child
Ere bent with fondness meek and mild,—
In mood of love more gushing-deep,
That like a sea doth o'er her sweep—
(Although that child, of softest age,
Was new-launch'd on life's pilgrimage)
Than she—that warrior's mother dear—
Bent o'er her stately offspring here,
Who much essay'd to soothe and cheer!—
Whose manly voice, upraised in tone,
To hush her griefs betray'd his own!
No fonder sister ever smiled,
In hopes such griefs might be beguiled,
On brother—best beloved and bless'd—
Than thou, dove-souled, dark-eyed Celeste!

X.

Summer and spring together seem'd
To greet—Heaven glisten'd, and Earth beam'd;
Bright showers of roses seem'd to lie
Beneath, as new-dropt from the sky—
Blushes of angels hither sent,
To prove—Heaven glows—Love's element!—

And round that mother's cottage-home
A thousand roses rain'd their bloom:
Fair trellised was the porch; the path—
The bower, retired as Naiad's bath—
A screen of honeysuckles hath;
While myriad myriad flowers repay
Celeste's sweet fosterage, day by day,
Scatter'd along the garden grounds,
Enriching all their cherish'd bounds!
Not far their home from that bright sea,
The tideless in tranquillity;
In blessedness of Heaven's blue light,
That washes France' proud shores of might,—
Her southern shores, where myrtles load
The gale with lavish scents bestow'd;
And richly clustering orange-trees
Send wealth of fragrance to the breeze,—
Such aromatic affluence
As might be won alone from thence!
De Courcy! ofttimes when a boy,
Thou'st stolen the swimmer's gallant joy—
(Afraid, as now, of causing fear
Or pain to thy lone parent dear;—
Afraid, as now, of her affright,
Yet spurr'd on by thy soul's free might);—
The swimmer's gallant joy thou'st sought,
And well thy billowy battles fought,
And revell'd in that ocean free,
Which seem'd thy wave-wing'd car to be,—

Thy throne of triumph—place of pride—
While breasting thus the surges' tide!
Strengthen'd by struggles, brave I wist,
With that august antagonist,
Thy fearless youth shot upwards fast,
To loftiest manhood's pride at last,
And ever rose thy kindling mood
To heights of finer hardihood.

XI.

Those hours of greeting, deep and dear,
Pinion'd with swiftest plumes appear;—
The hours of Affection's communings
Wear on each moment—thousand wings:
They wane, with every bliss and boon,
Into the parting moment soon!—
He strives to man his heart, and turns
His thought to where crowned Battle burns;—
He dreams he hears the clarion's voice,
And he will rouse him to rejoice!
“My son! my son!” the mother cried,
As on his bounding heart, hers died!
“Thou goest to join the Fieldward host,—
Some dreadful day may speak thee lost!
And all my thoughts to grief must flow,
And all my fears to phrenzy grow!—
Oh! representative to me
Of thy dead father,—lost to thee
While yet in flowering infancy,—

How can I bear from this fond side
To let thee—long estranged—divide?
How can I bear to lose thee now?
Thick rise the dew-drops to my brow,—
The death-damps of the heart—the heart—
It is a murdering thought—to part!—
Heavens! can I bear to see no more
Thy face by his face shadow'd o'er?
The husband of my youth's best love—
That husband still adored—above!
True, oft in battle hast thou borne
Thy loftiest part—and left me lorn;
Yet each fresh parting serves to make
My heart with wilder anguish ache;—
Each parting now my soul must teach
What distant pangs it yet can reach!
As though I lived thus o'er again
These several partings with their pain!
Their separate pains—nor bow'd me prone
Beneath one crush of grief alone!—
Aye! all the accumulated store
I count and recount o'er and o'er;
The scatter'd agonies combine,
And in one poison'd chain entwine,
Commingling every cherish'd throe
In one vast flood of whelming woe,
And gathering each close garner'd care
In one stern wealth of wide despair!”

XII.

Answer'd the son—“Oh! speak not thus!”
Faint were his words and tremulous,
Her rushing passion bore them down,
And thus again she cried—“Mine own!
Thou image of my long-lost lord
To mine imploring eyes restored;
How can I live without the light
In that loved aspect proud and bright?
I ask him—thou art my response,—
I gaze on Him and Heaven at once!—
Thou shalt not rob me of that heaven
Through tears to my rapt glances given:
I will not let thee bear away
My spring, my sunshine, and my day!—
Those smiles where all his spirit stirs,—
Those looks—Love's sweet remembrancers!
Remain, my flower—my pride—my boy—
Remain! to be the widow's joy!”
Her quivering voice, o'erstrain'd, doth fail,—
She stands before him, passion-pale,
With close-clasp'd hands, and labouring breath,
And every loveliest look of death!

XIII.

But changes soon her mien and mood—
Breaks o'er her cheek one blaze of blood!—
In sunset waves it glowing breaks,
And fast a world of wonders wakes!

With other thoughts her spirit teems,—
With other phantasies and dreams!
The sacred-soft Madonna look,
Whose very meekness stirr'd and shook
The pulses of the troubled heart
That deem'd 'twas from dull earth apart—
The sculptured steadfastness of grace,
That reigned o'er that pathetic face,
At once to tumult wild gave place!
Her lip is curved—her brow is knit—
Her cheek is flush'd—her eye is lit!
The Seas of Soul are swelling high,
The mind claims sovereign mastery.
The force of giant feeling gains
The victory—bursts its own strong chains!—
There seemed they wondering to behold
Some mighty prophetess of old,
O'erwrought by passion and distress,
Some dark, imperial prophetess!
The full-swoln veins, the wild-dash'd hair,
The regal risings of despair,
Th' enkindling and the o'erpowering air,
Disturb'd them with a deep surprise,
They scarce might fix her flashing eyes!

XIV.

All—all her form, and all her face
Bore high enthusiast-fervour's trace:
She stood before them in that hour
Fraught with a strangely-wakening power—

A lovely and terrific thing,
Borne far on inspiration's wing!
And thus, while high her aspect glow'd,
Her words like battle-music flow'd!
And thus, while fast her spirit soar'd,
Her tones like trumpet-echoes pour'd!
While ever through those moments stern,
That saw that soul translucent burn
With darkly-glorious dreams intense,
(As though woke there another sense!—)
The Mighty Misery seem'd to move,
And oh! the yet far mightier love!—
The mightier than all death and fate,
Through that changed form of strength and state!
You felt the full, the fiery force,
You felt its fountain, and its source!
And while you heard her thrilling tongue,—
On those transforming accents hung—
Well mark'd you whence the wonder sprung!
The great magician, Grief, had wrought
The miracle, the change had brought!

XV.

“My son! words come to help my woe,
Oh! hear these words ere yet you go.
I grieve, indeed, that we must part,
But other pangs oppress my heart;
Ev'n now I feel—too keenly feel,—
And oh! the thought is sharp as steel!

Thou goest to lift thine hand of might
Against the truth—against the right!
Thou goest thy stalworth arm to bare
In that unrighteous cause which ne'er
Can claim one faintly-murmur'd prayer—
Nay—speak not!—hush!—I must be heard;
A power impels mine every word!
A secret power doth sway—controul
My grief—my glance—my speech—my soul!
I feel as though my shrinking eye
Was looking through futurity!
This lawless enterprise shall fail:
Thy star of victory, France! shall pale;
Thy foes shall tame thy venturous pride,
The Lord of Hosts is on their side!
The God of Battles helps the right,
And gives th' invulnerable might.
The invaders' legions place their trust
In horse and chariots—that are dust!
But th' injured nation lifts the heart
To Him who takes the sufferer's part;
Their hope is stablished on His love,
Their great ally is throned above!

XVI.

“I see—I hear such sights,—such sounds—
As make my soul o'erflow her bounds!
Lo! banner'd hosts with blazon'd pomp,
With hoarse, harsh drum, and clamouring tromp,

With long array of marshall'd pride,
Embattaill'd firm on every side,
Making the earth a furnace where
They crowd with burnish'd braveries fair,
Concentering all the sun's warm rays,
Till added light makes bright their days!
The flash of arms, the streamer'd show—
Gleams with intolerable glow;
And yon fair firmament above—
Yon lustrous dome of light and love,
But seems—such flushing tints are given—
An earth-illuminated Heaven!
While princely banners sweep the skies,
And spread between them and our eyes
Their constellated canopies!

XVII.

“And now a change—a fearful change,
Their order'd march doth disarrange:
I see them scatter'd like the chaff,
While dregs of bitterness they quaff;
And on their heads, all wild and fast,
Th' ashes of utter ruin cast!
Dread portents trouble all the skies;
I see Eternal Nature rise!
Beckon'd by her Almighty Sire,
She fulmines forth—stern fiats dire:
She rises,—awful and alone,
And leans her from her mystic throne.

And th' elements and seasons wait
Around her over-powering state.
Death's mighty angel hears a voice,
And lifts his pale head to rejoice;
For his shall be the time—the hour,
And he shall reign, with untried power!—
His ghastly steed must make good speed,
And bound from Space to Space;
For with all Life, Death seems at strife,
And stretch'd to fearful race.

XVIII.

“Oh, Earth! oh, Earth! thou shudd'rest sore,
Thou art not what thou hast been before,—
Thou seem'st a peopled world no more!—
Th' Incarnate Fiend doth surely reign,
O'er all in evil power and pain;
And makes dark progress of success,
While Ill frowns more, and Good smiles less!—
Earth prostrate sinks at Ruin's feet,
As 'twere the fallen foul angels' seat!
To them given o'er by angry Heaven,
And fast by them despoil'd and riven!—
Abhorr'd by all the good, because
She sets at nought th' eternal laws;
And yields ingratitude for grace,
And harden'd sin in sorrow's place.
Abhorr'd by all the evil too,
Because Heaven loved and would renew!—

Redeem'd—forgave—invited—blest,
And called to beatific rest.
So seems She—scorn and hate of all,
Where even the Fallen must lower fall!
And thus they join to crush and blot
Her sphere from space, till she is not!
Else why these harrowing shrieks and groans,
Those deathful, wild, scarce-human tones,—
Those desolations, vast and deep,—
Those midnight glooms that threatening sweep,—
Those maniac-yellings—gory stains,
That gush as from mankind's rent veins?
The Fiend—the Fiend seems trampling here,
Made lord of Fate, as prince of Fear!
He speeds along, while less and less
Our human hope doth withering wane:
Ten thousand terrors swell his train.
His breath is ruin,—blight, and bane;
His shadow, anarchy;—his gain,
The loss of human happiness!
And must he rule our world, indeed?
And was all Hope and Faith a reed?
And must we yield in truth to him,
And see our holiest trust grown dim?
Must earth, the footstool of the Fiend,
Leave every dream of joy behind;
Each fabric of her bliss resign;
Obliterate every hallowed sign?”

XIX.

Exhausted, and o'er-wrought and pain'd,
The mother for awhile remain'd;
With almost reverential awe,
Her son, bewilder'd, heard and saw,
And follow'd all her words of weight,
As they were the oracles of fate:
While that pale daughter of her love
Seemed fixed no more to breathe or move,—
The soft Celeste, whose deep dark eye
Had lost its meek tranquillity.
But, from th' inspired one's lips once more
The startling accents burst and pour.

XX.

“That Fiend! Ah! whose that sceptered sway
Which sweeps the peace of worlds away?
Which brings the gloom of sorrow down
On nations outraged and o'erthrown?
Who is't—that—dark portentous Birth!—
Shakes on her shuddering axis, earth?
And seems to guide her from her way
Mid marshall'd planets' bright array;
To follow a destructive course,
With discord dire—and fatal force;—
As though Heaven's covenant were void,
And its high purposes destroy'd.
Why shone its rainbow in the skies
If fresh floods—and of gore—must rise?
Why—mightier far display of grace!—
Did her throned king resign his place;

Th' empire of universes yield,
And dwell in mortal mould revealed,
And leave adoring worlds to crave
A torturing cross—a trampled grave?—
If—if, indeed, her doom is still
A hopeless Infinite of Ill.

XXI.

“Yes! earth is wrung e'en to the heart,
And forth her orbit seems to start,
Absolving not her measured round,
To no harmonious circles bound—
For surely did she still rehearse
Her fixed fair part in the universe,
Not thus could Desolation wring,
And mad misrule distract and sting—
Not thus could yon proud sun but seem
Like lurid light of some dread dream—
Not thus could morning, sad as night,
Whisper of death upon her flight!—
The lovely stars and radiant spheres
Blot out the heavens, like trembling tears—
For thus it seems—while woe on woe
Doth gathering o'er creation go;—
And whose the sway, and whose the power—
Who rules through this terrific hour?—
Who lifts the scourge, and deals the stroke,
And fits the intolerable yoke?
My son, my warrior-boy!—reply—
I read it in thy conscious eye!

XXII.

“Monarch of myriads! Liege and Lord!
Thou sceptered with a blood-red sword!—
Tremendous Name!—stupendous Will!—
Wilt thou indeed be slave of Ill,
Oh! trust not in th' embattailled world;
Crush'd be thy crest, thy banners furl'd;
If thou with Evil leagued indeed,
For rocks of strength shall trust a reed—
For all thy myriads vainly then
Shall fence thee round—dread man of men!
Yes! they shall fail, and thou shalt fall—
Totters thy blood-cemented wall,
(With which thou fain wouldst circle round
Creation all, and mete and bound!)—
Trembles thy force-upheaven throne,
Unutterably guilty one!
Dark is the mystery of thy mind,—
Oh! evil one of mood, and blind,
The Chaos—Heaven forbade to reign
Seems in thy soul to live again!—
Again to hideous life to start—
In thy deep midnight of the heart!—
And lengthening thence, o'er all to spread,
More dark,—more dire,—more drear,—more dread:
Since things of loftier mould must now
Its hateful influence deep, avow,—
Since th' elements of sense and thought
Sink—to the ruinous vortex brought!—

XXIII.

“And thou, my son, must thou go forth
Among the spoilers of the earth;
'Midst fratricidal fiends who burn
Love's holiest lessons to unlearn,
And joy when reeking blades are press'd
Against their human brother's breast;
Shalt thou, my boy, go forth to play
As dark a part, as mad as they?
The weight of blood shall yet bear down
The wearer of a crime-stain'd crown;
And his shall be the world's disdain—
A proud almightiness of pain,
And pestilential pangs of fear—
Of the everlasting sufferance near!
For his are sins of demon hue,
The cause of crimes in others too!—
The Almightiest, to avenge, shall rise,
And with deep counsels shake the skies;
But think not, mortals!—He shall need
His shattering thunderbolts to speed,
To crush Ambition's slave misled;
No! lightest flakes shall serve instead:
Heaven's breath shall phalanx'd lines o'erthrow—
Sent in chill airs to work their woe.
No special terrors 'gainst them hurl'd—
Silently wither'd from the world!
So shall they wane,—droop,—drop away,—
Though miracles start not to slay,

Nor cloud the common light of day,
Though man, regardless, seems to spare;
They fade—they fall, fast-fleeting there!
As though he muster'd not His wrath
To blast them on their onward path,
But His bright countenance withdrew,
Nor deign'd His heavenly grace renew—
Suspending His protecting might—
And they were nothing—fallen on night!”

XXIV.

She ceased—no more the impulse burn'd—
The soft and love-touch'd looks return'd—
Her hands unclasp'd—her cheeks unflush'd—
Mild tears beneath her eyelids gush'd;
Once more she spoke, but sad and sweet
Her voice the willing ear did greet.
The o'er-troubled mood, in sooth, was past,—
Too wild and stormy-strong to last;
Feeling, and love, and doubt, and ire,
Had lent the prophetess's fire;
Feeling and love forgot once more
All but themselves, and brooded o'er
Their own deep truth and mightiest lore;
And having snatch'd that deep relief,
The seas of soul closed o'er their grief,
As the ocean o'er some mournful wreck,
Betraying scarce a tell-tale speck!
But was it thus? No! Part indeed
Of that vast grief doth speechless bleed

Within the secret holds of heart;
But pines—and plains yet other part—
Her tears, her tongue, her tremblings shew,
The workings of that inward woe!—
She dash'd those tear-drops from her cheek,
And steadfastly essay'd to speak;
Yet faulteringly the accents came—
The sweet sound flickering like a flame!—

XXV.

“Yet should we not be thus cast down,
Although on evil seasons thrown?
Let Faith and Hope yet smile and dance
Even in the face of human chance;
And in the heart of human love,
That throbs and heaves itself above,
That, beat by beat, seems borne more high
To yon blest regions of the sky;
And thrill by thrill doth purer grow
As further from this earth below.
“Mother!” the young De Courcy cried,
“More gently judge whate'er betide,
Nor thus the soldier's idol blame—
The battle lord of power and fame—
The King of Victories!—he who wields
The sceptre of war's laurell'd fields!”
“Alas!” the mother answer'd, sad,
“Of all man's crimes in scarlet clad,
None can a hue so deadly wear,—
None bring such madness of despair,—

None plunge the lost, in fate so far
As unnecessitated war!—
A war commenced on trivial grounds
Shall blight the soul with all the wounds
Befallen within its sanguine bounds!—
The soul that dares to kindle first
That conflagration's light accursed.

XXVI.

“Beware, triumphant chief!—beware!
Mock'st thou Earth's universal prayer?
While myriads, hurrying at thy call,
Hasten to die and crowd to fall,—
Shower sacrifice on sacrifice,—
That heart of iron and of ice
To please,—though at immortal price!—
To think of all the souls unshriven
Upon their path of terror driven;
Of all the unpardon'd—the unprepared—
That desperately their doom have dared,—
Chills—awes the soul with horror's worst:
Is not the Anarch then accursed?
The danger threats—the downfal comes—
Hark! voices from ten thousand tombs!—
The day is near—the doom at hand,—
Vainly thou armest proud band on band.
'Tis not the storm of adverse spears
That now should rouse the conqueror's fears,—
It is the childless widow's tears!

Dread not the avenging hordes that rise—
Dread—dread the accusing orphans' sighs,
The fatherless, bereaved ones' cries!
Shrink from th' unspoken curse no less,
The unchilded parent's looks express!
Those register'd in heaven remain,
Recorded deeply—not in vain!
Empires in arms could ne'er o'erthrow
The doom-defying victor so!
These—these shall ruin—these bring down
Th' embattailled throne—the fiery crown!
The sun-eyed eagle of the war—
The firmament o'erflowing star!”—

XXVII.

The son, still saddening, faulter'd low,
“Thy blessing, mother, ere I go!”—
And many a blessing doth she shed
O'er that beloved and lofty head,—
And many a tear with these lets fall,—
Last tears and blessings!—tortures all!—
He rises, as in act to part,
One gush of feeling rends her heart!
While hanging on his neck she said,
“Still in thy dark and slaughterous trade,
Oh! spare the mother and the maid!
The aged and the child,—
Think of thy mother—sister, here—
Think of thy treasured blessings dear,—
Let them before thy soul appear,
Then be the mighty—mild!—

Ye are too wolvish oft, and prey
On lambs and pitilessly slay—
Remember retribution's day,
Eschew th' abhorrent deed!
For our sakes pause—for our sakes spare—
Think we are tender pleaders there!
Who wars upon the weak must dare
Heaven's wrath! Hear! hear, and heed!”

XXVIII.

He heard!—he look'd away her fears!—
While on his lids hung vouching tears,
Whose hallow'd promise more endears;
But th' envious moments speed!
He strove the emotion to disguise,
Kiss'd the reproach all loving-wise
From those relenting, trusting eyes,
And vaulted on his steed.
A moment yet he rein'd him back:
Such parting hours the heart-strings crack,—
Profundity of pain!—
A moment yet he paused—he stay'd—
One little moment he delay'd—
'T was Time with all his train!
Whole centuries of memory flow'd
Fast on his being and abode
As never more to part!
With labyrinthine lengthenings too,
Th' Unreal—streamed mingling with the True,
The worlds of sense and heart!

Th' outward and inward worlds appear'd,
Their farthest faint horizons clear'd,
All thoughts,—all truths,—all things—
The soul's great universe was shewn,
The kingdoms too of the Actual known,
His dreams were worlds on wings!—
While in one hurrying moment brief,
He drank the cups of joy and grief,
Of doubt and strength sublime!
Ah! surely that deep moment's reign
Was link'd not with life's common chain—
Eternity—not Time!
Slow part by part were vision'd not
Those realms o'er which his spirit shot,
In earth-o'er-gazing flight!
One mighty picture of the past,
Where colourings of “To Come” were cast,
Spread vast as very light!
One picture thought did then present,
Deep-traced, where mystically blent
Seemed traceries of all themes,
That ere the imagination wide,
Or sterner judgment occupied,
All dooms, and deeds, and dreams.
While yet he check'd his snorting steed,
Nor his impatient ardour freed,
The mother stood beside—
The sister, too—the mild and meek,
With snowy tokens on her cheek
Of sorrow's in-pent tide!

XXIX.

Her voice uplift, the mother, then,
Her dove-soft, mother-voice again:
“Remember—oh! mine own!—
Remember—oh! my noblest son!—
When some vast purple victory's won,
Some foe is overthrown!
These filial foldings—mother's tears—
These tendernesses—birth of years—
The thousand ties Heaven's self endears,
And makes its blessing known,
(By yielding its sweet sanction true
To such affection—Nature's due—
Within the deep heart sown:
Oh! 't is a blessed thing to think,
Heaven thro' our souls doth deeper sink,
With all the love we feel!)
Then let these memories melt thy mind
To purposes sublimely kind,
Thy guarded breast unsteel!
So by thyself ev'n dearly wooed
In that heart-humanizing mood,
May mercy's angel deign,
Hovering o'er that vast host, to smile
When thousands of thy mates the while
Pray comfort for their pain!
So for the sake of one pure heart
Midst the army's huge array—apart,

May Justice yet delay
The chastening stroke,—the o'erwhelming doom;—
Nor let high Vengeance sweep in gloom
O'er all—to scowl and sway.”

XXX.

One look of love, one low farewell,
One struggle with the bosom's swell—
The clattering hoof resounds;
The courser urged to fleetness there
Seems shooting thro' the very air
With wild impetuous bounds!
The loving mourners, watching still,
As if to taste Pain's every ill,
Yield all to sorrow's own wild will,
And sob full loud and deep:
The mother and the sister stay,
As though their souls had flown that way—
Their mute lips bless—their dim eyes pray—
Their very hands do weep—
The two are made One Agony,
One sad and sorrowing sympathy,
One dream of doubts and fears!—
Oh, Nature!—thou art a Niobé!—
Our human nature!—deep and free;—
There, everlastingly we see,
A death-in-life of Sorrow—Thee!
Imperishable tears!
Like earth's self seem'st thou motionless
(With thy despair's swift-whirl'd excess—

A silence and a sleep.)
But thou art tears—all tears, and so,
Since these are all that thou may'st know—
All that doth pause, or freeze, or flow,
Within thy marble-mould of woe,
Thou dost forget to weep!
Else shouldst thou shed thyself away,
Nor might the station'd sorrow stay,
In thee for ever night and day,
Transfix'd—entranced—entomb'd!—
A Deluge, frozen and repress'd—
Seem the ocean-waters of thy breast
To tideless torpors doom'd!

XXXI.

Fresh smiled the morn, fresh blew the breeze,
In diamond armour gleam'd the trees,
Rare panoply of pride!—
'Twas sparkling shield and glittering helm—
The peers of Charlemagne's warrior realm
Ne'er thus attired might ride!
Th' adorning dew far dazzling shone
Like jewell'd harness new-braced on—
Out-shimmering far and wide—
Awakes the breeze—those warriors seem
To move, to clash, to flash, to beam—
Or sheathed with stars,—to bide!
Now pass'd he o'er a vine-clad plain,
Where Plenty seem'd with Peace to reign;
The scene's enchantment stole

With winning influence o'er his brain,
And brought, of gentlest dreams, a train,
To soothe, yet grieve his soul!
“I go from haunts of peace and rest,”
Thus sadly cried he, “bright and blest,
To scenes of death and strife,
Where man with man shall meet in blood,
In deadly hatred's foulest mood,
(Instead of gracious brotherhood!—)
And hurl from love and life!

XXXII.

“But, no! I will not dwell on this—
War hath its own mad, stormy bliss—
War hath its landscapes fair!—
On days of Victory's jubilee,
Proud waves the thick-plumed forestry
Of helm'd heads on the air!
While seem brought nearer to the ground
The sunset-pageantries,—where round
The banners float, in flame!—
With broidery rich—all rough with gold—
A nation's glories on their fold—
Their silken field of fame!
And glistening arms, like glassing lakes,
Where the broad sun lives, leaps, and quakes
When crisping gales just stir—
Bright flooding all the moving scene,
With unimaginable sheen,
To splendour minister.

And death, the warrior's haughty death,
When fast he clasps the trophied wreath,
Is dawn to honour's life—
His soul shall kiss the exalting steel
That bids him join the commonweal
Of heroes ripe and rife!
The death of glory these would claim—
'Tis still their warrior's birth to fame—
Their proud Nativity of Name,
And royal-brave renown!
'Tis still their Hope's transcending hour—
Then—then they reap the enlaurelled dower,
That well their deeds shall crown!
And nations' thoughts shall celebrate
Their fall, their triumph, and their fate,
Through ages evermore—
Shall glorify them long and late,
And their example elevate,
To beacon Victory's shore!”

XXXIII.

His pawing courser's sides he lanced,
Away! away! at once he glanced,
Like flame from stricken flint:
The greensward scarring broad and deep,
Whence fast his heels of thunder sweep
The soft dew's silvery tint.
There fell no rain for many a day,
It chanced—to wash that trace away,
That long enduring dint:

Ah! woe for human hope and trust,
The traces that we leave in dust,
Or on the grass that fades,
May longer than ourselves endure,
More steadfast and more strong and sure
Than we—light fleeting shades!
Ourselves, our business, and our cares,—
Our mighty interests, joys, despairs,
Our weighty hopes and fears,
May long have been erased—forgot,
Lost, lost, 'mong the old things that are not,
While stamped on some late-trodden spot,
Our foot-print yet appears!
The coal-black charger's hoof of speed
Doth answer well the rider's need,
And faithfully, I trow.
And thus, with mingled pride and pain,—
By one of war's tremendous train
The first steps of that march were ta'en,
Whose end all kingdoms know!

CANTO II.

I.

Th' imperial captain fulmined forth
His fierce defiance to the North:
“Soldiers!” 'twas thus th' appeal was couch'd,
His mighty mind was thus avouch'd;
“Dragged on by an imperious fate,
Behold proud Russia's giant state!
March! march!—the rolling Niemen cross—
Bear consternation, fear, and loss,
Far through Her territorial wilds;—
While coming glory bravely gilds
Our arms,—and promises to reign
O'er this our second proud campaign
Of Poland—as before!
But well our second peace shall bear
Its own firm guarantee—declare,
With voice impartial, just, and fair,
To Russia—bearded in Her lair—
Her counsel's influential share
In Europe is no more!”

II.

Who may describe that mighty host
Which made that laurell'd leader's boast?
Unnumber'd tribes and nations blent,
Framed that monarchic armament.

Could Xerxes leap to life and breath,
Envy should blight him back to death!—
Could Macedonia's conqueror lord
Be once more to the light restored,
He would not weep for worlds beside—
Ask but to share that leader's pride!—
Such victories as those bands so brave—
So proud, must gain—leave nought to crave!—
While th' universal glory's light
Must, like the sun, make all things bright:
To think that other conquests yet
Could add to wreaths so thickly set
Would seem dishonour sore:
No! Fame is finish'd!—Fate fulfill'd!
Yet Victory's soul through all instill'd
Shall glory evermore!—
Conquest shall conquer on for ever—
Eternal gain, without endeavour!
An everlasting victory,
The victory of such host must be!
How gloriously the legions go,
Setting the air around a-glow!
The myriads of that Suzerain's might,
His lions of the thunderous fight—
Their sabres' dreadful daylight bare,
And forth in joy and hope they fare:
Forth speed they fast in power and pride,
There seems one earthquake where they ride,—
One lightning where they glare!

III.

Star of the North! Shroud—shroud thy beams,
Those sabres' hot disastrous gleams
Shall dry up all thy rays.
Winter shall vanish from the world;
His sceptre from his cold grasp hurl'd,
('Though yet thy glories shall be furl'd)—
Shine—Realms of Frost!—one blaze!
One blaze of these proud arms, the while
An atmosphere doth round them smile,
Of splendour nothing may defile,
Well lengthening out his days,—
Lengthening and lightening days of climes,
Where once look'd pale, ev'n summer's primes,
And dull morn's roseate ways!
Where art thou in that martial crowd—
Suzerain of armed battalias proud,
Their leader and their liege avow'd?
Thou with thy guards, th' invincible,
Dost forward march, upholden well
With hope and grim delight, and trust
To tread an empire into dust!
Lord of the laurels! ponderest thou
The justice of thine actions now?—
Didst ponder well and meetly pause
To weigh the worth of thy great cause?
Ere Battle, summoned once again,
Rose from red dust with furious train!—

Dread potentate of armaments,
Think'st virtue to thy vow assents,—
Thy rash and ruinous vow, to doom
A nation's freedom to the tomb?
Ride on! Heaven's will is done through thee;
Who reads th' Almighty Mystery?—
The Future and our Faith!
Ride on! Whate'er thy human mood,
From evil yet may spring up good—
Be it as Justice saith!

IV.

Thou may'st be made—Oh, dark! Oh, blind,
Th' awakener of a people's mind!—
Th' enkindler of their soul—
Their more majestic soul, renew'd,
When all the low is lost—subdued,—
The little dares no more intrude—
The great hath chief controul!—
For patriotism's waken'd zeal,
Bright honour—'tis a heaven to feel;—
And duty's 'hests fulfill'd—
Exalt a nation's mighty heart
Through every generous, glowing part—
By petty aims unchill'd.—
A high disinterested sense
Of feeling banishes from thence
All stale and trivial dreams—
Their cares are grown colossal then—
Each man is brother of all men—
Love universal beams!

Then spread,—and ne'er to sink again
To seas, its mingling streams!
All interests nobly merged in one,
As one Stupendous Virtue shone;
Each felt and wrought for all,
And selfishness was not,—nor fear,—
Souls grew to souls more sacred-dear
Than ever since the fall!
For public dangers make men bold—
Endear all ties a thousand fold,
And bind in blessed thrall!

V.

Thus dearer to each other shewn—
Dearer to Him who made them grown,
They well may blessing claim;
So from a national distress
May spring a common happiness,
Without or taint or blame!—
And thou, that fain as conqueror dread,
Through prostrate realms would'st glorying tread,
And rule with rod of steel—
May'st prove—so Heaven doth well controul—
Creator of their loftier soul,
And Cause of their best weal!

VI.

From Italy's delicious shores
A human tide impetuous pours,

To swell that warrior throng.
They leave their deep empurpled sky—
Their atmosphere's warm luxury—
The flower—the grape—the song.—
They leave their land of palaces,
Where all divine enchantment is,
For rugged climes and bleak:
The fountain and the vine-robed plain—
The grot—the urn—the classic fane—
Th' untroubled lake—the tideless main,
For skies no sun-tints streak!
Their earth that half in heaven appears,
Where bright her Alpine brow she rears,
They leave for deserts blind;
Where, stretch'd in stark monotony,
The unsummer'd landscapes wearying lie,
A load on eye and mind!

VII.

From Guadalquivir's banks of bloom
Proud Chivalry's own first-born come!—
Spain's godlike kings of fight!—
Shout, “To the rescue for Castile!”
Brace casque on head,—bind spurs on heel,
Ye men of mould and might!—
Hidalgo fierce, and cavalier,
Let the Andalusian coursers rear
Beneath your warlike weight.
Guerilla staunch, and Torreadore,
With Freedom's meteor'd tricolor,
Join Spain's old banner'd state.

Arm! arm! on St. Iago call!
Come, bold and brave! come, one and all!
Ye matadores, for brand and ball—
Leave horns that toss and tear—
Let Spain's death-lashing bulls go free;
'Gainst Scythian prowler fierce must ye
Couch lance of flame triumphantly—
Old Muscovy's grim bear!

VIII.

Throng'd there—Bavaria's blue-eyed sons—
Forget the soil where Danube runs,
Through harvest-fields—right plenteous ones,
A monarch to the main!
Aye! subject to that sovereign sea,
He seems as mighty and as free,
The glory of the plain!
They crowd into the ranks of war,
To plunge in those chill regions far,
Of barrenness and gloom—
Changing the pruning-hook and scythe
To lance and sword, with bearing blythe;
Resigning smile and bloom.
Ah! yet may they recall in vain,
With yearnings of a sickening pain,
Affectionate and strong,
Those days of calm repose and peace
That roll'd in glad and bright increase,
Luxuriously along;

When savage wastes around them spread,
And desolations wild and dread
Close in on every side;
And hideous hardships bow them down,
An infant's weakness even to own,
Once giants in great pride!

IX.

From other climes and regions crowd
Arm'd thousands at that summons loud
(It boots not all the tale to tell),
As at some deep magician's spell;—
The fair-hair'd tribes of Saxony
Stout Regnier leads—brave hearts and free—
Westphalia's phalanx'd warriors cling
Around the banner of their king;
Proud Poniatowski heads his Poles—
The fire of ages in their souls,
Long smouldering—now no check controuls;
Sons of the Jagellons, and heirs
Of the old Piastes, leave—leave your lairs—
Come forth, ye lions!—from your mane
Shake, as the dew-drop, now your chain;
Up with your ensigns to the sky—
The patriot's vow is victory!
In Poland's burning veins now stirs
The blood of th' ancient Casimirs;
Th' old Sobieskies' bounding blood,
With Kosciusko's fiery flood!

Let wakening Lithuania start,
And join with Poland, heart to heart;
While France' throned eagles, link'd with yours,
Soar to a sky no cloud obscures,
And eyeing Freedom's dawn begun,
Flash ray for ray,—and sun for sun!—
Each glance of their unshackled eye,
A dazzling noon of Victory!
Let Czartoryski's heart rejoice,
And let him raise his honour'd voice,
Grand mareschal of their senate's choice;
The Nestor of their councils he
In reverenced Eld's supremacy;
His country's prospects brightening round,
Her yoke unfix'd, her gyves unbound;
Now lend that Spirit—born to aspire
Even more than Youth's triumphant fire!—
From Slavery's ashes they th' accurst
Behold the all-glorious phœnix burst,
Still beautiful with old renown,
And, crown'd with new majestic crown,
Apparell'd with thy pomp, oh! Past,
Where stars of Future light are cast!—
A fair,—yet venerable sight,
To fill the astonish'd earth with light.

X.

Amidst this mighty army's throngs
Of various climes, and laws, and tongues,

How many a noble mind elate
Rushes impetuously on fate;
For honour and distinction pines,
Beckon'd where bright adventure shines!
What dreams on fire, with daring's zeal!—
What prompt resolves—firm judgments steel!—
What quick upspringings of the soul!—
What stretchings on to glory's goal!—
There beat strong hearts, whose bright desire
Might kindle embryo worlds with fire,
Or proudly (hearts that ne'er have blench'd!)—
Light up unquicken'd suns, or quench'd!—
Their fervour—deathless and profound—
Their force—their faith—without a bound!
On such electric energies—
Such elements of life as these—
Creation's issues might depend,
Did ev'n such zeal not find its end!—
Their thought might wield the worlds above—
Did even such fire not transient prove!—
But whispers low a voice that saith—
“The end of such things is but death.”

XI.

Glory is but a passing flame—
Honour the nothing of a name!
And victory but an empty sound;—
These petty triumphs have their bound!
Then mourns the full heart in the breast—
Augustly troubled and distressed!

The high soul stoops to prey on care,—
Magnificently sorrowing there!
Rejecting—once the adored renown—
The blazon'd gauds—the fiery crown!—
And sighing for a loftier state,
Greater through wish of being great,
Than through the proudest helps of fate!
Raised higher by the exalting will,
Than all that might its aims fulfil;—
Aye! lifted more by such desire
Than could it—all it asks acquire!—
Oh—more—yet measurelessly more—
Advanced—upraised—from Earth's dim floor—
From all the nothingness of dust—
Than were its dreams—all truth, all trust!
Yes!—Nought can shine so high-sublime
Through all Eternity as time—
As this brave challenge, proud and high—
Defiance given to Destiny!
This mounting through the empty space—
This speeding through the goalless race—
This grappling with the worlds unseen—
This being what we ne'er have been!—
The soul with mightiest yearnings fraught—
Wins all things—wakes all things from nought—
Creating to itself alone—
And making wondrously its own
The Glory ne'er yet felt nor known,
And shaping out such shadowy scheme
As mocks the Real with a Dream!—

Oh! greatest 'tis to be so great
'Gainst strong Reality and Fate;
And nobler is this grand distress
Than all atchievement's best success—
Than all supremacy's excess!

XII.

They part—they pass—they wind—they wheel—
They sweep along—a sea of steel—
A forest of far-shadowing plumes—
Like foam—where billowy Ocean booms—
Huge heaving hills seem rolling there,
Where massive chariots, ordered fair,
Their ponderous passage take—
Aye! heaving hills of Car and Wain,—
Those terrors of the artillery train
That groan along the encumbered plain,
And teach the ground to shake!—
One Firmament of Lightning shines
'Mid air—where o'er those lengthening lines
Their banners, hung from straight-stemmed pines,
Float broad their skyey course—
Dense clouds of Infantry o'erspread
The earth, (where strange eclipse they shed—
Reverberates loud their measured tread—)
And Hurricanes of Horse!—

XIII.

Thus the Army of Invasion pours,
Like Oceans that o'erflow their shores—

A flood of life and breath,
That commonwealth of conquerors there,
Their trappings glittering with Despair
And Death, that pales the conscious air,—
(Each pants his leader's fame to share)—
Their swords and souls unsheathe!
That nation of Napoleons comes!
Now tremble, Europe's threatened homes!—
They come in rushing wrath,
A nation of Napoleons!—They
Would snatch another world and lay
Ev'n at their monarch's feet to-day,
And make all his beneath!
Each, emulous of that dread fame,
Would build an echo of His Name
On deeds of doom and death!
Sweep on, tremendous waves of war!
Methinks arise dim mists from far,
Stretched overshadowingly,
That round your crests of terror cling,
And pale them, and about them fling
A wan cold hue of perishing—
The livery of the Grave's stern king
When stricken spirits flee!

XIV.

And Russia! dost thou wait supine
While banded powers thus challenge thine?

Not so! Spreads fast and free
Through her great empire's broad extent,
One towering mood magnificent,
From boundary sea to sea!
Throned conqueror! gaze upon this sight,
Disclosed to mental view aright,
And own its dignity!
From tossing Baltic's waves of pride,
To waters of the Caspian's tide,
Or the Arctic Ocean's iron side,
Her myriads summoned be!
Russia in arms awaits the shock,
Firm as some time-unshaken rock,—
Russia in arms 'gainst thee!
Aye! not her hosts' proud ranks alone,
Strong-rallying round her shrine and throne,
In attitude of might are shewn,—
A nobler muster's made.
There marshalled are the minds of men,—
More strong to aid than ten times ten
The opposing myriads told again—
A Sabaoth-strength to aid!
There gathered in one glorious mass,
Stand forth great thoughts that shall not pass;
There centered is their heart,—
One hope—one will—one soul—one trust—
One chartered purpose and august!
Most sure defence, not built on dust,—
From earth,—clay,—death,—apart!—

A mighty championship indeed!
Break—break the spear,—an useless reed;
Set free your weak ally, the steed,—
Forget your phalanxed swarms to lead,—
Your sounding chariots burn.
Yes! million bosoms well may prone
To earth be pressed before The One;
These myriads massed to One alone,—
Till those that hate might change their tone,
By the union of their Love undone—
Whose lessons first they learn!—
Whose tasks first thus are learned,—'twere well
Could they, too, practice these;—the spell
Of Love, the bright, the bland,—
Confessing thus, till crushed might fall,
Before that Victory-Presence all
Those foes, and own your virtue's thrall—
True heroes—thrice-linked band!—

XV.

Your brows with haloes shine enwreathed,
With angel-panoplies ye are sheathed;—
There Heaven, twice over, sure hath breathed
The quickenings of Her might!
Bright armies of the embattailled thought,—
The untameable—the unbribed—the unbought!—
Have Ye, to these fierce conflicts brought
Ye souls, unstained and white!—
Champions of Conscience, league sublime,—
Blessed—honoured to remotest time,

Indeed the invincible!
Man dare not dream what powers divine,
Whose shadows ev'n with victory shine,
May help your war, your barriers line,
And 'midst your strongholds dwell!
Dread chivalry of the upraised heart,—
The immortal, the immaterial part,
Whose arms are Faith and Right!—
Battalia of the purposed soul,
Whose glory claims Heaven's blazon roll,
March on! like Truth and Light!
Innumerous as the sands must be,
In sooth your legions proud and free,
And borne on lightning wing.
Thoughts—warriors all!—high Feelings, made—
Leaders of Feelings that arrayed
In endless triumphs spring!—
Succession ceaseless—boundless flow
Of high resolves, that gush and glow
As conquest's heart was won!—
All patriot hopes—all hero-dreams
Together blend their countless streams,—
Far lengthening on and on!—
The electric sympathies are spread
From sense to sense, while strength is shed
Ev'n on the very frailest head,—
Methinks seem here, in sooth, no Dead!—
They spread so wide and far!—
With Hope, Faith, Honour, Ardour rife

The Land seems like one boundless Life,
Upstarting to the immortal strife,
Cheered on by holiest star!
Heaven's peace past understanding seems,—
(So much that strife on their side teems
With sacred argument—pure dreams—)
In heart of all their war!

XVI.

They start—they wake—like wildfire, swift
The impulse doth each heart uplift—
Each thrilled existence warms!
The Spirits of the People spring,
As though new freed, on heavenward wing,
And press, and crowd, and throng, and cling,—
A universe in arms!—
More strong, ev'n measurelessly more,
Than empire's strength when battle's roar
Shakes earth, as billows shake the shore,
Far scattering wreck and rout!
'Tis not war's iron clang and din—
Too oft man's proud and splendid sin,—
Whose tissued web the Furies spin,—
All that is most of God within
Most sways and speaks without!
Russia! let no vague fears oppress,
With faint dismay and pale distress;
Through thy proud realms immense,
With calm determined soul await
The slow developments of Fate;

Deliverance yet shall make elate
The injured land, the outraged state,
Which still shall hurl, sublimely great,
Defiance and Defence!
Russia! the deep Solution, soon
Of this strange crisis shall be known.
Bear on undaunted still!
The Unvanquishable Right—the Rock—
Supports thee in this deadly shock,
And man's great World of Will!

CANTO III.

I.

Pass we the toilsome march and long,
Outwearying oft the staunch and strong,
Though fired with hope and pride.
Pass we details of martial kind,—
How those o'erwhelming hosts combined,
In various parts divide,
Stretched o'er a wide and sweeping space,
Beneath their separate chiefs they trace
Their stern, momentous way!—
In mighty masses on they roll,
Portions of that o'erpowering whole
No bulwarked fence shall stay!
Pass we the plans, their place that find
Within the conqueror's master-mind,
Those wonder-working schemes designed,
That Time must yet unveil!—
And pass we, too, those hardships dire
That tame the mettled soldier's fire,
That well may make him quail,—
The horrors of destructive war
Already frown unfolding far.
Confusion, with her cloudy hands,
Spreads discord 'midst those vasty bands.

But pass we this and all,—
And pause not till, on Niemen's banks,
We hail the warrior-emperor's ranks,
Whose legioned throngs appal!

II.

From various points, in different parts,
Distributed by skilful arts,
The columned lines advance;
And troop by troop, and train by train,
The rolling river's boundary gain!—
On! on!—imperial France!
Westphalia's King his squadrons guides
Toward Grodno, near the river's tides,
There thousands shake the strand.—
Straight, to a point—Pilony named,
Speeds, Italy!—thy viceroy famed—
With those of his command!
The mighty Sovereign, too, moves near,—
The old Neimen's glistening currents clear,
And he hath made his stand
Near Nogaraiski, close beside
Those hurrying waters that divide
The far-extended land!
Distant from Kowno this may be,
'Tis said, perchance some fair leagues three;
And here the ambitious chief
Paused for awhile in pondering mood,
And gazed full deeply on the flood;
Yet not for long there gazing stood,—
Such moods in him were brief!

III.

It was a fine and startling scene
That asked the observant eye, I ween,—
The scene that spread developed there
Serene, yet rugged—stern, yet fair;
With all the adjuncts strange that made
Its magic picture, full displayed.
The advancing column's foremost line
Had reached the river's serpentine,
And far and wide the flash of arms
Gleamed from the dense and serried swarms;
The presence of their terrors gave
But brighter chrystal to the wave
That rolled in quiet beauty on,
And sparkling flowed,—and dimpling shone,—
Belting the land with silvery zone.
Beneath the o'er-canopying shade
Of forests huge these waters strayed;—
Huge forests on the Russian side,
That stood arrayed in all their pride,
And frowning stooped, and feathering swept,
Till in those waves their boughs were dipp'd.
'Tis morning's young and opening hour,
But where Pilwisky's forests tower,
Still ancient night seems throned in gloom,
And daylight hovering round his tomb!
Such crowding shadows there amassed
A dimness o'er the dawning cast,
But bickering arms, now broad and bright,
Give aid to that upspringing Light;

And, spite the close trees' sombre screen,
Shoot many a quivering ray between.

IV.

Roll—roll! bright river—doubly fair
For that Portentous Presence there!
Roll—roll unto the expecting main,—
(Where rivers pour themselves like rain)—
Without the semblance of a stain!
Flow to the Baltic's sounding deep,
Where merged, thy rippling waves shall sleep!
To Courland's gulph thy course pursue,
As track of feathered arrow true:
The term to which thy currents flow,
The armed thousands that behold thee know!
The end thou seek'st is stamped and shown,—
Ah! who shall tell them of their own?

V.

Where—where speeds on, with sound and gleam,
That mightier-rolling human stream?—
Those living waves of power and pride—
Oh! whither wends their hurrying tide?
Higher than e'er rose spring or flood,
Now rise the torrents of their blood—
Where is the term to which they tend?
Where is their limit and their end?
Where is the goal to which they rush?
Prophetic voice of Sorrow,—hush!

Not long—I said, the Emperor's glance
Was fixed—a momentary trance!—
He starts from wandering thoughts' light sway,
Subjects of heavier charge to weigh;
And now new-strung to high resolves,
On him, by choice, the task devolves,
In front of those battalioned ranks,
Of reconnoitring Niemen's banks,—
Sudden he wheeled his charger round
On that uneven, slippery ground;
Sharp turns the steed with headlong bound—
Which hints from threatening spurs provoke—
With faultering step—with floundering stroke
(The while the faithless girths gave way)—
The War-Horse struggled to obey—
Then felt the rough ground fail at need,—
His footing missed—that mettled steed
Of gallant blood and generous breed,
And horse and rider fell,—
In face of all those thousands there
They fell!—that mightiest conqueror!—where—
Where bides he, Glory's loftiest heir,
Whose praise all nations swell!—
Where bides he?—prostrate in the dust
Before his hosts,—his pride—his trust—
That served his 'hests so well!

VI.

“Ill auguring sign and omen dark,”
A voice exclaimed, though none might mark

Whence issued the accents stern!
(Fast round confusion gathering spread)
“Dire boding chance and portent dread,
A Roman would return!”
The Emperor's eye flashed living fire—
Looks fraught with proud disdain and ire!—
Once more he seized the rein—
Short space for such mischance he halts,
Full suddenly and swift he vaults
Into his seat again!
An hundred wreaths of foam make white
His charger's neck and harness bright,
His smoke of fiery breath
Rolls from his nostrils on the air,
He flashes, shooting here and there,
And lightening plays, as when ye bare
Your sabre from its sheath!

VII.

The task resumed is soon fulfilled—
The experienced eye, well practised—skilled—
But brief delay requires.
The recognition made, ere long
Napoleon, with his circling throng,
Unto his tent retires.
At set of sun—at fall of day,
The word is given which all obey.
Soon preparation's stir is shewn,
Three bridges o'er the stream are thrown—
Three bridges span the indignant stream
That murmurs as in troubled dream!—

Their arch the chafed tide flows beneath,
That arch shall waft o'er strife and death!—
But roll, thou stream, crisp'd,—ruffled,—roll;
Thou and the Gaul shall gain your goal;
And run that course—Heaven's 'hests controul!—

VIII.

And soon—at evening's hour embark
In shallop light—in fragile ark—
A company of miners first
(While thousands for the adventure thirst),
And push from friendly shores their boat
That almost seems afraid to float.
But swift they take their noiseless way,
Like tigers stealing on their prey,
Nor meet resistance nor delay—
They cross the water's glittering path,—
Vaunt-couriers they of wrong and wrath,
Heralds of ruin and of woe;
But on they hurry—be it so!
And now their little voyage done,
The haven of their hopes is won,
The foremost of the venturous band
Hath reached the bank—hath leapt to land,
And there triumphant takes his stand
Upon the opposing, hostile strand.

IX.

And did no earthquake rushing rend
That soil on which they dared descend,

And shattering, heave the insulted ground
To yawning anarchy around?
When thus the first French foot was placed—
The first step of invasion traced
On the earth aggrieved on which they burst
With bold audacious haste accursed—
When this fell stride was ta'en—the first!
And doth no ambushed foeman start
To strike the aggressors to the heart?
No hidden ranks upspringing, bare
Their sheathless sabres in the air,—
A steely barrier threatening there?
Where hides the phalanxed patriot host
That these should greet with stern accost,
Defenders of their menaced soil—
That back should make these foes recoil?
None—none appear—'tis silence all:
No voice—no breath—no foot's light fall—
Of theirs ev'n the echoes seem to cease.—
All—all on the outraged shore is peace—
War is but on their side!
There spreads his dreadful pomp of gloom—
There gleam his shows of threatening doom—
Gorgeous o'er-gildings of the tomb—
There frowns his fearful pride!

X.

'Tis silence all, and silence still—
Hush! did the leafy forests thrill?—

Awakes a sudden gale?
A rustling noise!—a stealing sound!—
It deepens—Ha!—do foes surround,
Mustering in twilight pale?
A lonely apparition starts
Before that knot of gallant hearts!
Singly this seeks the strand,
A solitary horseman rides
From out the wood, and dauntless guides
His steed to where they stand.
Sole Representative is he
Of Russia's giant monarchy,
Her Empired strength from Sea to Sea,
Her people and her prince!
That Cossack chief alone appears,
His brow a calm composure wears,
His words and looks betray no fears—
Emotions slight evince!

XI.

And thus his voice the silence broke,
Thus challenged he the band and spoke,
“Who are ye, Strangers,—Whence?—declare!”
Answered the foremost soldier there,
“Frenchmen! and straight from France!”—
Challenged to challenger replies
With voice unshaken by surprise,
With like unquailing glance.
I guess it was a wond'rous scene,
Those men—a river roll'd between

The army and their band—
That single Cossack chief before
The invaders of his country's shore—
His violated land!
The invaders clustering in their pride
So thick along the opposing side
Where now they make their stand!
And still there keeps undauntedly
His place, with bearing firm and free,
And reins his rugged steed,—
That warrior lofty and alone,
And asks again, in echoing tone,
Their errand and their need:—
“Wherefore to Russia have ye sped,
Wherefore her confines dare ye tread,
I charge ye, tell aright?”—
“To conquer ye!—Make Wilna ours—
Pluck Poland from your tyrant's powers!—
And crush his sovereign might!—
For this to Russia's realm we come,
For this we beat the hoarse harsh drum,
And tread our march sublime;
For this on Russia's soil we stand
With banner and with battle-brand,
And brave your barbarous clime!”

XII.

Off dashed the desert's savage son
Like lightning-flash, just seen and gone,

Right to the covering woods he hies—
Fast, fast as fire from flint he flies,
Then deeply, darkly disappears
Where many a tree its shelter rears.
The dubious soldiers there amazed,
A moment mute with wonder gazed,
Then flushed with sudden fury seek
Their hate upon his head to wreak;
Their loaded guns with reckless ire
Into those sheltering woods they fire,
Loud clangs the sharp report;
But when these echoes died away,
Silence resumed her perfect sway—
No answering peals retort!
Thus by these random shots, and vain,
Began that dire and dread campaign!—
Napoleon, furious, heard from far
This first faint signal of the war.
Perchance that soul so long unbent
Thrill'd to some dark presentiment—
Some antepast of gloom and ill
Shook even his world-defying will!
Or it might be that only there
Awoke a keen prudential care.

XIII.

Howe'er it was, his piercing eye
Flashed fierce with angry brilliancy;
His accents rang more sharp and stern,
All round might well his rage discern—

His firm-set lip and lowering brow
Portended wrath's wild outbreak now;
But soon that brow was smoothed once more,
That aspect tranquil as before;
Whate'er the emotions in his breast,
He could command them unto rest;
And countless duties now demand
The o'er-ruling mind—the out-tracing hand!—
Three hundred warriors straight they send
Those spanning bridges to defend,
That Niemen's watery bar bestride—
Unto that river's Russian side;
Then from the valleys and the wood
Pours soon the mighty human flood.
In silence to the borders they
Advance, and there assembling stay,
Commanded, arms in hand, to spread
Their limbs upon the earth's rude bed!—
Midst reeds and sedge their couch, behold,
Wet with abundant dews and cold.
Fires are forbidden through the Night.
No matter! Morn shall yet rise bright,
And smile away her wrongs and blight,
Fast kindling back through ev'ry vein
Suspended warmth's glad cheer again.

XIV.

And be their slumbers calm and deep,
Even though thus sword in hand they sleep.

A weighty hour 'tis true draws nigh—
Not on their heads its charge shall lie
Of stern responsibility!
The morning slowly dawns at last—
The night with all its shades is past.
Three hundred paces from the flood
Napoleon's tent conspicuous stood
Upon the loftiest height;
It held dominion o'er the scene,
And where its snowy bulwarks lean
Fell first the streaks of light;
Within that canvass citadel,—
Oh! who shall ever dream or tell
What mighty dreams then wrought,
What rapt emotions rose and fell
With withering ebb—with gathering swell—
An universe of thought!
Oh!—who or what shall ere make clear
The purposes portentous there
That started into birth—
Where through the watches of the night,
He dwelt—the terrible in might—
The Thunderer of the earth!

XV.

Tamer and Trampler of the world!—
Was slumber round thy spirit furled
Through those long mortal hours?—
Surely the tempest of thy mind
Then left thee not to rest resigned,
While dark the future lowers?—

The destiny thyself hath bade
And beckoned forth,—and moulding made,—
Claims mastery o'er thy soul;
So they who call up from the dead
Mysterious Forms of wrath and dread,
May not those forms controul!
Thy self-appointed hour is come,—
Now—thou'rt dragged onward by thy doom!—

XVI.

The morn is ris'n, the East is red;
Up, soldiers!—from your clay-cold bed,
Your dewy couch beside the wave,
Chill as the precincts of the grave!
Up, soldiers! scattered thousands!—rise!—
The day is new-launched in the skies!
The signal now their leaders give,
Hills—valleys—woods—are all alive—
Earth to existence seems to start
With bounding pulse and throbbing heart,
So densely throng'd is every part;
And while away the night is driven
She lifts a human face to heaven!
So close, so crowded—gathering fair—
The multitudes and myriads there!
Hath the risen sun created now
Strange semblance of himself below?—
Such splendour breaks on every side
From bristling arms shed far and wide;
Earth beams!—rays seem to dance and dart
From every point—through every part.

A dazzling deluge all of light—
A starriness to thought and sight!

XVII.

Another signal, and they move
These hours to seize and to improve;
In three close columns march they forth
To shake the stout heart of the North!
They move in masses deftly trained,
And soon the extremest verge is gained.
Straightened and narrowed, now they shrink
To chain of firm though finer link,
And meetly lengthening less and less,
Across those bridges three they press;
Th' ardour of expectation hot,
And mad impatience—mastered not—
Now works confusion dire!
Each, eager-wild that shore to gain—
To that new country to attain—
Precedence would acquire!
But checked are soon those tumults all—
In order back the stragglers fall—
Well-practised to obey!
And lo! the Sovereign Form!—the adored!—
He, at whose feet their hearts outpoured
Throb still—their leader and their lord!—
There stands and points their way!

XVIII.

De Courcy, how thy breast thrilled high
Beneath that all-commanding eye,
With looks benignant fixed
On that vast rapture-kindling throng,
That hailed with universal tongue
Their worshipped chief their ranks among,
And felt within their hearts grow strong,
Hope, pride, and transport mixed!—
And he—the monarch's monarch!—he
The arbiter of worlds!—swelled free
His heart with joy amain?—
When thus 'twas fixed—'twas fate—'twas done—
Thus passed the Russian Rubicon—
The first dread step was ta'en!

XIX.

The stormy passion of the war,
Burning and mighty when afar,
Then doubly mighty rose
Within De Courcy's breast of flame,
Maddening for earth-surmounting fame—
When thus 'twas visioned close!
And now those countless legions thread
The unbounded forests deep and dread—
Their onward path they trace;
Already much seemed conquered then
(Though they have grappled not with men!)—
Clime,—Distance,—Time,—and Space!

Is't buoyed by thoughts of triumph high,
Or stirred with sense of dangers nigh,
Or racked with sharp anxiety,
Yon mightiest chieftain rides?
For, sudden with impatience keen—
Th' Emperor,—while varying shews his mien—
As he on lightnings launched had been,
His rushing steed,—dense trees between,
With dreadless hand well guides!

XX.

How flies that steed, as thousand wings
Lent fluttering aid—he bounds and springs,
And rakes the Russian soil, as though
To prove the presence of her foe—
Ploughs deep the bosom of the land,
As though to bid her understand
Her fell Destroyer is at hand,
The unpitying and the stern!
He flies along the echoing waste,
Half swallowing in his maddened haste
The far horizon, faintly traced
'Twixt those deep shades full close-enlaced,
Where sunrise-splendours burn.
He gallops fierce—he gallops far—
As blown on by the breath of War,—
Swept thwart that hostile soil!—
A glancing meteor seems that form,
Ruffling the earth into a storm,
To gaze ev'n grew a toil;

So rapidly his steps of speed,
Like thunder-shower's mid-drops, succeed
Fast,—thick—nor pause, nor fail—
He seemed as though he made his track
The hurricane on-driven rack,
And galloped on the gale!

XXI.

Draws rein that mighty rider now!
Less troubled spreads his breadth of brow,
Less troubled shews his face!
With speed subdued—with tightened rein
He traverses the widening plain,
Nor more resumes the race!
Hark!—whence that sound the echoes bore,
Deepening, full like to batteried roar
From loud artillery sent!
It gains and gathers on the sense,
And fills the hearers with suspense—
Suspense with longing blent!
The audience gathered there was such
As sound of distant fray could touch,
Far more than finest strains
Could e'er shake gentler hearts with might
Of the over-kindlings of delight,
When pleasure hath its pains!—
They drink those distant sounds with joy—
Oh!—strange, stern luxury—to destroy!
Dark, dreadful sport—to slay!

Their very steeds that music cheers!
The war-horse shews with up-shot ears,
And starting veins, that he too hears
That sound of deepening sway!

XXII.

It groans—it grumbles—distant still—
How strongly thousand bosoms thrill
In unison of power!
Symphonious with those murmuring sounds
How many a heart impatient bounds,
And pants for combat's hour!
Lowers darkly Lithuania's sky,
A load upon the wildered eye
It seems to brood and rest.
The inhospitable Clime doth greet,
With savage wrath, the approaching feet
Of its Appalling Guest!—
Muttering and groaning, swell and fall—
Distinctly heard and marked by all—
Those tones that hold their souls in thrall,
Seems the atmosphere o'erspread with pall,—
Surcharged with gathering gloom.
And is't—oh! is't War's hoarse delight—
Is't then a field of distant fight—
The ordeal of men's measured might
At Battle's bar of doom?
The majesty of Darkness drear
Seems on the horizon to appear,

The horizon swarth and dun!
Winds rise—Earth gasps—clouds wildly race—
Seems Nature covering up her face,
While th' elements are lashed apace
To rage whe r Storm is swallowing Space,—
Where gloom upclimbs to pride of place—
Shadow hath struck the sun!
It is the thunder-tempest's birth—
Rebuked appears the trembling Earth,
E'en like her lowliest things!—
As though in anguish of affright,
Hither and thither chased for flight—
Th' Air spreads her sweeping wings!

XXIII.

All th' Atmosphere seems like a veil
To fragments torn, which soon must fail,
Or, snatched from earth, divide,—
Thus leave her in her pale distress,
In helpless, shuddering nakedness,—
And, rack'd from side to side!—
The unearthly hubbub gathers round,—
With deafening tumults heaved profound,—
Nought else may there be heard!
Men marked their comrade's lips move there
Of murmured speech, yet not aware—
Vain—vain command's loud word!
The storm of those disastrous hours,
That shook their proud embattailled powers,—

Eclipsed their pomp with gloom,—
Proved, in its rushing rule and rise,
E'en mighty as their enterprise—
Tremendous as their doom!

XXIV.

Motion'd the Almighty King of Kings:
His mission'd ministers their wings
Stretched trembling to obey!—
The spirits of the ravening storm
Glass on the firmaments their form,—
And Sound—Sound—Sound—their Sway!
That blast earth's ear shall rend and rive!—
Dread charioteers! how swift they drive,—
('Till Heaven, with the uproar, rocks alive)—
Their clattering chariots on!—
The mountains tremble at their touch,—
Their Ruler's might they well avouch;—
Hell's gates have open flown!
To close once more with crack of doom,
While fiends rage worse in murkier gloom—
Till fiercelier agonies consume—
From cause to them unknown!

XXV.

Th' armed spirits Night's lashed boundaries curl—
Their banners furious they unfurl;—
Rack all—till rest is gone!
They breathe!—and maddening oceans whirl
Leviathan to Death,—and hurl
Huge navies down undone!—

They speak!—and the unborn ages start!
Life quivering—stirs Death's mouldered heart!—
The veil of Mystery rends apart—
From Space to Space strange terrors dart,
All under their fierce yoke shall smart,
Since they Heaven's 'hest have won.
The Immense seem'd with thy power o'erflowed,
Oh Thou, who hast in heaven abode!—
The Eternal Presence flashed abroad,
The Unvisionably Great!—
Showered down with fulness of controul
Upon the silence of the soul—
These shadowings of thy state!

XXVI.

Heaven's Arch-Omnipotencies crowned—
(By wondering,—shuddering systems owned)—
Through crushed creations streamed!
Space boomed!—Hark! the elemental groans!—
The wrench of Nature's thunderous zones!—
The shock of Worlds—the wreck of Thrones—
The crash of Gods—it seemed!—
Oh! Marvellous of Might!—art thou
Destroying or creating now
Ten thousand worlds at once?
Such throes of Nature's anguish wake—
While answering she must shrink, and quake,—
(Seems even Her space-broad glass to break!)—
Thus challenged—thus o'erstrained to make
Reflection for response!—

King of the eternities—dread Lord!
By panting seraphim adored—
Buildest thou a new—more glorious throne,—
Fresh pinnacled on heights unknown,
With pyramids of worlds beneath;
Suns blazing forth their shadowy sheath;
Far pointing upwards, but in vain!
They cannot point such height, though fain—
They cannot point even to Thy Place,
Nor aid toward thy far-towering reign
To raise those thoughts that yearn amain—
To lift those eyes that seek thy trace!

XXVII.

Buildest thou another Throne in Heaven—
That thus the labouring space seems riven?
The prostrate, the all-adoring soul,
Faints, shrivelled, like a ruined scroll,
Where thy dread steps have trode!
The heaven of heavens seemed bared and bent;
Time—place—law—season—element
Appeared unmarshalled then, or blent,
To Chaos more magnificent,
Than fixed Creation shewed!—
All Fate's harmonious links seemed rent—
All spirit shrunk—to silence sent—
The annihilating awe that went

Through all its depths—its powers had spent—
Had crushed the Being Mercy lent,
Till the Universe was God!
Midst wrecks of these His works—His throne
Towered sole, self-shadowing, and alone!—
Let chaos or creation reign—
He rules—He rests—and shall remain!

XXVIII.

Such terrors and amazements thrill
Man's heart, and paralyse his will,—
When aught disturbs the equal flow
And attitude of things below;—
While high-wrought phantasies will sweep
To clouds of foam the spirit's deep,
Through such o'erwhelming hours!
'Tis then that ruin seems to break
O'er all, while shattering tempests wake,
And the awful scene o'erpowers.

XXIX.

De Courcy—who had ever stood
Possessed of calm, undaunted mood,
Through battle's hours of doom,—
Felt awed and troubled by the array
Of Nature's terrors, on that day
Of empire-circling gloom!
Thunders and lightnings, wind and rain,
Ravaged the Lithuanian plain,

And spread disorder through that host,
Of many a kingdom, pride and boast;—
The Giant Clouds appeared to bend,
And darkening earthwards to descend,
As though to bar and to oppose
The entrance of the country's foes!
Down to the very earth they seemed
To sweep and stoop—(while shrill winds screamed
Their dirge of dismal strain profound);—
They build their wavering wall around!—
Their floating fortress!—to defend
That threatened land they lower and bend!—
Seem the elements instinct with all
Man's patriot soul!—'gainst Russia's fall—
'Gainst Russia's ruin—wrong or thrall,
They march!—the scale descends!
All powers appear to lend their aid—
Hot—Cold—Moist—Dry—Cloud—Storm, and Shade—
Her Counsellors and her Friends!—
Now darker, vaster they appear—
Those covering clouds that frown more near—
More stern—more hideous—and more drear—
Like chains of mountains newly-formed—
Volcanic chains,—with levin warmed!—
These huge colossal clouds outspread,
And hide the fair sun's beaming head!
Disputing with that armèd force,
Which onwards speeds without remorse,
The ingress to that mighty realm
Which seems it they would sooner whelm,

And raze with ruin's worst—
Than leave to the Destroyer's hand,—
The tender mercies of his band—
To black defeat—to slavery's brand—
To anarchies accursed!

XXX.

The billowy banners of the clouds
Still spread—and spread—like nations' shrouds—
Still darts the electric flame!
The thunder's bellowing tumults roll—
Sound—sound—their clamours through the soul—
Its earthlier thoughts to tame!
Confusion 'mid those hosts was found,
That matched the wild disorder round—
Still growing—gathering fast;
Ten thousand horse—a brave array—
Like Cataracts on the battle-day,
Scattering among the foe dismay,
Now maddening meet the blast!
The dizzying lightnings in their eyes,
Still startle them with fierce surprise—
Driven wild with rage and fear,
They sideways swerve—bound—pause—advance—
Snort—champ—and, wildly plunging, prance—
Though checked by hands severe.

XXXI.

Ten thousand horse now breaking free,
From masters reft of mastery,

Fill earth with wrath and strife;—
Their necks with thunders cloathed and sheathed,
With hundred clouds of foam are wreathed:—
The very Storm they leave outbreathed
With fiercer Storm of Life!
Trampling the ground with earthquake tread—
Scattering their agony and dread
In foam and sweat around!—
They rampant glare, and furious fling!—
With desperation's flashing spring,
And fierce air-cleaving bound!
Ten thousand horse stern marshalled there,
Break through their ranks in brave despair,
All challenge!—all confound!—
Now scattered far and wide, they seem
Like broken shadows in a dream—
Where discords strange abound!—
Now clashed together, as above
Yon clouds in threatening masses move,—
Whence shoots the white-winged blaze:—
Their fiery spirits seem to dart—
From forth their living frames—and part,—
They phrenzied leap, and plunge, and start—
So stung with wild amaze!
While rattling 'gainst their sides I trow,
Their battle-harness shivereth—lo!
At times together serried so,
By blindfold chance—they dream they go
In headlong hurry on the foe,
And charge—and charge amain!

So oft in battle had they borne
Their lords on rushing wings of morn,
And shared their valorous vein!

XXXII.

Still instinct sways with wondrous force
The brave breast of the noble horse;
(As erst shewed one brave steed
In England's wars, of Lion fame—
Whose lord fell, mark'd by murderous aim—
Which, riderless and free,—yet came
To charge with those that charged, the same
As though urged on at need!—
And driven by hand,—heel,—heart—of flame,
Though none might guide nor lead!)
Still—still the bellowing tempest roars—
The rain in deluge-fury pours!—
No respite—no remorse!
Wilder and wilder o'er the plains,
Like meteors streamed their shooting manes—
Lava and levin in their veins—
Swept on those clouds of horse!

XXXIII.

With furious feet they scorn and spurn
The lightnings round that bickering burn;
Or flash the flashes back
With their outstarting eyes of flame,
That make those winged Destructions tame—
Illumining their track!

(Those lightnings quivering warm around
Seemed turning all the trembling ground
To pale, faint, aery rack).
Back they retort the skies' red rage,—
Their phrenzy nothing can assuage—
Blow back the staggered gale—
From their tempestuous nostrils spread—
Distended—dyed with deepest red!—
Thick fall their steps like hail;
While skies are lowering nearer earth,
These seem half maddening into mirth,—
As they would rake to ruinous birth
A thousand tempests more!
And pawing at the Firmament,
Break up the founts within it pent,
And dash them on Earth's shore!
The fountains of the Upper Deep—
The waters gathered on an heap—
Those Firmaments above!
Ne'er yet was shewn such wondrous sight—
From fixed foundations of Her might
Seem'd Nature's self to move!—
Never did yet such storm arise—
All elements—all energies—
Together battling wild!—
Those tides that, chiming hoarse and deep,
'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis sweep;—
Compared with such were mild!

XXXIV.

How fared De Courcy through those hours—
(While nature reels—creation lowers)—
And his black steed Mountjoye?
I guess that jet-black steed was white
With foam of fury and affright,—
Dashed like pale surge o'er th' ebon night,
When th' Ocean stands up in his might,
And howls his stormy-voiced delight
Even to the o'ertaken stars aright,—
As tempest were his toy!
A thousand snowy foam-wreaths fleck
That proudly arched and vein-swoll'n neck:
His heaving glossy sides they deck,
And shower and shower,—and speck on speck,—
His native hue destroy.
Wrath, dread, and fierce excitement make
His eye-balls glare—his bold heart quake—
His mighty limbs fast quivering shake
In that vast throng and press!
But gentle, ev'n as gallant, he
Owns, with sagacious sympathy,
His master's loved caress;—
Responds with quick instinctive sense
To that kind hand's mute eloquence,
And long-familiar touch.
And still his swelling soul contains—
Subdues the madness in his veins—
Much soothed, though shaken much.

XXXV.

Keener the lightning's mazy wing—
More forked its desperate shining sting—
See flash to flash succeed!—
Ha! sped no bolt there, deadly hot?—
Terrific fire-ball fell there not?
Lo! sudden as from mortal shot,
Down falls that stricken steed!
De Courcy, springing from his seat,
Starts, nimbly active to his feet;—
A piteous sight his eyes must meet,—
A piteous sight to him!
The steed that bore him, like the blast,
Still the indefatigably fast—
Before him lies,—changed, grim, and ghast—
Comrade of all his battles, cast
Without a battle-death, at last
To earth, with stiff-stretched limb!
With proud eye filmed—death-clouded front,
That flaming once bore battle's brunt,
And blood-blazed nostril—pale!—
There lies his steed, for wolf and worm,
While, heedless all of howling storm,
And terrors strange that round them swarm,
He bends above that lifeless form
And makes his heavy wail!

XXXVI.

“Accursed be this intemperate clime—
Accursed the day and hour of time

That thus hath seen thee fall!
How many a mighty sun hath shone
To light our arms to glory on,
Since first where rolls the blue Garonne
I bade thee brook my thrall;
On Jena's plain, Mountjoye well served
My need, nor once from combat swerved,
Though desperate shock we bore.
At Austerlitz—the day of days!—
How didst thou fire the air with rays
Of rushing spirit—past all praise!—
And breath'st thou thus no more?
Then wounded wert thou, generous steed,
And much I mourn'd to see thee bleed,—
Yet forced to urge thee on;
While gallantly, with sore-gashed breast,
'Midst charging ranks my war-horse pressed,
And toiled till all was done!
And now mine own—my princely steed,
Must Lithuanian ravens feed
On thy unburied corse?”
He paused in wakening hope, for slow
Faint signs of life began to show
The earth-extended horse!

XXXVII.

Joy! he hath fallen upon the ground,—
Not scathed and struck to death, but stunned.
Behold him now revive!

His chest distends—his brave flanks heave—
He wins from Death's stern grasp reprieve:
He lives—and he shall live!
The stormy light before him gleams;
Labouring to live in sooth he seems,
While from the expanding nostril streams
Once more the breath of pride!
He struggles eagerly to rise;—
Rekindle flamingly his eyes,
And pants his fluttering side.
One plunge—he hath arisen now!
And all delightedly shalt thou,
De Courcy, with unclouded brow,
His noble back bestride!

XXXVIII.

Right well Mountjoye his master bears,
While evil many a captain fares,
Through that disastrous day:
That day whose influence dire destroyed
Full many a life—left many a void
In those proud ranks, they say!
Ten thousand horse that, maddening there,
Flung high their foam on earth and air,
Ere long sank down and died.
Came sudden change from sultriness
That overpowered with its excess,
To piercing cold, that pained no less,
Which vainly they defied.

Scant forage—wearying roads and ways—
Choaked, miry, deep,—with forced delays,—
Followed in those destructive days
By laboured march through waste and maze,
And course precipitate,—
Cold sapping rains, that chilled and cramped,—
(Their spirit tamed—their ardour damped—
While in those drear morasses swamped)
Determined soon their fate.
Weakened, and wasted, and o'er-worn,
They perished there in plight forlorn,
Exhausted and distressed.
Hundreds of thousands slowly slain,
By hardships dire and labours vain,
That soil unfriendly pressed.
Mowed down, whole squadrons there remain,
And load the dense-encumbered plain,
And earth and air infest!

XXXIX.

Nor think that man escaped!—Ah, no:
Proportion large he bears of woe,
And suffering and dismay.
Unnumbered stragglers, left to die
Beneath that harsh inclement sky,
In sad disorder stray.
Those who had sought, but sought in vain,
To toil on with the rest, are fain
(Hopeless their comrades to regain)—

To couch them on the clay.
Unsheltered—famished—lorn, and lost—
Poor fragments of a mighty host,
They choke with death the way.
Now rumours come that, fast and free,
The forces of the enemy
Fall back on every side:
As though resolved without a blow
To leave unto the hastening foe
Fair Lithuania's land, now shew
Resistance 'gainst the tide!
Now forward—forward—faster still
Doth urge their Chief, with word and will,
His Columns over plain and hill!—
Dense forests traversing in haste,
And pathless wilderness and waste—
With eager hope that yet they may,
Thus hurrying on, day after day,
The foe o'ertake and overthrow
By one decisive, glorious blow!

XL.

Now halt awhile the breathless ranks
On Wilia's march-opposing banks.
Fierce roars the river hurrying by—
By heavy rains swoln full and high;
Fragments of broken bridges torn,
Fast down the racing stream are borne;
In thousand shivered splinters rent—
Adown the current these are sent.

Indignant at the obstacle,
Above the torrent's howling swell
The Emperor's voice distinct arose;
Whose accents haste and wrath disclose—
Commanding instantly to cross
Those waves that wildly chafe and toss
(Without a passing moment's loss).
A squadron of his faithful Poles—
Rush'd to the strife their gallant souls!
They dashed at once, without a word,
Soon as that high command was heard—
Dash'd 'midst the chaos rough and rude
Of those wild waters unsubdued;
Driven 'midst the maddening eddying stream,
Where bright their towery helmets gleam,—
Where with redoubled life inspired,
With energies triumphant fired—
Fiercely their battle-chargers strive,
And through the deafening torrents drive!—
Seem too those maddened waves alive,
That bar their course and block their way,
Like panthers gnashing round their prey!—
Soon breathless, scattered, checked, o'erpower'd,
With dread destruction round them showered,
Those steeds, affrighted, quail;—
While their proud riders, more than brave—
Whom none may succour—none may save—
Warring 'gainst tides that bellowing rave,
Resistlessly assail—

Still battling with the o'erwhelming wave—
Still grappling with their storm-lashed grave—
Magnificently fail!—

XLI.

Hush!—'midst the terrors of that death,
Hear—hear them with their latest breath
Shout loud their leader's name!
No more they struggle—hope hath died!
They turn their heads of towering pride,
That once all dangers well defied,
Now half-engulphed within that tide,
To him—their star of fame!
“Live!—live the Emperor!” wild and high,
Yet quivering not with agony,
Rang their last bubbling shout and cry,—
While round their heads the foam-whirls fly,
Magnanimously calm they die—
They vanish like a dream!
Drop we the shadowing curtain here,
O'er Wilia's funeral scene and drear!

CANTO IV.

I.

In Lithuania's capital,
Begirdled with its mighty wall,
Those weather-broken troops awhile
Remained to rest them from their toil!
And, sooth to say, was sharp the need
Of fainting man and jaded steed:
Their ardour damped, their vigour drained,
Their gallant energies o'erstrained,
But ill might these have more sustained—
Of travel stern—and labours sore;
'T was well such desperate task was o'er!—
Of Gaul's grand army thus a part,
Well fortified by warlike art,
In Wilna's town securely stay,
Reposing them as best they may,
Despite of wrong, and waste, and grief,
Cheered by the presence of their chief!—
Me lists not curiously to dwell
On all that far and near befell;
Nor all the war's strange turns to tell!—
Me lists not now in lengthened strain—
'Twere harsh and heavy task, and vain,
To point and mark with close detail
How bold attempts succeed or fail,—

How hostile armies part or meet,—
Obstruct—pursue—advance—retreat—
Attack—defend—disperse—divide—
Thwarted or shaken, or defied;
How adverse generals watch with skill,
To overreach each other still!—
Me lists not closely to declare
All circumstance of warfare there;
Nor with attentive hand t' untwine
Linked chains of operations fine;
Nor yet to unravel work and wile—
Through which shrewd craft would craft beguile,—
Nor all those webs and wheels that be,
Sinews and soul of strategy!—

II.

Suffice it, then, thus much to say,
Full many a skirmish light, and fray,
Had chanced between the troops led on
By him who filled Westphalia's throne;
And those that shield their much-loved land
Beneath Bagration's strict command—
(Bagration! whose enlaurelled name
Doth proud interpretation claim—
“God of the Army!” sound of fame!—)
Endangered these appeared awhile,
And caught within the lion's toil,—
Dissevered from that mighty host,
Where Russia placed her hopes the most—

Cut off awhile without resource
From that protecting friendly force!
But extricated soon and freed,
Through wily schemes that well succeed,
Their general with success doth lead
His columns far through winding ways,
To where the mightier army stays,
And gains, through routes circuitous,
The much-wished, happy junction thus.

III.

Slight skirmish, too—but marked with gore,
Had dyed the Dwina's shaken shore:
Where crossed the river's silvery line,
With venturous plan and brave design,
Th' enterprising Wittgenstein,
And bade, when night did darkling brood,
(Seizing the advantage, sharp and shrewd,)
Sebastiani's vanguard feel
The edge and strength of Russian steel.
Enough!—from Wilna's guarded towers
Now marched the Emperor and his powers.
Hot burned July's triumphant sun,
And glowed their bristling lines upon.
Two days Napoleon forward pressed—
The third he taketh up his rest
Where near Klubokoè's town uprears
Its walls, a convent, that o'erpeers
The habitations thronged below
In many a dark and rugged row.—

IV.

Brief space sojourns he there; ere long
Come tidings fresh and rumours strong
That Barclay, with his legioned bands,
To where Witepsk, the bulwarked, stands,
Speeds on with purpose fixed and deep,
And well his onward course doth keep:
To Kamen, then, the route is ta'en—
Th' army proceeds yet once again,
All burning with one ardent hope,—
Which strengthens each when nigh to droop;
That battle's bloody star shall rise
Once more before their longing eyes,
And end the anxieties intense
Of these long watches and suspense.
Now to Beszenkowicz they tend—
And hurrying there their course they bend,—
Well pleased, still looking to the end,—
Buoyed up by that sustaining dream
That tempts them on still gleam by gleam—
The sun-dream dazzling far and wide,
Of Victory's earth-o'erblazing pride!
Red Glory's star is still to them
Creation's crowning diadem!—
Its triumph glows in every pulse
That doth their bounding hearts convulse;
For them its rays all heaven o'errun—
It is a Sun within the Sun!
Glory!—it is their light of light—
Heaven's crowned archangel in their sight;—

It blazes all around its course,—
It lighteth all things—stream and source—
Air, earth, and heaven with radiance fierce—
The Uriel of the universe!—
Which streams to one vast pomp, ablaze
With its proud royalty of rays!

V.

That sea of steel, and fire, and life,
Rolls on as with Itself at strife;
With bickering splendours—changeful show—
And many a warlike noise they go!—
Hark! doth the horizon shuddering send
A hint with their proud dreams to blend?
Hark! is't the cannon's distant voice
That makes their conscious hearts rejoice?
It is the cannon's deep, deep tone,
Through their roused souls sent sounding on!—
The Italian Viceroy, some leagues off,
Hath late encountered Docteroff,
Who the rear-guard commanding leads
Of that vast force which Barclay heads.
Eugene—Beszenkowicz enthralls—
Makes himself master of its walls;
And where the Dwina's current flows,
A spanning bridge in haste he throws
Across the water's glistening breast,
(Unconscious of its dangerous guest)—
In place of that, the parting foe—
Whose troops in gallant order go—
(Well these th' opponent's purpose know!)

To ruin and to flame had given—
Confusedly into fragments driven.

VI.

Napoleon seeks the Dwina now,
And treads its banks with lightened brow;
Rolls glad his sparkling conquest new
Beneath Heaven's paradise of blue:
There bends awhile in careful mood
That mighty master o'er the flood;
Turns to the bridge constructed there
With critic sneer—with glance severe;
Blames—spurns—commands—points wrong and fault,—
Enough!—he may no longer halt.
He lingers not by Dwina fair;
Ambition hath no time to spare!
Once crossed the wave, he shapes his course
To mark where moves the Russian force.
He trusts a master's game to play,
And check them on their prosperous way.
In vain!—some chance-made prisoners tell
What all corroborates but too well—
(While chafes stern disappointment's grief,)
That Russia's general-in-chief
Fenced in Witepsk's strong walls remains,
And that position well retains.

VII.

The Gallic chief, 'mid thoughtful cares,
Straight to Beszenkowicz repairs

Now at the city's gates appear
Though tired and worn,—with gallant cheer
Two breathless Armies onwards rolled,
Roughening the air with steel and gold;—
(Hope to their souls fresh cheer doth lend—
Thus gained their wearying journey's end!)
By the North road and by the West,
With banners, tromp, and nodding crest,
They come, like ocean's flood and flow,
Startling, with restless stir and show,
The skies above and earth below!
They wave—wind—glisten—near and far—
A moving Wilderness of War!—
Those armies,—whom their chief awaits—
Together thundering at the gates,
Such clamours wake around—above—
Earth seems to breathe—the skies to move!—
Nought—nought—in fixedness remains,—
Rock the roused woods, and wheel the plains;
The rivers seemed impelled to rush
With faster flow—with reddening flush;
The winds seemed wakening,—winged,—and sent
More wildly fleet o'er tower and tent—
'Tis movement, haste and riot all,
As Discord held her carnival!—
(For Discord, mother of all war,
Seems daughter, too—so clash and jar
The myriads she has called to aid
At foot of her red throne arrayed!—)

VIII.

Genius! be thy high sway admired!—
The magic powers by thee acquired!
Time—Space, should seem thy beck to wait—
Thou givest thy mighty laws to fate!
Mark, at one moment, gathering here
These masses startlingly appear
At one same point—at one same place—
In one same hour—a well-run race!—
(As urged by some mysterious power
That hath all triumph for its dower—)
Assembling by attraction strange,
While welcomes loud they interchange—
From distant parts and various ways,
Spite of obstructions and delays!—
With such precision were obeyed
The injunctions on their leaders laid—
The injunctions and behests received
From him who best the war-web weaved—
That though from Niemen's far-off banks
Came all their intermingling ranks—
Moved thence at different times—thence sped
By different routes and widely spread,
Yet here collected were they found,
United on the chosen ground!
At the indicated spot together,
Despite of way—war—waste—and weather!
An hundred leagues of land between
Their meeting-point and parting scene!—

100

An hundred yawning leagues—and yet
They thus have timed their march and met!
Concentrating, the armed cohorts pour,
With clang—and tramp—and shout—and roar,
Upon that chosen spot—and beat
The battered earth with hurrying feet,
With maddened rout and hustling din
From separate quarters rushing in,
They crowd the avenues and halt,
From farther thoroughfare's default!

IX.

Beszenkowicz! thy streets they choked—
Each helped the block—none calmly brooked!—
Increased the riot—swelled the clang—
As though a thousand anvils rang;
That strange confusion from their bed
Might wake and whirl the wondering dead!
Hurrying and clashing—throng on throng—
Strive hard with hand, and foot, and tongue—
Shouldering each other still along!
Clamour, and strife, and struggle mar
The calm hours of the evening star.
Here sounds the trumpet, sharp and clear;
There hoarse, harsh shouts assail the ear;
Here, deepening roll the doubling drums;
And there some flying courier comes—
Trampling among the jostling crowd,
With threat imperative and loud;

101

While shrieks and shrilling yells resound—
(On urgent business rides he bound).
But vain his efforts—vain his threats—
The way-denying crowd besets;
His courser checks, and bears him back
All helpless on the trodden track;
The messenger of fate and fear
Spells backwards thus his wild career;
Or wedged remains he stiff and still,
Fixed like a statue, 'gainst his will,
('Mongst those dense living heaps that load
The groaning pavements of the road)—
With fluttering heart and flashing eye,
Stayed midway in volocity!
Heave his steed's flanks, and labouring play—
Right glad is he of such delay!
But strange it seems to see them stand,
With crushing throngs on either hand,
Quivering with haste—and onwards bound,
But forced to that repose profound!

X.

Shout loud the infuriate charioteers,
Goading their yoked and labouring steers;
Or straining horses, weary-worn,
Which scarce the wain's huge wheels can turn.
Kibitka, car, sledge, cannon, here
Inextricably mixed appear!
And still the din goes deepening on—
Tumultuously its way, it won!—

102

The grate of wheels—the neigh of steeds—
Oaths,—groans,—threats,—prayers, that no one heeds—
Sound echoing still and multiplied—
From every part—on every side!
While herds of bullocks in the rear,
Half maddening with distress and fear,
Loud bellowing stamp—and press—and throng—
Hard driven, and goaded sharp along!
(Those herds—designed the hosts to feed,
And serve their overwhelming need—
Whether urged on in droves apart,
Or harnessed, sluggish and inert,
To ponderous cars and waggons vast,
Shrunk still in size and numbers fast;—
Their pasturage scant—their travail sore—
They pined—they perished—score by score.)

XI.

The tumult partly seems subdued;
Now seek the famished needful food,—
The sick, medicaments and aid,
The way-worn—some cool lodgment's shade;
And all, repose from lengthened toil,
And travail's rout and clamour's broil.
But No!—'tis otherwise ordained—
The awakening hope hath quickly waned,
Despite their wish,—whate'er their will,—
“Forward!” the word is “Forward!” still!—
Orders reiterated are heard—
“On! on!” is still the signal word.

103

Commandments on commandments showered—
From various parts the sense o'erpowered;
But all still point—all surely tend
To one, the self-same certain end!
And rapidly the word was given—
And rapidly the troops were driven
From out the town that saw them late
Poured in tumultuous through her gate!
Those mighty masses roll at last,
Unravelled from confusions past,
Direct to where Ostrowno lies—
Ordered and mustered warlike wise;
E'en through the night are still pressed on
These preparations—till—'tis done!
To clang of arms, and tramp of steeds,
And all the hubbub, fast succeeds
A hush oppressive and profound—
No breath—no step—no movement round!

XII.

It almost seemed the yawning earth
Had swallowed up that monster birth—
That new prodigious World of Life,
With all its elements of strife,
So suddenly they flashing came,
With storm—with thunder—and with flame;
So startlingly they passed away,
Like clouds upon a gusty day;
Deep Night and Peace asked, “Where are they?”

104

None doubted now, with reddening beam,
Next morn on battle's front should gleam;
And many a heart throbbed high and free
In that austere expectancy.
But vain the dream—the hope was vain—
No mighty battle fired the plain,
Whose vast result might bid to cease
The lengthened strife in lengthened peace!

XIII.

But many a conflict, sharp though slight,
Proved France's fire and Russia's might;
Wild Croats, wilder Cossacks there,
Rent with fierce war-whoops all the air.
O'er many a combat, staunch and true,
The rival standards glorying flew
Through many a struggle, still unmatched,
Murat's high zeal the laurels snatched;
Till Admiration, stunned and scared,
Forgot to count the deeds he dared!
And eyes accustomed to his feats,—
While memory still her tale repeats,
Half doubt the wonders they behold—
The fresh deeds beggaring those of old!
Aye! those who long and oft had seen
His venturous acts of valour keen—
As charmed—as wildered—o'er them lean
As much enraptured o'er the sight—
As full of wondering strange delight—
As thrilled—amazed as those who ne'er
Before had hailed that presence fair!

105

Where'er the plumed chief dwells or turns,
There the red heart of battle burns,—
There Victory seems to smile and spread
Her wings to canopy his head!
His ardour fires the fight to flame,
And following him is fettering fame!—
There seems a spell in even his name!—
They shout in to the skies—and feel
Its very echo nerve and steel!

XIV.

Enthusiast of the wars!—thy soul
Doth all inspire—command—controul—
Mighty to animate the whole!
Lo! 'tis thy spirit that informs
Those crowding ranks—those clustering swarms—
That emulous, appear to guide
Their course, where shines thy place of pride!
Fall but thy shadow where they stand—
Invulnerable becomes their band!
Where beams thy presence, seem they caught
In valour's vortex—dreading naught—
While more than mighty deeds are wrought,
That yet were glimpsed not e'en in thought!
They rise above themselves—reflect
Thy light—and miracles effect!—
The Enthusiast of the wars!—the front
Of battle and its sharpest brunt
To him—high-priest of old renown—
Was dearer than his throne and crown.

106

He fires the war—he blinds the foe—
They cower before the Plume of Snow!
Its whiteness dazzles earth and sky—
Charge! charge! crowned King of Chivalry!
Those prodigies of bravery make
A track of heroes in thy wake!
Soul of the battle!—where thou art,
Cowards into heroism might start;
And where thou hast the opponent tamed,
Heroes awhile seem cowards unblamed!

XV.

Soon these chance conflicts passed away,
Nor marked one deep decided day.
Napoleon now beholds at length
The dread display of Russia's strength!—
High swells his heart with hope, ere long
To prove which host may stand most strong;
And soon they well commence the attack—
Rush Glory's sons on Glory's track!
Full soon the impatient troops engage,
In all the might of martial rage!
The scene,—that clanging onset shakes
The world,—lashed into fury, wakes!—
Prodigal of their blood appear
Those combatants that struggle here—
Unsparing of their lives, the brave
Shed gore, as 'twere like ocean's wave;—
That when one melts upon the shore
Is followed by ten thousand more!

107

XVI.

But not for long the conflict lasts—
Not long the field, War's demon wastes;
He hears Napoleon's mandate—“Cease!”
He pauses—and gives place to peace!
That chain of fire wherewith he bound
The disputants of that dark ground,—
Which girt them with hot hatreds round,
With slow reluctance he unlinks,
And back to his red lair he shrinks,
To wait till that stern earthquake voice
Once more shall call him to rejoice!
Now the dread majesty of France
Along the lines would guide his glance,—
The ground with nice attention scan,—
Fix his position—form his plan—
And wait till other troops appear,
That lingering yet, are missing here,—
(That, screened from sight, must still be near!—)
He fain with curious skill and care
Would next day's crowning strife prepare;
For so he hopes, and so he deems,
These pettier strifes' empurpling streams,
Where victory's sun but faintly gleams,
Shall on the morrow burst and sweep
To one great Ocean's crimson Deep!—
And there together gathering blend
And mingle to a mighty end!

108

Such hope his glancing thoughts embraced,
While the enemy stood strongly placed!—
His front of battle glorious shone—
Fair deeds his dauntless bands had done,—
Guarding a Capital he stood,—
'Twill rise!—t' will sweep!—that sea of blood!
How, mighty Heart! couldst thou adjourn,
Thy fortune's cast, thy present spurn?
How—how couldst thou so largely err,
The harvest thus—and the hour defer?

XVII.

Sunset had seen the Muscovites
Encamped amid its ruddy lights!
Did sunrise, brightening, fresh and fair,
Still find them congregated there?
No sign—no trace of them is found—
No token of their presence round!
No! there is sky, and air, and ground,
But not one symptom of the show
That lent them life brief hours ago;—
That seemed to animate—to smite
Nature a-glow with Life—as Light!
Again the haughty heart of him,
Whose eyes strained towards the horizon's rim,
(After that disappearing host,
To his deep wish thus darkly lost),
Must sink—that towering heart must droop,
With sickening of a silenced hope!

109

XVIII.

The astucious policy that guides
Great Russia's counsels, and presides
O'er her deep hallowed war supreme,
And well doth build the finished scheme—
(The vast and firmly-'stablished plan
To fence the holiest rights of man.)
Harsh sacrifice awhile enjoins
Of patriot ardour's outward signs—
Imposing still restriction stern
On hopes that madden as they burn!
And wills, that thus drawn on—the foe,
Weakened, with lengthened course and slow—
(O'er Russia's wide extended land
Where boundless tracts on tracts expand),
Should struggle, day by day, 'gainst all
That must precipitate his fall!
Nor close in one decisive field,
With those—her glorious arms that wield!
This subtle policy and sure
Foresees what they must yet endure,
Who Nature—Reason—Right defy—
Dare the elements and mock the sky!—
This leaves them to themselves, to be
The agents of their extremity;
Though not without the additions dire
Of worrying feud and wasting fire;—
Depopulated plains that spread,
Echoing the wildered wanderers' tread—

110

Condemning him—unsoothed to droop,
Without one human whispering hope—
Shall smite them with a dreadful sense
Of desolation too immense!—
These—these things still shall aid and swell
Those horrors they shall know too well;
(Whose seeds were hidden from the first,
In that dark enterprise accursed!)
Horrors that hour by hour shall grow,—
E'en from themselves—their own worst foe—
As smote some suicidal blow!—
Far-seeing wisdom! well thy glance
Marked the disastrous march of France!

XIX.

Rolls the Lucczzissa tranquilly
Beneath the warrior-monarch's eye,
With all the beauty of the sky—
A mighty jewel—at her breast!—
In chrystal flow and golden rest,—
A mighty jewel, sooth, it seems
That lustrous sky, which bluely beams,
Worn on the water's breast of peace,
Which lends its splendour, bright increase!
While fervid tints of sweet July
Bepaint the azured canopy!
Some few short fleeting hours ago
The stream had imaged in its flow
Another splendour—other show—
Rich as that firmamental glow!

111

Those waves had mirrored, clear and fair,
An army's moving glory there,
Reflecting in their face of sheen
A living landscape's wavering scene;
A glory of immortal birth—
A pageant of unfading worth!—
Ev'n as that righteous army past
From thy smooth tide, where brightly glassed,
A thousand glorious hues it cast,—
Lucczzissa!—river calm and deep,
(So hush'd, thou seemest to move in sleep),
Another shall evanish all—
O'erthrown and lost beyond recall,
From Earth's unchanged, unclouded face,
Nor leave a token nor a trace;—
No proud memorial leave to boast
How thousand captains ruled that host;
No hint to tell of how they went,
Glorying in pride armipotent,—
No trophy, and no monument!

XX.

And now Witepsk's strong walls contain
The Great Commander and his train;
Declares he, too, his purpose fixed
(Th' offspring of many motives mixed),
Awhile within these walls to rest:
Sooth, seemed it sagest plan and best!
Thus might his ranks, their labours o'er,
Be reinforced by thousands more;

112

Thousands of outworn stragglers left—
(That lagged behind, of strength bereft)—
Exhausted—hopeless—by the way,
Without a shelter or a stay;
When toiled their brawnier comrades on,
These sank, o'erharassed and undone—
By them may yet the goal be won!
The sick, too, thus perchance may gain,
Despite their fevered plight and pain,
Their hospitals—where sheltered—soothed—
Their onward paths may yet be smoothed;
Besides, 'twere surely right and wise,
Secure—to wait the wished supplies;
To pause, till might at length advance,
(And gain this farthest point perchance;—)
The abundant stores and treasures long
Abandoned,—desert wilds among!—
The artillery,—wains,—pontoons,—that still,
With progress slow, their course fulfil,
Obedient to received commands,
Still trailed through Lithuanian sands.

XXI.

Yet other things combined to shew
The sagest plan to follow now
Was here securely to remain,
Till Winter parts with all his train,—
His dreadful powers of winds and snows—
His clouds—his frosts—unnumbered foes—

113

And quartering on the Dwina's banks,
The outwearied troops—the harassed ranks
Await, till Spring's green flag unfurled
Gives plenty to the awakening world;
Though just, though wise, such schemes must be
Dictated loud by policy—
Proud chief! but ill they suited Thee!—
His counsellors on every hand
Admired—approved, what thus was planned,
The while his heart within him burned,
And fiercely, his own wisdom spurned!—
The impatience gathering at his soul
Mocks, hour by hour, his vain controul;
New plans, his fiery wishes form,
Till thought on thought,—grows storm on storm!—

XXII.

Repenting of his prudent scheme,
His mind is tossed on tempest dream—
New phantasies tumultuous rise
Before his vision-haunted eyes;—
Moscow in chains!—the imperial throne
Of Russia, minioned to his own;
Its princedoms bowed beneath his feet,—
Its strongholds made his vassals' seat,—
Her pride his spoil—her wealth his fee—
Thus thronged his dreams of empiry;
Still Moscow—Moscow crowned the whole—
The Mecca of his maddening soul!

114

There Victory beckoned him—Success
Outstretched from thence her hands to bless.
Enough! there towers his triumph's arch—
Moscow!—to Moscow—let them march!—
And thus his haughty musings flowed:—
“Shame! shame—to pause on such a road!—
On such a glorious path of fame,
To dream of such dull check were shame!
The expecting world awaits in vain
The Immortal Eagle's victory reign;
Astonished at the unwonted pause,
As at some lapse of Nature's laws!—
As though the sun eclipsed remained,
From cause—unshewn and unexplained,—
As though the rushing winds were bound,
Mid headlong course, in hush profound!—
The sea forgot his measured tide,
And stagnant stood in humbled pride—
So wonder all shall seize that thus
Our tardy arms forbear the Russ!
Amazement thrill each dubious mind—
‘What fetters can the conqueror bind?’
Dark change should thus th' awed nations stun,
In Nature or—Napoleon!
In Nature or Napoleon, strange,
In sooth, should seem such startling change!”

XXIII.

Fast through his mind fresh schemes evolve—
Fixed stands his choice and proud resolve;—

115

Thus mused he, dark sublime remorse,
Till firm-decided was his course!
He hesitates no more—away!
The hour hath risen—hath dawned the day!
Up to the sky!—sun-startling thing!
Thou victory-sign of Victory's King!
Up to the sky!—Up! Eagle!—now!—
He breathes the word—and worlds must bow!—
His great conception fills his mind—
Leaves the Actual and the Hour behind!
Already doth he seem to stalk
O'er Victory's plain—his laurelled walk!
Already seems, with voice elate,
To dictate to subservient fate.
The kindlings of his kingly look
The amazed beholder scarce may brook;
His aspect burns with breathing dreams!
The Mightiest—while his spirit beams—
High Battle's giant genius seems!—
Possessed he moves with mystic might—
Darts from his eye portentous light;
His lip, with fateful firmness closed,
Round which no gentler smile reposed,
Appeared to hint of desperate doom,
Stern wreathed in solemn curve of gloom;
His forehead spreads,—a thunder-cloud,
With weight of might and ruin bowed!—
Anon a change!—the darkness sinks—
The sternness from that aspect shrinks;

116

For ev'n that angry light before
With darkness' Soul seemed shadowed o'er!—
So frowned it with profound excess
Of deep, overwhelming awfulness!

XXIV.

'Tis all intolerable light!
His soul of fire appears in sight!—
His features—sudden, fluttering, play
Like sunbeams on a stirring day,
Even dazzling with august dismay;—
War's Giant Genius surely there—
Traced terribly in form and air,
With all the passion of his pride
Stands awfully personified!
Anon another change is seen—
Fixed grows that aspect—calm that mien—
His voice has lost its piercing tone,
Like sudden trumpet wildly blown—
That rang upon the sense and woke
Echoes—which fast and fiercely broke.
Tranquillity there dwells enthroned—
In the aspect touched—in the accents toned—
Still—still the sun is at his soul,—
He clouds it o'er with strong controul;
Guards the avenues of daring thought—
The approaches of what flamed and wrought
Within his bosom—fervour-fraught,—
Till none might pierce the careful fold,
Nor aught but what he willed, behold!

117

The smooth-grained marble's sculptured snow
Of that triumphant breadth of brow
Is all unflushed, unruffled now.
His very step hath now regained
Composure, by his will constrained;
And yet the while what dreams of doom
Fast crowding on his spirit come,
While in his soul,—by throes untorn,—
Launched into life's auspicious morn
Thoughts—Giants of the Mind!—are born!—
And those who round the Dreamer stood—
How hailed they, herald signs of blood?—
Himself commanding—swayed he all—
Looks, movements, breath, seemed bound in thrall!—
Though numbers there, with deep dismay
Prepared his mandates to obey—
And shrunk from that he breathless sought,
As 't were with certain ruin fraught,—
How few dared counsels interpose—
Alas!—those few he counted foes!—

XXV.

The sun—the sun is in his soul!—
His deathless thoughts in triumph roll;
He spheres them round on every side,
Till all reflects their boundless pride.
The sun is in his soul!—and yet
On his dimmed forehead hath it set;
Seems all that there the eye can see
The o'ershadowing of serenity!

118

His final full resolve—'t is made!—
His plan in all its parts displayed
Before his mental piercing view,
That sifts and probes it through and through.
And not a doubt remains to him,
To whom past Glory seems but dim;—
The Coming Glory all his sphere—
And lo! it smiles already here!—
Give back!—Horizon!—boundless be—
He comes like all the eternity!
He comes in terrors of his wrath—
The Waves of Worlds toss round his path!
Thrones quake,—Time rocks,—Light, Space have been—
He seems the hour—the sway—the scene!—
The Brightness that irradiates all!—
Shrink Nature! in thine ice-built hall—
Thy fortresses of death-like frost—
Thine old ascendancy is lost!
Thou—that with tempest, hail, and snow,
Hast racked thine own great realms below
A Force—a Fiat now must know!—
Thou, that—to harmony subdued—
Yet claim'st to waken partial feud,
And call up, bravely, at thy will,
A dark Apparent Chaos still!—
(That well constrained by heavenly might,
But serves creation's needs aright.)
Thou must be mocked and set aside—
In thine own strongholds ev'n defied—
Thy chartered liberty denied!—

119

Shalt thou not vindicate thy law
Till mad presumption pales to awe?

XXVI.

Why changes yet once more the mien
Of him—Thrice-Thunderer of the scene!
His look reveals a world of wrath—
What comes to cloud his onward path?
What—what hath chanced to tame his thought?—
(Through all its portions—high and haught—
But now—in Starlike Systems wrought!—)
Say! what doth that changed glance express
With such appalling awfulness?
Even now the cold hand of Distrust
Shakes half his fabrics down to dust—
Arrests the flight of Hope's swift wings
And back the awakened Dreamer brings
Unto the common world of things.
Came envoys to Witepsk with news,
To which he fain would trust refuse;
These to Red Russia's realm belong,
And strange the tidings of their tongue!—
The Moslem's wars with Muscovy
Concluded, leave that country free
To prosecute, with deeper might,
The wars of self-defence and right;
By veteran thousands,—now released
From fields where battle's din hath ceased;—
Her banded strengths shall be increased!—

120

Ere long these veterans shall appear,
And rage on his—the Invader's, rear;
Dark tidings these, which he receives,
As one that maddens and believes!—
So fierce the passion of that ire
Which cloathed his glance in storm and fire!—
Already seemeth now to rise,
Before his long deep-blinded eyes,
All dangers of his enterprise
To blast his hope and freeze!
His o'er-tasked inner sight doth ache—
A Monster-phantom of Mistake
Meets face to face—and must he shake
Like demons that believe and quake?—
No! he denies and sees!—
He deigns not own—yet sees the while,
And fain would build to cheer—beguile—
'Twixt him and Truth a mountained pile
Of conquering energies!

XXVII.

Fair shines the Crescent's bannered pride,
In friendship with this land allied!
Constantinople doth recall
Her turbanned bands and cohorts all;
For finished is her northern war,—
She sheathes her puissant scymetar—
The yellow-bearded Ghiaours no more
Shall slake its sharp edge with their gore;

121

By Koutousoff the treaty signed,
In bands of concord now shall bind
The Crescent and the Cross entwined!
The peace thus fixed on either side
At Bucharest was ratified;
Then Delhi fierce, and Janizar—
And Spahi—fleet as shooting-star—
Flung down the weapons of their war;
Their horse-tails flew and flapped no more—
The storm lies hushed—the strife is o'er!—
The dreadful combat's echoes cease—
Two Empires kiss the hands of Peace.
“On! on!—for this yet speedier on!
The destined victory must be won!”
Thus cried high Fortune's favourite son,
Till seemed it nobly dared and done!
“For destined it shall be!—
On to Smolensk! and crowned success
Create from ribs of ruin!—Yes!
And found midst fear's perplexed distress
And gathering anarchy!
What Fate denies unto our prayer
We will undoomed—undaunted tear
From her stern iron hold!—
Turn all the chaos that she brings
With one dread wave of Victory's wings,
To new creation's mould!
On! on! to towered Smolensko's gates!
There glory without end awaits—

122

And burning wreaths of fame!
On him who would one instant stay
Upon this thickly-laurelled way
Fall France's curse and shame!”

XXVIII.

Forth from Witepsk full soon they fare,
With standards waving high in air,
And all the din that martial-wise
An army's march accompanies!
With such a chief what host could bow?—
True!—some dread stormy battle now—
(That hope doth lightening flush his brow)—
Immediately impending seems;—
The future wears War's reddening beams!
Tidings momentous have been gained—
These proudly pleased—those sternly pained!—
Tidings of triumph!—bright success—
That well Beauharnois' arms did bless:
Tidings of gloom!—the stern defeat—
(Near where rolls Dnieper's mazy sheet,
And stands Inkowo beside its shore)—
Which Sebastiani's followers bore!
While Barclay bends, with columns three,
His course toward Rudneia threateningly;
Now must the important choice be made—
The various questions nicely weighed.
The deep alternatives are these—
(No playthings of the passing breeze!—)

123

A Battle,—or a long defence
That promises but loss immense
With endless difficulties girt—
Now, Genius! now—thy might assert!

XXIX.

Decides Napoleon!—in his mind—
At once the whole is fixed—combined;
His movements all are re-arranged—
His line of operations changed!—
Transferred from Dwina's watery maze
To where the far-famed Dnieper strays!—
Concentrating—hard by, its course,
The mighty numbers of his force!—
Orcha, the central point round which
These marshalled multitudes shall stretch;
Then—turning Barclay's left wing so,
'Stead of his right—as feared the foe,
(Whose outposts' hints had roused that fear),
'Till gained the unconscious army's rear—
He trusts to foil the opponents keen
That now confront him on the scene!
So doth he hope, with matchless skill,
To circumvent their General still—
To occupy Smolensk—divide
The Russian legions' power and pride
From Moscow and the southern side,
And centre of that empire wide!—
These hosts he mocks—Earth-trampling man!—
With his preponderating plan!

124

Thus hath he for the foe prepared
The deep surprise that foe had dared
To dream—should yet smite him, ensnared!—
Four bridges o'er the Dnieper soon
With expeditious zeal were thrown;
And these speed well upon their way
The brave Davoust and gallant Ney;
The Viceroy, too, there crossed the stream—
All aids the deep-foundationed scheme.
There Naples' swordsman-sovereign leads
The gallant cavalry he heads;
And Poniatowski doth repair
By different routes, with Junot there,
The important movement to support,
Right well atchieved in martial sort!

XXX.

Soon the Emperor to Rassasna came—
There crossed that stream of ancient fame!—
For the first time these waters fair
A Gallic army wondering bear.
The Romans knew their currents fleet—
But through their shame and their defeat.
'Twas on this old and famous flood
Odin and Rurick's tameless brood—
Sons of the North—fierce men of blood—
Barbaric chivalry and dread,
Savage, as climes where they were bred,
Poured down, with ravage in their train,
To prove great Stamboul's bulwarks vain!

125

Now gently crisped by tenderest breeze,
Touched by faint glooms from shadowing trees—
Transpierced by tints as mild as these—
Rolled brightening the old Borysthenes.
Shift we the scene!—Now dreadless Ney
Bids Krasnoé own his sabre-sway;
While Newerowskoi, hardly pressed,
Would gain Smolensk's embattailled crest,
But fiercely, hot Murat attacks—
His gathering dangers deadlier wax—
Storms Grouchy—raging on his rear—
Whose mightier bands should muster here;
(But ill-directed—wandering wide—
Part of these squadrons swerve aside,
And far their erring course misguide
Towards Eillnia—distant from the place,
Where they should keep the Russians' trace.)
Stout Newerowskoi gained at length,
With gallant cheer but 'minished strength,
The shelter of the neighbouring wood,
The while his soldiers marched in blood,—
Bravely the rout he reined!—
His lion-like retreat made good,
And shunning—gallantly withstood;
And yielding—still maintained!—
At length Smolensko's friendly gate
Preserved him from impending fate.

XXXI.

On the Emperor's fête-day this befell—
'T was celebrated thus full well!—

126

Yet save by this, slight greetings came
To honour such a dawn of fame!
The army, silent and unmoved,
Stood round the mighty chief they loved,
As though their acclamations vain
Where solitudes so boundless reign,
Must perish on the barren plain.
Hush! loud artillery ploughs the air—
A proud salute rolls deafening there;
But darkly th' Emperor's brow is bent—
“Full ill mid Russian wilds is spent
French ammunition so!”
And Ney and brave Murat reply,
With triumph in the enkindling eye,
“'Tis Russia's powder! booty high,
That doth the outringing peal supply,
Made thine brief hours ago!”
Meanwhile from dark Smolensk's strong wall
For aid doth Newerowskoi call.
The appeal of that profound distress
Makes Barclay to the rescue press,
To bring the endangered chief redress,
Whose columns, more than half destroyed,
Shew many a grimly yawning void.
While those that have escaped, display
Full many a wound from that stern day!—
Seemed these preserved by miracle
While thick and fast their comrades fell!

127

XXXII.

Now Gaul's great mareschall—Naples' king—
Gainst doomed Smolensk their numbers bring,
And Poniatowski comes to aid,
And fiercely, soon the assault is made;
At once, into the endangered town
Raefskoi for its defence is thrown;
A strong division he commands
To reinforce the exhausted bands;
While Barclay and Bagration speed
To help it in this hour of need!—
Smolensk—built on two hills that rear
Their heads o'er Dnieper's stream—rolled near—
(The while their sides escarped appear
Reflected in the waters clear,)
When first to sight its turrets gleam
Might well two separate Cities seem—
Divided by that river fair,
But linked by two strong bridges there.

XXXIII.

'Tis the Olden Town whose towers arise
Left hand the stream, in threatening guise;
Huge walls—yet in some portions found
Dilapidated—flawed—unsound—
With haughty aspect, gird it round,
As though storm-proof they stood;

128

Loop-holed the wall, that spreads immense—
Four thousand toises the antique fence
Embraces in circumference—
Fair measurement and good!—
Five-and-twenty feet in height,
Eighteen thick, frowned this aright;
Thirty towers there rose in sight,
And lent this ancient wall their might
'Gainst man—years—storm—and flood!—
Giants!—still each, despite Time's rents,
Gives, with defiance, haughtiest hints,—
Enormous, each bold front presents,
And flanking stern the battlements,
Might tame the assailant's mood!—
Mark! frowns the Citadel beside—
Bastions five proclaim its pride,
Yet wot I 'tis a work uncouth—
Slight its boast of strength in sooth!
This doth Orcha's road command—
Would 'twere mightier to withstand!—
Here too gapes—a gloomy fosse—
Dark, and deep, and wide across.
Some works are seen in the outward space—
But there,—the suburbs of the place,
The leaguering lines shall aid!
For these approaching all too near,
The walls that skreen that town appear,
And well shall for the assailants rear
A friendly-favouring shade!

129

Shall grant the shelter they require,—
Fence from that fast—that frequent fire—
The troops besieged, in warlike ire,
Shall still oppose to the efforts dire
And desperate, 'gainst them made!

XXXIV.

And now, to aid the attacked yet more,
New reinforcements hurrying pour
To that brave town distressed;
Prince Charles of Mecklenburgh appears
With veteran ranks of grenadiers—
Bagration these, with boding fears,
Hath sped and onwards pressed!
Napoleon now, from wooded height,
Strains eagerly his wistful sight;—
What mean those columns, long and dark,
His eyes experienced, promptly mark—
From whence with thousand—thousand beams,
Far pours the light in bickering streams,
Though they themselves so shadowy look!—
Their arms flash back the sun-born stroke!
His haughty heart with transport shook!
Ha! is't not them?—'Tis them at last!—
They press—they haste—urged on full fast—
The glorious crisis is at hand!
They rush—they race along the land!
De Tolly's host—Bagration's too—
Their pace seemed hurried till they flew!
Bursts from the Invader's breast a cry
Of martial rapture—strong and high.

130

Winged with dread joy then the accents came;—
They spring—they flash—like founts of flame!
His eyes with maddening triumphs shine—
“Aha!—quail throne, and tower, and shrine!—
Behold it Heaven!—Earth!—hail the sign!—
Hear!—Powers infernal and divine!—
Russia and Russians!—they are mine!—
I have them in my hold!
Russia and Russians! bend and bow!—
Welcome to wrack and ruin now:—
Crouch!—Alexander!—tremble thou!
And veil thy pale and discrowned brow—
Thy kingdom's days are told!”

XXXV.

And still he marks those lengthening lines—
And still his eye with triumph shines;
His towering boast with rapture's voice,
(While every feeling doth rejoice!)
Unconsciously repeats he yet—
Then sternly shakes with dreadful threat—
Glorying, his awful hand on high,
With mien inspired with victory!
Aye!—shakes it stern on high, as though
Denouncing thus the approaching foe!—
Yon mighty masses—near, more near—
Draw on, and yet more vast appear!
Pressed fast and faster, on they come—
Hark!—hear his words of glorious gloom,
“Russia and Russians!—to your doom!”—

131

And now beneath the eyes of France
Right to Smolensk these troops advance;
Once more he utters forth his boast—
“Welcome, proud Armies! found and lost!”—
And now Napoleon hopes to see
These armies of his enemy
Pass through the city—leave her gates—
(Predestined by the unpitying Fates),
And underneath her walls deploy;—
He stands, all terrible with joy,
Eager to crush and to destroy!
Then passed he prompt along the line—
To each doth well his place assign;
Murat and Poniatowski fall
Back from that closely-menaced wall;
The borders of the wood they gain
And leave a vast and open plain
That stretches broad, this wood between
And rolling Dnieper's watery scene.
Behind the place where thus were led
Their hosts, with swiftly measured tread,
Frowned threatening precipices dread.
Defiles of aspect stern were there,
But no retreat His thoughts can share
Who now hath bade his legions be
Prepared for joy and victory!

XXXVI.

No foe bursts issuing from the gates—
In vain the impatient Leader waits;

132

Night clouds the scene, and all is still—
To-morrow shall his hope fulfil!
He will not doubt—he will not droop!—
To-morrow shall fulfil his hope!
Night falls!—her shadowy-wavering veil
Shrouds tree, and tower, and down, and dale;
He will not fear—it shall not fail!
Meantime Bagration—sagely swayed
By him who well his counsels weighed,
The astucious, grave De Tolly—speeds
From thence—to Eillnia straight proceeds—
And there his powerful legions leads,
While Barclay occupies the town—
So long in wild disorder thrown—
Remains he solely there awhile,
To baulk the Gaul of hoped-for spoil;
The magazines he emptieth all—
These foes shall find but roof and wall!—
And then prepares he with his might
To cover fairly and aright
The Inhabitants' well-ordered flight!—

XXXVII.

Napoleon!—ere night's shadowy reign,
Lingered thy last look on that plain!
That field—which the opening eye of day
Shall mark all crowned with war's array—
Magnificently dread display!
Already to his sight it seemed—
While haughtily and high he dreamed—

133

All spangling out with glories proud—
Stars that shall ne'er know night or cloud.
That field—to his high hope unbent—
That field outblazed the firmament!—
The morrow came—its earliest gleam
Woke him from many a victory dream;—
How doth his eye impatient strain
To glimpse the glories of that plain;
A broad and vacant space he sees,
But traversed by the passing breeze!—
Where are the hosts that should be there—
Where shines the matchless vision fair?
Where towers the dread battalia?—where?
'Tis silence all and vacancy!
The breeze that wanders fresh and free—
No banners spreads in pride afar
The meteored blazonry of war!
The sunbeam laughs—not now it strays
On arms that gild it where it plays;
Shivered and sent a thousand ways;—
No pageant shines out, proud and fair—
No sun-emblazed battalia there!
And Belliard, who hath late pursued
A band of Cossacks, fierce and rude,
Soon ends this dark incertitude.
The gallant soldier had afar
Beheld the march of Russia's war!
Beheld the darkened road that led
To Moscow, from Smolensk o'erspread

134

With banners and with troops, that pass
Like earth-bowed mountains' gathered mass!—
If mountains could be bent and bowed
To roll o'er earth—a chain of cloud
Yet bright with lustres unforgot
Of sunbeams on their summits shot!

XXXVIII.

The truth shines clearly out—'tis done!—
The day o'er-arching hope is gone,
Yet sets but in some future Sun—
But in some future sun it sets!
Hence—hence with wishes and regrets!
The glorious hour so oft delayed
Shall yet smile back their lowering shade;
And when it comes 't will brightlier fall,
For these anticipations all!—
These disappointments—that but higher
Through hate, through wonder, doubt, and ire,
Shall fan the soul-exalting fire!
Now would the Emperor strike a blow,
Decisive for the leaguered foe,
And instantly and well subdue
Smolensk, and force his passage through.
Murat—he, th' ardent-souled, the inspired—
War's worshipper—by glory fired,—
Yet combated this passion's heat—
With reasonings sought this rage to meet—
Nay! flung himself at th' Emperor's feet—

135

Implored him but awhile to stay—
To pause—to ponder—and to weigh!
At least, his hurried schemes to scan
Ere yet he fixed his final plan.
In vain!—fired—maddened—rapt—o'erwrought—
A tempest every whirling thought,—
The unbending Leader would not hear—
His scheme is fixed as rock and sphere!
No prayers can shake that purpose strong—
No pleading—though from angel's tongue!—
Moscow alone he saw—alone
The sun for him on Moscow shone;
He will not change—he will not yield—
His choice is made—his doom is sealed!

XXXIX.

Murat from forth the presence came—
Ashes his lip—his brow on flame;—
He mounts his steed—his steed bounds high—
Struck by the sharp spur suddenly!
It chanced that not far off from there—
Left hand the Dnieper's current fair—
Near where that bank the wavelet kissed,
(Where 't was not crushed to spray and mist—)
Whence Belliard scanned, with sorrowing eye,
The movements of the enemy,
A formidable battery rose,
To which the deep, determined foes
Two yet more fearful did oppose.

136

Appalling gloomed the havoc round!—
Huge guns lay shattered on the ground—
Their carriages forced back—apart;
Each instant saw them spring and start!—
'T was toward this dread volcanic roar
The infuriate chief distracted bore
His rapid and his reckless course,—
There in mid-uproar stayed his horse;
And there, as storm and fire poured balm,
The raging King at once grew calm!
There stands he—fearless of the shock—
As hewn from out the living rock—
So firm—so stern—so fixed—so still—
Comes yet no friendly shot to kill!
So seems it oft, when fate 's defied,
The courted death-bolts swerve aside,
As Heaven's pale Angel paused before
That front the soul lives, lightening o'er
With such intense and searching might—
The Deathless starts to light and sight!—
Till even the mortal clay—th' o'er-warmed—
Seemed spiritually changed—transformed—
The uplifted dart falls powerless there—
It dares not smite, though 't would not spare!
It dares not strike!—the immortal breaks
Too much through the elements it wakes,
And part of its proud being makes!
Too much appear—the Soul—the Frame—
As one—divideless—and the same!—

137

XL.

Still thickening round the deathbolts showered—
Still heaven and earth dark-mingling lowered!—
Belliard—right faithful follower—stands
Beside his King with close-clasped hands.
“Turn! sire!—The death that waits thee here—
That glory lacks—to thee so dear!”
The King's sole answer to his prayer
Was further still to fling him there!
Death feared he never! but he feared
The wreck of one his heart revered—
The failure of their hope—their aim—
The death of Honour—Victory—Fame!
Yet others now, with wondering grief,
Clustered behind their desperate chief;
Then to his train the monarch turns—
His eye, with flash unwonted, burns,
With lurid light and sombre fire:
“Back all!—I bid ye hence retire!
Leave sovereign misery to expire!”
He bade in vain—not one would part—
True followers of his Lion Heart!
Leal—loyal to the death they stand—
A desperately-devoted band!
Their generous stubbornness of zeal
Strikes to his heart with deep appeal;
He turns him from that dangerous scene
With treble anguish in his mien;—

138

He tears himself reluctant thence,
With torturing, stern self-violence:
Resigns the hope of dying there
For fear of life and worst despair,
And flings him from Destruction's arms
As from a paradise of charms!

XLI.

Now rages terribly around
The assault, with deafening storms of sound—
With hideous fury, far and fast,
Death rides upon the blackening blast!
The wingèd War still hurrying went
From battery dread to battlement!
Fierce bursts the loud-exploding bomb,
To scoop at once the yawning tomb.
Death-blow and death-bed, wild and wide,
Wait those who its stern shocks betide;
Let these doubt not that they shall have
At once destruction—and a grave!
These winged volcanoes of the air
Their slaughterous way still shattering tear
Through all that dares oppose them there!—
Thick round a shadowing shroud is spun
Of volumed smoke, that hides the sun,
While deafening bursts the astounding din
From sudden, roaring culverin.
The batteries spread stern havoc round—
Still groans and shakes the troubled gound—

139

The cannon's iron mouths yawn wide,
And scatter fate on every side!
Those cannons pour their ruinous wrath
Along the crushed and blighted path,
And parch the air with red-hot breath—
Tremendous Telegraphs of Death!
Thus each to each shall make appear
Their dreadful purpose full and clear!—
Thus foes to foes breathe free and fair
Their certain message of despair;
The City's mighty walls unbowed,
Enveloped frown through sulphurous cloud;
The amazing thickness of those walls
Resists the storm that round them falls!
The thick-showered shot in vain assails—
The enormous mass o'er all prevails!
As hills on their foundations stand,
So stood that adamantine band!

XLII.

Still to the attack the French return—
The sallying hosts they backward spurn;
These must precipitate their pace,
Or reach no more their sheltering place!
All perished that could gain not then
Their massy sheltering walls again!—
Behind the assaulting columns too,
That desperately the attack renew,—
A hideous trail of blood and death
Marks out too sternly well their path;—

140

On the amphitheatral Heights around—
The encircling hills—the scene that crowned—
The embattailled hosts, with bannered pride,
Thick ranged, the desperate conflict eyed;
Their bold companions' acts surveyed—
Felt as they shared each effort made—
Gloried in every gallant feat
That shewed their generous valour's heat;—
And acted o'er each deed in thought
Their brethren of the battle wrought;
All breathless there they gazing stood,
And watched that scene of strife and blood.

XLIII.

But when they marked those dauntless men
Rush to the fierce attack again,
And yet again—renew—repeat
An hundred times each warlike feat;
Saw them wade on through seas of gore
Which their own veins empurpled pour,—
With still increasing valour's might,
Still waxing fiercer in the fight—
As though the Souls of all that feel,
Cloathed in their Forms, fought doubly well;—
Revived in their proud persons there
And gave such bravery's double share!
Till every Death but lent more Life
To those survivors in the strife!—
Then—then rose mountain high their mood!
A thousand fevers fired their blood!

141

Like new-toiled lions, gored and gashed,
Till into maddening fury lashed,
That rage around with seven-fold strength,
Their answering souls o'erflowed at length;
Th' enthusiastic shouts they send—
The troubled air must strike and rend
With tumult that shall sound afar,
Through all the bellowing blasts of war;
They shout—they clap their hands aloud—
Glorious applause and homage proud!

XLIV.

They hear!—the dreadless warriors hear!
And well such sounds may bless and cheer!—
Deep recompense for all they bear!—
Aye! to the very dying there!
These snatched one moment more of breath—
Their parting souls half conquered death!
Paused ere they took their distant flight,
Nor died till blest with that delight!
Then dying, even appeared to be
Of that Fame-crowned Felicity!
And those reserved for other lot
Ne'er that sublime acclaim forgot!
That mighty admiration's gush
Oft on their raptured souls shall rush;
No celebration, pomp, nor pride,
Could e'er with th' outburst there have vied!

142

All homage should seem dull and dead
After those triumphs round them shed;—
Those stormy plaudits of the heart,
Near which all praise should seem but art!
That flooding Feeling's cry,—the first,
Spontaneous—simultaneous burst!—
While seemed in that live sea spread wide,
Posterity personified!
Now solemn night—spread deepening fast,
And o'er that scene her dimness cast.

END OF CANTO IV.

143

CANTO V.

I.

Swarth night fast deepens in the sky
And darkens earth full silently!
Amidst the din, that noiseless night,
Unshaken, doth maintain her might!
Her banner o'er the banners rears—
Strikes the sharp radiance from the spears!—
And dulls the light the breastplate bears!—
Soon darkness frowns upon the air,
And man, awhile, consents to spare—
Man doth the mutual scathe and spoil
Forbear reluctantly awhile;
And yet not wholly doth the feud
Seem thus by solemn Night subdued,—
Shells in the ill-fated town are thrown,
And fiery tokens soon are shewn—
Far reddening—full—and visioned plain—
That speak their cruel care not vain!—
Ha! faster—farther still they spread,
Enkindling air to one deep red;
Can this bombardment,—scarce begun,
Already thus its work have done?
Can this have thus—with strange success,—
Outstripped their hurrying eagerness?

144

It cannot be!—'t is not so,—no!—
Seems this the stern work of the foe!
The hapless town hath Barclay fired!—
Abandoned its defence—retired—
And left to the enemy abhorred
Ashes and cinders for his sword!
And for his triumph but a wreck
That Victory's self can scarcely deck!
The rolling flames, with hideous sound,
Rose, reddening all the scene around—
Devouring fast that ruined town
Into their jaws of terror thrown.
They mount—they spread—they howling sweep,
High billowing like a fiery Deep,
While crouches at their feet—their prey
Submitting to their tyrannous sway.
These flames that spread around—before—
Beneath—above—all mantling o'er—
Lengthened their dull and deepening roar!
A dismal sound—like thousand knells,
Confusedly mingling, sternly swells!
Fast falling houses thunder down—
Their rending groans new clamours drown;
Rushing to ruin—others rock
And shake the ground with deadly shock!

II.

The sky wears all one blood-red hue—
Forgotten are its tints of blue;

145

Its shadowy depths of midnight gloom
For that strong, dazzling, burning bloom!
Far spreads that glow o'er night's pierced sky—
One awful—one o'erpowering dye!
As all its stars were linked with flame,
Noon's proudest show of light to tame,—
As all its stars were mixed in fire
To one wild meteor-terror dire!—
The Emperor sate before his tent,
His bosomed feelings found no vent.
He gazed on that appalling scene
With anxious eye and altered mien;
His lip forgot the audacious boast—
The visions of his pride were lost!
What said those flames unto his soul,
That sweep and howl—that spread and roll?—
That Russia will not bend and bear,
But rise and mount to her Despair!—
Even like those very flames ascend—
Towering, and towering—to the end!—
In one dread, self-exalting blaze—
Like flame to perish where it plays!—
Like that to leave where it hath died,
No treasure for the grasp of pride;
Where it hath vanished, but a void—
Its spoil—with its own self destroyed!
No gifts—no glories rendering back
To those that follow in its track;
Despair then Thou!—if yet thou wilt
Rush on the madness—and the guilt!—

146

The flames that lit the sinking town
With that high-wreathing fiery crown,
Such things seemed sternly to suggest
To his deep thought—and lessoned best—
That sceptered Thunder-Bearer's breast!

III.

Still long he gazed on that wild scene,
With dreaming mind and darkening mien,
And listened to these flames that pour
Their deepening shout, and deadened roar,—
A mingled sound of many sounds
Transgressing each the other's bounds!
His proud heart shuddered as he saw
That startling spectacle of awe!—
His vast mind trembled as he met
The meaning of that solemn threat,—
For Russia spake in Flame and Light
On that deep memorable night;—
“No shame—no chains—whate'er is writ
In Russia's fate—lacks still-Submit!”
The Invader read the traceries stamped
On all he saw—his soul was damped!—
His hurricane of hope was hushed—
His very dreams to darkness rushed!
Doubt seized him!—and chill doubt for such,
Quick minds, hath the torpedo's touch!—
He paused—he saddened—and was still—
Then abdicated even his Will,—

147

His headlong Will—his Wish uncurbed—
Humility his soul disturbed!—
Humility a space possessed
The unbounded regions of his breast;
This, deepening even with touch of shame,—
Long-unaccustomed feelings—came!—

IV.

“Earth streams with sacrifice for me—
'Tis Disappointment's vanity!
The Something that my soul desires—
Far as the horizon—still retires:
That 'tis a phantom well I rue—
Mine own Ambition I pursue!—
And must pursue for evermore,—
There greets no goal—there smiles no shore!—
He who thus hunts his own winged soul
Shall gain no shore—shall reach no goal;—
Once roused from its own chartered place,
It never resteth from the race!—
The impulse once given—so must it be—
The Wrestler with Eternity!
Pursuing its eccentric course
With ever fresh-increasing force!—
The o'erwearied spheres shall yet stand still—
Their path forgetting to fulfil;
The pilgrims of the unbounded space—
Light—Order—Heat—shall end their race:
But once the soul moves—onwards driven,
It knows no rest—in Earth nor Heaven!—

148

And yet, methinks, even now I feel
An ebb of this disastrous zeal!
But while I feel it,—well I know
It ebbs—yet wilder still to flow!

V.

“And what am I that I should spread
O'er earth My Shadow deep and dread?
Long-sweeping, boundlessly unfurled,—
What—what am I to wield the world?—
A Being wrung in soul, and bent
Beneath a Deathless Discontent,
Scarce knowing of my proper aim,
Feeling the vanity of fame,
The Nothingness of even my Name!
Yet urged—driven on—the faster still—
That all the acquired, seems vain and ill!—
Without one true and certain hope,
Yet rushing forward—lest I droop!—
I cast away earth's peace and rest,
Myself of All—the most unblessed!—
'Tis vain!—and I must feel 't is vain!—
In all could I succeed, and gain
The sovereignties of worlds unknown—
Power without end even boast mine own!—
Though Universe-linked Universe
Should pray my blessing—dread my curse!—
The ambitious thought should ceaseless fly,
Challenger of the Eternity!—

149

Fly,—as of old, it changeless flew,
And still should I as now pursue!—
Pursue that Phantom—chase that Thought,—
Troubled, and tortured, and o'erwrought!—
For me—no calm, and no repose!—
The impetuous feeling glows and flows;
And I am goaded to become
Mine own tormentor—deadliest doom!
And Ah! far more than I pursue,
Am I pursued and maddened too,—
Far more I fly from in the race,
From Dream to Dream,—from Space to Space—
More—more I fly from,—and avoid
Than I pursue!—Oh, self-destroyed!—
From self thou fliest—a fiend of wrath
That hunts thee o'er the bournless path,
Though self hath launched—thy steps before—
That Falsehood—beckoning evermore,
That Error which shall have no end,
Which seems with all that lives to blend!
It tempts thee—lures thee—all is vain—
I fly for ever from my pain!—
As hopelessly as still I speed
To snatch the illusions that recede!”

VI.

Say! rose such promptings to his mind,
While thus he sate like One resigned,—
And gazed on all the terrors dire
Of that dread festival of fire!

150

Whose light was scorching up his soul
With strange and mystical controul,—
That wild and deadly night at last—
Like nights of Beauty's best—fled past,
And morning dawned o'er that stern waste!
The flames had sunk and shrunk away,
As though ashamed to meet the day,
And shock the uprising sun above
Upon his Heavenly march of Love,
With their disastrous, funeral glare,
Yellowing the morning's blushing air—
Yet stern and hideous scene it seems
To meet the young Day's laughing gleams!—
That break o'er stream, and plain, and height,
As 't were the breathing birth of Light!—
First kindlings of Creation's life
To bright and beatific strife!—
To luxury of Disturbance sweet,
Where but too many Glories meet!—
But there is that on earth below,
That well may dim the angelic glow,—
Pale the new blush of heaven's clear brow,
And make the morn look frowning now!

VII.

There lies Smolensk's drear, smouldering wreck,
Which wreaths of smoke thick-volumed deck;
Crushed—more than half consumed—it lies,
Exhaled in black clouds to the skies!

151

A gloomy and appalling sight,
That lent a darkness to the light,—
A midnight shadow to the sun,
Whose course of glory smiled begun!
A wilderness of wrecks was there—
Heaped blackening,—frowning,—grim,—and bare
Gay structure slight, and mightiest wall,
The humblest thatch, the loftiest hall,
The merchant's warehouse widely spread,
And the artizan's poor tottering shed!
Place of the Living—hold and home—
Place of the Dead—the sheltering tomb!
The abodes of Man, the shrines of Heaven,
In one foul ruin rent and riven!
These things strewed round on every side,
All closest search had well defied,
No eye might pierce their pristine pride!—
Nor mark if haply once, they were,
Obscure or stately—mean or fair!—
De Courcy who, through that stern night,
Ceased not from watching the awful sight,—
With melancholy marvel deep,
That warded well the approach of sleep,
Adventured,—with the awakening morn,—
To steal into that place forlorn,—
Lightly his steps unechoed fall,
Till reached the base of the outward wall;—
At once the soldier, undismayed,
Commenced his stealthy escalade:
This feat accomplished well,—while round
Woke not the faintest-murmuring sound,—

152

All silently he speeds along,—
And steers with care his way among
Strewn heaps in wild disorder flung!—
Huge fragments blocking up the path,
Memorials of that night of wrath!—
With active spring,—or ample stride,—
Each hindrance still he well defied—
The ruins round him yawned in vain,
Though checked, he soon sped on again;
But now he starts—stops—listening turns—
Some sound he hears,—but naught discerns—
Steps surely now, and voices come
To wake the air before so dumb!—
And now subside they all in peace,
The dying echoes droop and cease;
Sounds—steps again—once more they wake
Those echoes round, and startling break
That silence with the stir they make!—
The murmur gathering strikes his ear,
But not to bring one thrill of fear!—
Those steps were fast approaching too,
Yet nearer—nearer still they drew!
And now of arms the jarring clang—
Familiar sound!—distinctly rang;—
His hand at once is on his sword,
Springs to his lip the ready word;—
Reckless of what his enemy
May boast of strength or numbers he!
“Stand!—Yield or die!—Who stirs?—What ho!—
Give answer straight!—Is't friend or foe?”

153

A murmur of low tones profound—
Seemed the accents of Slavonian sound—
Assured the undaunted listener there
For conflict stern he must prepare,
And though so hopeless shews the strife,
Full dearly will he sell his life.

VIII.

Rushed from those ruins now a band!—
His sword gleamed—raised by dreadless hand!—
Nay! sheathe it!—friends before thee stand!—
Lo! Poniatowski's valiant Poles,—
Whose fiery ardour naught controuls!
These first had entered the opened gate
Which Barclay had abandoned late.
They greet with mutual welcomes there,
'Midst scenes that might the stoutest scare!—
Might blaunche the toil-bronzed cheek, and strew
Pale ashes o'er its haughtiest hue!—
Might touch the veteran's heart—and tame
Those pulses—iron as his frame!—
Might thrill that core, twice—trebly mailed
'Gainst all that meltingly assailed!
They meet in mutual trust—and part.
De Courcy, half-oppressed at heart,—
Would tread these dismal haunts alone,
Sorrow and Solitude his own!
For kindliest feelings dwelt within
The heart that loved war's maddening din;

154

Nor well he bore to think on all
The horrors that from war befall!
And could he gaze around and view
That scene arrayed in darkest hue—
That sternest scene—unmoved,—untouched?—
No! smothered sighs his grief avouched!—
How many a ruined family
Was scattered hence—perchance to die!—
Fallen on precarious, dangerous days—
Threatened and tried in thousand ways—
Poor fugitives from homes beloved—
From the old familiar haunts removed;—
The old long-accustomed places dear—
Beyond all scenes,—all places here—
Beyond all scenes of earth beside,
Whate'er their beauty or their pride!—

IX.

And these dark ashes smouldering round,
Encumbering all the unequal ground—
These heaps defaced by blackening stains—
These—these are their loved homes' remains:—
Their much-loved homes whose sheltering roof
They fondly deemed stood tempest-proof.—
The stranger's foot these reliques spurns—
His step prophanes their funeral urns,
And the altars where they oft had knelt,
And Heaven's own Holiest Presence felt—
Altars—thrice hallowed by the tears,—
Thanksgivings,—prayers of gathered years!—

155

These, too, in nakedness are thrown,
Free—to each footstep save their own!—
The stranger's eye now dares to dwell
On haunts long-loved—so long and well,—
And desecrates that shattered Dome,
And outrages that blighted Home!
And where once stood the place of peace
Made holy by Love's sweet increase—
And strengthened trusts and cherished ties—
The heart's Earth-Immortalities!—
(For still it seems to snatch—to know
Their Everlastingness—below!
Even the Everlastingness of Loves,—
Faiths, trusts, and joys it trembling proves—)
And where familiar friends but came
With interests and with hopes the same;
Or chance, the invited, welcomed guest—
The chosen, honoured, and caressed!
Now—now, (while tottering fragments round
Seem guardians of that hallowed ground!—
Weak guardians—powerless to protect—
Though threateningly they there project!—)
With careless footsteps' clanging din,
Unasked—the armed wanderer strideth in!—
No gate the approaches now defends—
Free to invaders as to friends!—
With steps presumptuous entering there,
These cast around the unhallowed stare:—
And the outraged ground the tread must know—
Aye! of the Stranger!—worse!—the Foe!—

156

While they, afar in grief and gloom,
Think of their City in its tomb!
Curse those who gaze upon it there—
And dream sick dreams of Love's despair—
Alas!—such sight they could not bear;—
They could not—might not bear to view
The ruin that their hearts must rue!
But no!—he will not lingering dwell
On all sad Fancy hath to tell.

X.

His soul from mournful dreaming wakes—
Once more his fearful march he makes—
'Mid scorching ruins—scattered wide—
Right onwards would he hastening stride.
The flames that saved Smolensk from foes
And gave her to this grim repose,
Half quenched—but smouldering still might seem—
Like swords part-sheathed—that threatening gleam;
Prompt to burst forth at slightest breath—
As those proud swords from curbing sheath—
That with one touch, at warrior's need,
Shine flashing far—and proudly freed.
Now sterner objects round him frown,
Than ruined roofs—or walls o'erthrown:
Foul human skeletons hard by
Chain down, with hideousness, the eye—
On mounds of cinders, heaped they lie.
Changed, blackened, dried up by the fire,
Noisome and ghastly—dark and dire.

157

Beyond—where ruled by strange caprice,
The flames had willed to make brief peace,—
And paused upon their blasting way,
As tired of their own tyrannous sway—
Beyond—where still stood walls unbent,
Yet undevoured by the element—
Pale corses lie with wounds defaced;
Death—death on each changed feature traced.
Not weltering in their gore were they,
Though this stained deep, their breathless clay:
Baked on their shrivelled skins, the blood
All hardened, raised, and thickened stood!
And round the spot where each was laid
A strange, unnatural show it made,—
A purple pall of fearful state
Spread forth—for the untombed Desolate!

XI.

Hark!—hark! shrill sounds assail his ear,
They ring like woman's shrieks of fear.
Off bounds he—sudden as a shot—
He strains—he strives to reach the spot;
No obstacles can check his speed—
He seems to see them not—nor heed!—
Fast following th' echoing sounds, he hies—
He struggles on—he bounds—he flies—
That bitter cry of deep distress
Pierced through his spirit's last recess!

158

Now other sound hath struck his ears
That chills his heart with generous fears—
Seemed shouting loud and furiously,
With brutal rage—not rugged glee—
Some gang of savage soldiery,—
Let loose upon the town to prey
On all yet spared—for Rapine's sway!—
And threatening, and insulting there
Some helpless victims of Despair!
And now a sight hath met his eyes,
Wild as Sleep's visioned phantasies:—
A knot of fierce-eyed soldiers stand
With desperate scowl and upraised hand,—
While gleams each brandished weapon bare—
Thronged round a groupe disordered there!—
How sad a groupe! how plainly told
Their tale by what his eyes behold!
With what pathetic eloquence
Appeals it to the soul and sense!

XII.

A venerable priest appeared,
With forehead bare and snow-white beard.
Amidst those men of strife and blood—
Like Patriarch high of old he stood!
Protecting with his own pale form
One, shrinking from the threatened storm!—
A woman 'twas!—extreme old age
Marked deep her forehead's furrowed page!—

159

An hundred winters' snows had shed
Their pallor o'er that bowed-down head!—
Those cheeks—full deeply-channelled shew
Where tears of sorrows past did flow!—
For Oh! how many a spring of tears
Must gush to lave an hundred years!—
Her eyes long dimmed by Time—fierce glared,—
As wildly glancing, round she stared
With ghastly wonder—startled dread—
As one new wakened from the dead,
Convulsed and changed,—she cowered dismayed!—
But still her pale blue orbs oft strayed
To where, behind them—sheltered close
But by their forms from those fierce foes—
Was One who, under columned shade
Of sculptured pomp, was shivering laid—
(Yon portico's—that yet entire—
Had 'scaped the ravages of fire—)
Crouched down—with limbs beneath him bent—
With vacant smile that nothing meant;—
And yet an eye that restless beamed—
As though with terror's flash it gleamed,—
This strange, wild being watched the scene
With wandering wonder's dubious mien,—
His guise, position, glance, and air—
That senseless smile,—that soulless stare,—
While animal affright shewed there,
His helpless—hapless state declare!—
Each feature seemed ill-formed—misplaced,
By slavering idiotcy debased!—

160

And hark!—his cracked voice, sharp and shrill,
Grates on the ear—a babbling trill!—
Oh! not like childhood's gentle tone—
'Twas keen as knife on grinder's stone!
Of mocking sounds composed appears
That noise which piercing, pains the ears!

XIII.

Beside him—see! a Vision bright—
A Shape of loveliness and light!—
A maiden's form—(all sculpture's grace
Was lavished on her shape and face)—
There like some Guardian Angel stands
With the arms outstretched—and opened hands,—
As though new-lit from Heaven's bright bands—
Silence—she mutely thus commands!—
In vain! that wretched Idiot still
Sounds his sharp, quavering, senseless trill!
How spiritually beautiful
She stands near that poor driveller dull,
Whose countenance—where thought seems null,
Shews soulless as some grinning skull!—
And, Oh! what thousand feelings spoke
In every sweetly-wildered look!
But one seemed chiefly there to reign,
Even heightened unto fevered pain—
A shuddering, scarce-convinced surprise
At things that blight and agonize—
Wild horrors opening to her eyes!
Even so might blessed Spirits start
And shrink, and shuddering stand apart;

161

If midst their crowding raptures even—
Such joys as to the elect are given,—
Rose—dreadful vision!—Death in Heaven!—
Though waste—though war,—and fire, and flame,
To shock in dire succession came—
Seemed it she doubted—wondering still—
Her Good so championed yet the Ill!
The armed ruffians, who had round her pressed,
With hideous oath and ribald jest,
Had shrunk discomfited away,—
These first would make the Priest their prey,—
First wreak their rage on him, and slay!—
And strike the centuried mother down
(Before whose form his own was thrown)
In very wantonness of ire,
As these were cause of waste and fire,—
Which baulked them thus of booty's hope;—
For this, 'twas stung, that savage troop!—
But yet his apostolic air
Awed even the godless bloodhounds there!
Still marvel sad on marvel grows—
Worse horrors still her fancy froze!
While watched she all the appalling scene—
Whose sky's—One Cloud—no star between!

XIV.

And yet 'midst all this sore amaze,
How glorified was that wild gaze!
How matchless stands the maiden there,—
She gives a Beauty to Despair!—

162

With soul-stamped brow and heaven-raised eye!—
A glory of dishevelled hair
Her shoulders as a mantle wear,
She stands,—though still with troubled air,—
With mien angelically fair—
Even arch-angelically high!
Poor aid slow language still affords—
Lightnings and colours for my words!—
As arrowy winds—as fluttered spray—
The Tempest's meaning swift convey—
And breathe and paint its unseen sway!—
So with a gust of wingèd words,
Would I sweep o'er the lyre's faint chords—
And strive to shower around intense
Some scattered gleams of eloquence!

XV.

One moment, and De Courcy well
Marked all we have essayed to tell—
And more—much more,—for 'tis in vain
To strive to link such living chain!—
And just as close at hand he stood,
And raised his arm to quell that feud,
A desperate deed and dastardly
'Twas there his heavy hap to see!—
That half-unconscious Trembler, laid
Beneath the neighbouring pillared shade,—
That gibbering Idiot, muttering there,—
(While wilder grew his vacant stare)—

163

Now raised his bony finger long,
And pointed to the soldier throng,
With mowing mock—and foul grimace,—
Contortions strange of form and face,—
And screeching laughter's jeering sound—
Poor fool!—a cruel fate he found!
Maddening to see the mocking thing,—
With yell, and oath, and sudden spring,
Dashing the struggling Priest aside,
The foremost soldier now hath dyed
His weapon with the Idiot's gore,—
“Dog!—thou shalt grin and bark no more!”—
Short space his deed he triumphed o'er,
De Courcy bounded to the spot,—
His eyes' wild glare flashed keen and hot,—
No words there came his rage to tell—
Prostrate the blood-stained murderer fell!—

XVI.

Soon as before their wondering eyes
De Courcy's form did startling rise,
All reverent had at once made room,—
They marked well the epaulette and plume,—
By habit gave they path and way,—
His rank thus stamped by his array!—
They know he is of those whose grade
Entitles him to be obeyed!—
The Man shewed herculean strength
Who measured on that ground his length,

164

Yet stabbed no stroke from knife or brand—
The blow was from De Courcy's hand!—
And now the indignant glance that burns,
Irate—upon the rest he turns!—
And words of scorn fast crowding came
From proud-curled lip of living flame!—
“What!—Dastards!—and are these your deeds?—
With very shame my stung heart bleeds!—
What!—seek the gaping Idiot's life?—
'Gainst Priests and Women stand in strife?—
Forefend that France such tale should know!—
Great Heaven! and hide it from her foe!”—

XVII.

Back to the stern-eyed Priest he strode,
Who quivering with amazement stood,
And the anguish—horror,—wild and fast,
That through his tossing Spirit passed,—
He sought his mother's steps to stay,
In midst of all his deep dismay.
But She,—the mother too of him
Who drenched, doth in his life-blood swim,—
Not dead,—but wounded mortally,—
With lip convulsed and rolling eye—
That wretched fool—whose piteous moans
Might waken sympathy in stones,—
With sudden, wond'rous strength endowed,
As Age was melted like a cloud
From her sunk brow and shoulders bowed,—

165

Stood there, a different being quite
From her who first had met the sight!—
Her heart had still loved best this son—
The unhopeful and the helpless one;
As though it were the Mother's pride—
(Should yet be tenderer word supplied!—)
While double mysteries to the soul,—
Which Reason's ray might ne'er controul,—
Frowned all the mysteries of the world,—
In utter darkness bowed and furled,
While lost seemed Earth—veiled—Heaven above—
To fill up the aching void with Love!—
Thus all—all the aching void to fill
With Love's perpetual presence still!—
A Heaven and Earth to build around
Those footsteps—curbed by narrow bound!

XVIII.

Soon as the barbarous deed she saw,
A shriek that filled the soul with awe
Seemed rending—as it withering came—
To fragments all her shattered frame!—
But, no!—her eye so dimmed—so cold,
Becomes a terror to behold!—
Her furrowed front is all on fire
With battling agony and ire!—
The life—that lengthened on through tears,
And smiles, and dreams, an hundred years,—
Seemed gathering to its stricken heart
Its scattered treasures ere it part.

166

The separate links seemed clasped and cast
In one vast, mighty heap at last;—
But sole, the treasures of its cares,
The accumulation of despairs!—
All the Agonies there gathered be
In one full Crowning Agony!—
More than such centuried life of woe
Seemed in that bitter hour to flow!—
Dread Heaven!—that moment hath surpassed
An Hundred Years in grief at last!—
She totters to her darling's side—
Spreads forth her lean arms wild and wide,—
And pours her blessing on his head
Ere yet his hovering soul is sped!—
Then stretches out each shrivelled arm,
Like Fury uttering deadly charm,
And shrieks her shrilly curse on those
Who stood around—her country's foes!—
Then ending with one piercing yell,
Down on the gory ground she fell!

XIX.

The dying Idiot shook and stared,
A moment strong in death he glared!—
He heard that sound—he saw a sight
That lent his dying eyes strange light.
Far off sprang arrowy pillars bright!—
Pillars of sudden flame on high,—
Rising—and pointing at the sky!—

167

Some distant dome was made the spoil
Of fresh-urged flames that round it coil,—
Like Serpents twining round their prey,
As they would wind themselves away—
Into its very heart—to slay,—
Then leave their life upon its clay!—
“Ha! ha!”—the expiring Idiot cried,
Then pointed to the blaze—and died!
His skinny long forefinger fell
But with the last sigh's bursting swell!
With wild and demoniac grin
Upon his sharp-drawn features thin,
There lies he dead by Her cold side,—
The Mother who before him died!—
Whose heart with such deep feeling rushed—
Though thus by hundred winters crushed,—
Whose soul so writhed 'gainst wrenching Fate,
And grappled with it—darkly great!—
Beneath those hundred winters' weight!—

XX.

And thou!—fair, meek, heroic Thing!—
There thou, thy lovely form dost fling
Upon that crimsoned ground accursed,
While shrieks from thy young bosom burst!—
Oh! Beautiful as Heaven art thou,—
Fair Being!—who art kneeling now
With close-clasped hands and pallid brow!—
How didst thou staunch with that bright hair,
Which waves about thee—wildly fair,—

168

The wide wound of the hapless wretch
Whose limbs—grown stark—before thee stretch,
And with imploring mute embrace,
Hide on the aged mother's breast thy face,—
Essay to check her fierce despair,—
Beseech her to be armed to bear,—
Though scarce thy lips could form their prayer,
What time—her frame to strength restrung—
Round him she cherished most, she clung!
And now thou wouldst console thy sire,
But on thy tongue the words expire!
Blood—death around thee—ruin—doom!—
Earth frowning like an angry tomb!—
One dreary Desolation all,—
That asks the old Darkness for a pall!—
And clamouring sounds—that startling rise
Of distant shouts and gathering cries,
And tramp of troops that entering pour,
Like waves upon a desert shore,
In pale Smolensk—whose pride is o'er—
Appal thee—crush thee—and o'erpower,—
Too dark and dreadful is the hour!—
Her eye looked upwards as in doubt!—
Shall Heaven's fair face even smile without
That Deadliness of waste and stain
That now on Earth upholds its reign?—
Her fair hair's golden lustrousness,
With sunshine on each floating tress,
Seemed paling with her soul's affright
And losing half its precious light,—

169

All twining up with terror there
Above her marbled forehead fair!—
But she is strengthened—armed—Behold!—
Oh, creature of heroic mould!—
She thrust aside her doubt and dread—
And rose—as rising from the Dead!

XXI.

She champions all her fear and woe,
Commanding tears that must not flow,—
They turn to living fire instead:
That burning heart forgot it bled!—
While pointing to those meteors red,
That in the distance gleam and glare,—
She spoke at length and cried—“Beware!
Aye!—Witless Ivan!—victim weak!
Did not thy dying spirit speak?—
'Twas sure a gleam of prophecy
Vouchsafed thee from the Eternal Sky!—
And Fire shall after Fire outburst,—
To crown the work of this—the first!—
Till foes of Heaven and Men shall see
Russia—our best-loved Russia—free!”
Her fair hair down her shoulders streamed,
Her bare arm, white—and whitening—gleamed!—
It seemed to dazzle on the sight,
And grow a part of very light!
And did Sclavonian accents dwell
On thy soft lips—sweet oracle?

170

No! came the words of thy wild trance
Poured forth in broken words of France!
De Courcy shuddering—sorrowing, heard,
While hung his heart on every word,—
While all his listening soul seemed bound
To worship even that threatening sound!
For ne'er his eyes had dreamed nor seen
A being of such matchless mien!

XXII.

And said I that her lovely form,
Amid that furious gathering storm,
Looked like some Guardian Angel sent
To shield the wretch who near her bent,
With shivering moan and weakling cry,
In abject soul-inanity!—
Ah! rather with that glorious glow
Of Soul that lived along her brow,—
Whence Great Thoughts radiate—beam by beam,—
Like Russia's angel shall she seem!—
Yes! nobly rose her soul's strong pride,
And Courage lived and pale Fear died!—
And midst those hideous sights around,
Firm stood the maid on that red ground!—
And now that pallid Priest advanced,
And while his eye in anguish glanced
Swift round on all that maddening stirred
His sorrow till it knew no word,
(Though high within his soul it swelled,—)
Brief parle he with De Courcy held:

171

And this the substance of his tale,
Which oft he checked to mourn and wail!—

XXIII.

When Barclay left Smolensk's proud towers—
Resigned to ruin—with his Powers,—
This reverend Priest remained behind,
Distracted still by dubious mind;—
He felt—full glad he would have been
To leave that sternly altered scene,
And with the rest to shun the sight
Of bowed Smolensko's shattered might!—
But still he knew such dream was vain,—
O'er battling thoughts he strove to reign,—
Since this his fate forbade to be,
He yielded to the fixed decree!—
His mother—whose waned life might seem
Like some well-nigh exhausted stream
Which drop by drop shrinks fast away—
Might well decide him thus to stay.
And then his Idiot brother, too,
Whom long he loved with feelings true,
Had ill in such strange wanderings fared,—
But both from harm and grief were spared!—
Besides—half frightened—half amused—
With wildering sounds and sights confused—
Had the Idiot still remained concealed,—
Long time was not his place revealed!—
Till driven from his close hold by flame,
Forth on that very Morn he came!

172

XXIV.

The Priest,—the unhappiest Vassilii,
Whose trust in Heaven alone might be,—
Had gathered all that yet were left
In that fallen town—of aid bereft,
And in a high and holy Fane,
Which swarth, stern War refused to stain,—
Which even the rocking flames forbore
Midst the fierce revelling of their roar,—
Had these assembled—barred—secured
With him—his household too,—immured—
There thronged they round him—reassured!—
Preserved from horrors wild and wide,
That shocked the sight on every side;—
Delivered from their mad despair,
And breathing that calm, hallowed air,
Which seemed to consecrate their care,—
They wept—they smiled—right glad to be
In such a Mighty Sanctuary!
And there,—with prayers, the remnant slight
Of the outpoured Population fight!—
Fight 'gainst the sacrilegious Foe,
Who comes their country to o'erthrow;—
To lift, perchance, the impious hand
'Gainst the honoured altars of the land!—
And while thus duteously engaged—
The very act their griefs assuaged—
Their city burning round the while
Their blessed homesteads—Ruin's spoil!—

173

Their old familiar friends dispersed—
And glorying near,—the Foe accursed!—
Still the act of prayer assuaged their grief,
And brought sweet medicine of relief!—
But yet full sore must be the thought
Of all the desolation wrought—
The fearful havoc caused by those
Who racked their Russia from repose!—
And never wilder—bitterer tears,
Those altars of a thousand years—
Where many a melting heart did flow
Through many a course of human woe,
In agonizing tides—might know
Than those that streamed upon them then
From eyes of babes and bearded men!

XXV.

What sudden, strange, and searching sound
Now interrupts those prayers profound?—
What hideous and unearthly yell,
That seems of maddening fear to tell?—
That tone, far-thrilling, deeply knew
The aged mother there—the brother, too—
Ivan!—'tis the Idiot shrieks without!—
Still loud he yells!—shout followeth shout!—
'Twas oft his practice thus in play,
To lurk in ambush many a day,
In strictest secrecy to hide,
Still vainly sought for far and wide!—

174

Thus deeply had his mother hoped,
(Though anxious still her fond heart drooped!—
That heart which deadened—dulled—appeared,—
Save where for him she hoped and feared—)
That still—when he should find none came
To call on his familiar name—
Nor pry into his hiding-place,
He forth would come—and quickly trace
His kindred to this House of Grace;
For wond'rous sharp and shrewd was he,
Endowed with strange sagacity!—
And thus it proved!—But when at last—
Outwearied—grieved—surprised—he passed
From that close nook where long he stayed,
And through the streets deserted strayed,—
(Chance, too, the scorching breath of fire
Warned him, from ambush to retire,—)
And heard the bellowing of the flames,
And saw their red reflected streams;—
Then, raising up his vacant eyes,
Beheld them fiercely rush and rise—
He deemed that the Evil Spirits there—
Whom oft his mother bade him fear—
Were driving round him to destroy,
And howling out their hideous joy!—

XXVI.

With agony of terror stung,
Away like hunted beast he sprung,
And finding but a desert wide,—
Did fast his steps unerring guide,

175

To that fair Church where, day by day,
He knew his mother passed to pray!—
And when that Holy Fane was reached,
He stood, and stamped,—and stormed—and screched—
Unable there to enter straight,
Or move the massive portals' weight!—
But when those mighty doors unbarred,
Free ingress offered—all o'er-scared—
Refused he then to enter there,
And fled away in wild despair,
Though well-known voices called him still,
And bade him fear nor wrong nor ill!—
Then where the flames his passage stayed—
He turned—and bounded back dismayed—
Outbreathed,—but leaping to and fro,
As wild bulls in the prairies go,—
Where in the West,—their chosen ground
With rings of fire the hunters bound!—
And still he dreamed on every side
On blood-red steeds the Demons ride—
He yelled—he foamed—he ramped—he leapt—
Then loud his grey-haired mother wept!—
That sad sound stayed his phrenzied dream—
He answered with one long-drawn scream,
Then came and crouched him at her feet,
Sweltering and sick with haste and heat;—
But still 'gainst all entreaties proof,
He would not seek that sheltering roof,—
He would not to the Church repair,
Though suppliant, round him, knelt they there!—

176

XXVII.

And round him still they suppliant knelt,
In hopes his rude resolve to melt,
While in the Sacred Fane, ere long,
Resumed their prayers the refluent throng!
At length the out-wearied Priest essayed
To force, by strong Coercion's aid,
His brother to the sacred shade!—
Then deafening rang his shrieks of dread,—
The ear-splitting yells far-echoing spread—
Till these brought hurrying to the spot
That reckless band—that ruffian knot;—
For booty these were prowling round,
Enraged that there no spoils abound!—
And maddening at the waste they found!—
Right gladly marking then the groupe,
Came trampling on the unpitying troop,—
“A Priest!—a Priest!—now he shall shew
Where stores of hidden treasures glow—
Since heaps of gold and gems have these!”—
Thus shout they loud,—and roughly seize
The unhappy Priest, who thrilled with fear
For all his best-beloved ones near;—
Fierce signs then make the impatient throng,—
He answers in their native tongue!—
Of worthy strain and stock was he,
And trained had been right liberally!—

177

XXVIII.

In vain he swears no treasured hoards
Smolensk's deserted site affords—
That all her wealth, since yesterday,
The Russian hosts had borne away!—
Enraged and unconvinced, they threat—
And hotly, savagely beset;—
Already they desist from words,
High brandishing their glittering swords,
When suddenly the daughter flung
Her form those rugged men among,
Beseeching them to stay their ire—
Imploring mercy for her sire!—
Their ravening rage her voice disarms—
They gaze astonished on her charms;—
Oh!—Fly to yon protecting walls,
Thou, on whose brow of Beauty falls
The unhallowed glance that most appals;—
But none shall dare to do that maid
Injurious part—seems Heaven to aid!—
So queenly strikes her look and air,
They stand abashed and wondering there,
As that raised head and white-waved hand
Had right prescriptive to command!

XXIX.

Back on the Priest they turned once more—
Used threats—invectives,—as before,—

178

Till now more furious grown they swear
With oaths he shuddering starts to hear,—
If he refuse to point the way,
To where the guarded treasures stay,
His aged mother shall expire
The first beneath their ruthless ire!—
And then himself shall die the death
And yield his vile tenacious breath,
Should he dare still their claims refuse,
And keep them from the conquerors' dues!—
Nor aid their right and natural quest—
Obeying straight their rough behest!—
And—then—De Courcy knew the rest!—
With wan lip fluttering like a leaf,
In broken sentences and brief,
The Priest attempted to make clear
These statements to De Courcy's ear;
Scarce in the manner we have told
Such matter 'twas he would unfold—
But, from his labouring lip, came slow
Disjointed phrases—fraught with woe!—
De Courcy with compassion heard,
And reverent hung on every word,
Though oft his charmed, enraptured eye
Wandered to one who wept hard by,
Who poured her moan of sorrow o'er
The unconscious forms that felt no more.
And still—with anguish-labouring breast—
Kind words to their sealed ears addressed—
And wept—then paused—then wept again—
That weeping was so very vain!

179

And beautiful she looked the while,
As though she smiled the heavenliest smile!
De Courcy, to his inmost soul,
Received Love's deep and strong controul;
Ere yet a thought hath risen to shew
Such feelings in his bosom glow!

XXX.

Ah! little needed there I guess,
While watching her divine distress,
The memory of his Mother's prayer
To melt him—win him—touch him there—
And yet to recollection rose,
While gazed he on those deepening woes,
The words that much-loved mother spoke,
When from her clasping arms he broke,—
“Oh! Spare the weak—the helpless save—”
Yes! as Heaven's mercy he may crave!—
Yes!—or Heaven doom him to the grave!
And now the Priest, beside the Dead,
Hath bowed his agonizing head,
With murmurs low and shivering sighs,
Hath closed those glazed and ghastly eyes!—
And then he kneeled him down to pray
Beside the unmoved, insensate clay.
While stood De Courcy silent near,
Uncovered—with respect sincere—
Now risen from Death's cold, breathless side,
The mourning Priest hath signified,

180

By speechless signs,—the words he tried
Were choked by Sorrow's bursting tide,—
That he those corses must remove,
With filial and fraternal love,
And reverential awe, from hence—
While still his grief grew more intense.

XXXI.

De Courcy turned to give command
To that scared, guilty soldier-band,—
But they had vanished from the place,
Some keenly conscious of disgrace,
And others of more desperate mood—
Hardened, and stung, and unsubdued—
And vowing vengeance 'gainst the Priest,
Who nothing had their wealth increased—
Thus,—from their slaughterous grasp released!—
The murdering foul marauder there
Still lies outstretched with stone-like air,
Where young De Courcy's vigorous blow
Had laid the unfeeling monster low!
De Courcy turns to him—No!—No!—
The Priest recoils with shuddering chill,
What! the impious author of the ill?
His foul touch ne'er should desecrate
Those victims he hath given to fate!—
For both deaths are his ruffian deed,
Though but one breast he bade to bleed,
The unhappy mother could not shun
The stroke that slew her cherished one!—

181

At once she sank—destroyed—undone—
Died of the death of him—her son!—
Full lightly snapped that feeblest thread,
That scarce distinguished from the dead,—
So faint the exhausted life appeared,
Which yet one worshipped tie endeared!

XXXII.

And now De Courcy, prompt to aid,
Hath turned where that shrunk form is laid;
And soon his arm, in careful way,
Hath reverently upraised the clay.
The Priest doth the Idiot's corse sustain—
Moves slow that humble funeral train.
With speechless lips, and soundless feet,
They pass on through the unechoing street.
The angelic mourner following there
Looks like some Heavenly minister,
Sent from above to claim from Earth
Changed Spirits of immortal birth.
And still his burthen each sustained
Until the Temple's gates were gained,
Where crowd the unhappy ones who have
No home save here—and in the grave!—

XXXIII.

And—trust, a scene De Courcy saw
That thrilled with agony and awe,—
And if the freight they bear arouse
'Mongst the inmates of that Holy House,

182

A sorrowing wonder deep and dark,
The scene he there doth marvelling mark,
Arouses in his generous breast
Compassion—not to be suppressed.
There, too, Remorse—Doubt—Horror, blend,
And hurrying feelings without end!—
Are these the triumphs, then, of war?—
For this shines out her brilliant star?—
Thronged round the proud Cathedral's shrine,
Deprived of all but aid Divine,
Whole families with pallid mien
Their houseless heads dejected lean.
Here kneels, and prays in trembling tone,
The Octogenarian—left alone,—
Who lately spread those withered hands
To bless his little household bands!—
Those sweet grandchildren-groupes beloved—
That shedding joy around him—moved!
These snatched he to his gladdened heart—
They still appeared of life a part!—
While Time—that had his own days thinned,—
Scattering like leaves that autumn's wind,
Hath blown—till few remained behind—
Had given him gifts all wealth above
In those sweet little lives of Love!—
And there some widowed mourner weeps,—
With burning tears the pavement steeps—
And smites her breast with sick despair,
And wild uproots her bandless hair;—

183

Her lord—and she a blushing bride—
Stern war had severed from her side.
And there—yet sadder sight!—behold!—
A being cast in tenderest mould,
Forsaken, helpless, and distressed,
Clasps her pale child upon her breast;
Of all hope 'reft—of every stay—
She weeps both—both their lives away!—
While those chilled veins no more supply
Nurture to its necessity!—
And near her—awed her grief to see—
Mute stands an orphaned family,
Whose father late, perchance, had rued
French marksmen's dexterous aim and good.

XXXIV.

And every where—groaned wild distress—
Bowed Age—or sorrowing Loveliness!—
Of War's dark thunderous history,
This passage might appear to be
Some wild and dreamy paraphrase,
And writ in tears—not stars and bays!—
De Courcy sighed—still following close
The unhappy Priest—'midst these strange shows;—
And now, as up the aisles they bear
Their breathless burthens—happiest there!—
'Midst all that moan, and mourn, and sigh,
And many a struggling heart-death die!—
Ejaculations wild and low,
Like drops that brimmed the cup of woe,
From countless lips spontaneous flow!—

184

“Heaven's grace!—must thou, too, stricken bend
Good Usbeck Vassilii!—our Friend?”—
Till Sorrow brake from Reason's thrall,—
Pain, burst through Patience' trammels all!—
'Twas not alone the death of those
Who now were gathered to repose—
For one had to such age arrived
That all her world she had outlived,
And Earth for such must frown—the gloom,—
While seems the gate of Heaven—the tomb!
The other bore the Immortal Light—
Cloathed doubly round with shadowy Night!—
The undying spark that bright should shine
Within—yet seemed all—all divine!—
As lingering in the Eternal Breast
A slumbering dower—still unconfessed!
That yet he shall receive in might—
'Tis now his own in worlds of Light!—
T'was not alone their deaths that so
O'erwhelmed him with a stunning woe—
Though horrible the manner was
In which they were condemned to pass,—
Their closing scene—a dream of dread
Where more than funeral horrors spread!—

XXXV.

But 'twas the waste—the wreck—the wound—
That now seemed shared by all around—
It was to see no end of pain—
A boundless Misery's far-stretched reign!—
To see as 'twere on every side
His proper sorrow magnified!—

185

And One bleak Desolation cast
O'er all the Future—Present—Past!—
A mighty and a sweeping gloom,
Frowned lengthening upwards from the tomb.
Like rays of heaviest darkness sent
From Death's own solemn tenement—
Meeting the rays of Light on high—
And, uncreating half the sky!—
While there a blood-red hand, far gleamed,
Whose shadow as a chaos seemed—
Unbuilding that divinest dome,
There setting up Its fiery gloom!—
These thoughts—fear—memory—madness—all,—
Made Sorrow break from Reason's thrall!
Prostrate on that proud floor he fell—
As wretch condemned in dungeoned cell
His future numbered days to tell—
'Gainst the old stained gorgeous pavement pressed
The burning anguish of his breast!
And strained the pulseless marble close
Unto his heaving heart of woes—
In that deep deadly inward shock,
That reasoned governance did mock;
Till seemed that gorgeous pavement old
To tremble, where he writhed and rolled,
As he should wake, with dreadful strife,
That melting marble into life;—
Those senseless stones beneath his weight,
With agony ev'n animate!—
So in each anguish-drop, his soul
O'erflowed—concentered—seemed to roll!—

186

XXXVI.

And who shall say what awful power
The soul may gain in such an hour,
Forced back even by her very woe
From all around—from all below,
To her great Source she seems to fly—
And is at once—Immensity!—
Then—then it is, that Source and Stream
Too awfully commingling seem!
Ah, thus! the God-given, Heaven-born Soul,
At times will suns and worlds controul,—
At some tremendous Passion's call
And far out-strip—out-sweep them all!
Remembering so her Spaceless Birth!
And shaking off the encumbering Earth!—
And shaking off the Sun,—that seems
A darkness to her glorying dreams!—
And all the firmaments of stars,
As but impediments and bars—
And all the furniture of Time,
Through noon, and night, and eve, and prime,
And all that mighty Nature hath
Sublimely strewed along her path!
Then the Created rushes back
Upon its dread Creation's track!
The Soul—unutterable thing!—
That, lightened forth from Light's own spring,—
Acts o'er again its fearful burst
To Being—consciously rehearsed—

187

Hails Truth's great fount, whence forth it flashed—
Till Life is to Immortal lashed!—
And so 'twas with that spirit bowed—
Even now, to this Affliction's cloud,
'Twas thus all the overshadowings there
Of Strife—and Suffering—and Despair—
Had brightlier shewn, and bade to roll—
That Spiritual Sun—the Soul!—
By forceful contrast proving best
The greatness of Earth's heavenly guest!

XXXVII.

Rose from the dust the unhappy man
With features calmed,—but drawn and wan—
By earnest efforts he compressed
The woe within his working breast,
He shook the grey hair from his eyes,
That thick with dust dishevelled lies,—
In matted masses, deep and wild,
Heavily o'er his forehead piled!—
Then lifted up his voice, and cried—
“Oh, Father! turn these shafts aside—
These bolts of ruin turn—and spare
The Wretched,—hurried to despair!
Enlighten, then, the Invader's soul
And make him bless thy bright controul!—
His chariot-wheels of terror stay
Upon their stormy-rushing way,—
And wring from his arrested hand
The sharp-scythed sceptre of command!—

188

And the unlaunched thunderbolts of wrath
That wait to desolate our path!—
Oh! wrench them from his grasp of pride,
And in Thy very mercy chide!
Illuminate his darkened heart,
And point to him the better part!
Exorcise the Evil Fiend within,
And wash his soul from scarlet sin!—
And send thine Angel Bright to fill
The place where ruled the Prince of Ill!
Even so Thy faithful children guard—
Even so be the Evil Dealer spared!
As though this blessed Land should bring
Repentance prompt on rushing wing,
To those that dared invade her soil,
To raze, and desolate, and spoil!
Thus be her bloodless triumph given,—
Not by Herself—but all by Heaven!
Thus give her victory such as may
Be sung by the Angels far away,
In realms of the Uncreated Day!

XXXVIII.

“But if—Oh! Father!—'tis Thy will
That heart be evil purposed still,
Oh!—hear us in Thy mercy!—hear!
Even from the Heaven of Heavens give ear!
And be the Impenitent cast down,
Oh! Sear and scathe his fiery crown!

189

Extinguish all its baleful light,
And plunge his Victory-Sun in night!—
Turn the winged thunderbolts he wields,
Though, through Pride's thousand brazen shields—
'Gainst the impious breast foul Scorn hath warmed;—
With sevenfold dreadfulness full armed,—
The Hurricane-Eclipsings stay!—
O'erturn the Chariot in the way—
Where deep its giant shadows sway,
To check the noon-bright sunbeams play:—
Turn all his weapons 'gainst himself,—
And dash him on Destruction's shelf!—
'Midst all his Multitude of Men,
Let none be strong to smite again,—
Oh! paralyze the uplifted arms
That meditate unholy harms—
That come to stab with devilish art
A kneeling empire to the heart!—
Even while at the altars of its trust
It supplicates the True and Just!—
While half upraised to Thee above,
In that devotion's deepening love!—
Shall not the blow thus darkly dealt—
Shall not that stab in Heaven be felt?

XXXIX.

“Strike down then Thou these sons of strife;
Snatch from their nostrils back the life,—
And scatter them like loosened leaves,
Or shaken grain from ripened sheaves—

190

Along the bosom of the land,
Which they would blast with bolt and brand!
Oh! let them,—reft of blood and breath,—
Spread their long train of doom and death—
Uncoffined—unentombed—unblessed—
No stone set up above their rest!
Thus may they stretch,—for mercies sent,—
Wide o'er the land a monument!—
A monument of Thy great might,
And high espousal of the right!
In their lone lowliness outspread,
Paving the earth with piles of dead—
Than mountain-pyramids more dread,
Though these, in star-y-pointing height,
Should cleave the purple heart of night!—
The stars shall downwards glimmer pale,
Where Death shall whiten hill and vale.
Attracted,—yet repulsed, shall shine
Your gems,—Oh! Firmamental Mine!—
And half forget their light divine!—
Those bones shall bleach—Heaven's vault beneath,—
A ghastly Milky-way of Death!—
Till like one opened lidless tomb
The face of Nature shall become!—
Thus shall alone the Invaders spoil
And blast the fair face of our soil,—
Aye!—with their ruin and their wreck,
Where Thou'st thus bowed the stubborn neck!—
Yet but to fertilize our plains,
Ere long with their thick-strewn remains!”

191

XL.

The indignant voice hath died away,
Yet still its accents hold high sway;
And echo long through the aisles sublime
Of that old pile—unbowed by Time!—
And was it not a Prophet's tone—
Clear as some note by clarion blown,
That rung from his deep lip, as though
Inspired by the ecstasy of woe!
And was it not a Prophet's glance
That touched the soul—like fire-tipped lance;
The glance that keen eye sparkling shot,
Whose arrowy ardour fadeth not!—
Back from his forehead—high and bare,
Streamed smooth and straight, his time-touched hair—
In silvery lengths of solemn light,
Like misted meteors of the night—
That forehead laced with starting veins,
The fitful flush of fever stains,
And burns as from his soul—so deep,
The enkindlings there that live and leap—
As though the Invisible rushed forth,
Revealed in all its hidden worth!—
Wildly upon his heaving breast,
Where round his swelling heart they're pressed,—
The sable draperies rise and fall
Like tapestries stirred on gusty wall—

192

When heaves with strange tempestuous strife,
The Image-World of pictured life!—

XLI.

De Courcy heard his words of gloom,
As called a voice from out the tomb,
And varying deep expressions past—
Yet each had still a solemn cast—
Now saddening—and enkindling now—
Along his broad and lofty brow!—
When first the Priest full nobly prayed,
The Invader's arm might yet be stayed
By his own changed and softened heart—
New won to Virtue's loftier part!—
Whose footsteps stamped through Heavenly grace
On that proud heart—with blessed trace—
Might red Ambition's signs efface!—
A hurrying admiration stirred
Through all his features as he heard,—
Yet touched with dim dejection's shade,—
As felt he still Heaven would not aid—
As though he felt, with grief and pain,
That generous prayer was prayed in vain!—

XLII.

But when the Priest, with altered tone—
Deep as the lashed sea's hollow groan—
Denounced for utter ruin's worst
All the enterprise—the abhorred—accursed,—

193

That had for aim the Fate and Fall
Of his loved land—best-loved of all!—
If hardened still—unchanged—unwon—
The Invader and his Hosts rushed on,
The strong pulsations of his breast
His deep emotion's might confessed.
His breath came thickening—flashed and flew
O'er brow and cheek full many a hue!—
He heard the arraignment—marked the threat—
His hands were clenched—his teeth were set—
His head raised high—his foot advanced—
Yet, stood he speechless—thralled—entranced!—
While the indignation's troubled rise
Lowered, lurid, from his fevered eyes.
And yet, o'er the Indignation all,
Conviction's shadow seemed to fall—
Pale Consciousness to cast her thrall!—
While still his nerves—with iron twined—
Quivered like harp-strings to the wind,
Accordant to the accents deep,
Which shook his soul, as though from sleep!—
And when the sound was passed,—he stood
Like image moulded to one mood—
Then went not down his storm of blood!—
Still rolled its waves of living fire
Through all his veins in glancing ire.

XLIII.

But hush!—a change comes softening now
O'er the angered eyes and lowering brow—

194

And gentler influences controul
The warped, strange movements of his soul!—
With low sweet voice and lilied cheeks,
The Daughter tremulously speaks—
“Oh, Father!—Human Nature's friend!—
May thy first prayer to Heaven ascend!—
Seem tones of wrath, and words of hate,
This heavenly house to desecrate.
But angels—prompting at thy heart—
Breathed of thy prayer that first pure part!
It is a time of Woe and Fear,—
But I—I will not tremble here!—
We dwell as in a holier sphere!—
I look on those still faces there,
And feel the answer to thy prayer!—
For much of Heaven the eye can trace
On Death's composed and awful face!—
There is no dread—there should be none—
There shall not be!—His will be done!—
In His hand all the issues lie
Of our oncoming destiny!
The hand from whence our blessings all
For evermore were wont to fall,
The hand that blessed—raised—cherished—gave—
Oh!—let us trust it still—to save!—
Even now, immediate from above
Seem springing boundless gifts of love,
Who ever loved his land so well,
While there, in peace, he joyed to dwell;—

195

As when he marks that mother soil
Half made the unblest Invader's spoil—
How doth the rapt child rush and cling,
More close beneath the broken wing,
And clasp—more dear—thus wrung—distressed,—
His Mighty Mother to his breast!
Whate'er is lost—each heart shall prove
What riches thus flow in of Love!—
While outwardly despoiled—defaced—
By girdling iron sore embraced—
Our land may bleed through every part,
How seem her sons to strength to start,
And hide their country—at their heart!—

XLIV.

“There—there—the sacred soil is spread,
The spirit of the land is shed—
Till the essence of the native air
Concentered seems, and wafted there!—
Even we—weak women!—who for spears—
For swords—have but our sighs and tears;—
Even we—who weep—watch—pine apart—
Hoard, too, Our Country, at our heart!—
As one deep treasure—deep and dear—
Garnered—amassed—locked—coffered—here!—
And, Father!—look around!—Behold!—
Glance round, on this high Fane and old,
Here rise the towers of our defence,
Embattailled by Omnipotence!—

196

Here stand the bulwarks of our boast—
That may well check the leaguering host!—
Behold the array of Veil and Shrine,—
Sublime Battalia!—and divine!—
From lowliest vault to loftiest spire,—
Citadel of the Eternal Sire!—
Castle of all Creation's King,
That boasts no banners but His wing!—
No armouries, but His dreaded power—
The best in Danger's blackest hour!—
No garrison, but trusting hearts—
That laugh to scorn the Leaguerer's arts—
Whose swords are prayers,—more edged with fate,—
The more those hearts are desolate!—
No Terrors, but the Almightiest Ones,—
The floors—like Firmaments of Thrones!—
Hosts legioned in the vaulted bones—
A Sabaoth in the silent stones!—
My Father!—who could shrink or fear,
Girt with His sun-sheathed armies—here?”—

XLV.

The voice of music did not die,—
It soars to Heaven triumphantly,
While many lengthening echoes meet—
(Luxuriating in lingerings sweet—)
The rapt and listening ear that hung
On the artless triumphs of her tongue!—
Those echoes spread,—and furl their wings—
In labyrinthine languishings!—

197

'Midst the architectural mazes strange,
That cause their scattering—and their change!—
Now seem they faultering far away—
Now rise once more—and sweetly stray;
Surely, young Soldier!—in thy heart
They play their happiest, sweetest part!—
Yes!—Passion's rapt Enthusiast!—there
They float in Love's immortal air!—
He gazed—he listened—and he felt!—
His very heart within him knelt—
So beautiful that Being stood,
In Hope's upspringing Victory-mood;
While each quick troubled glance he stole
Seemed seeing her but through her Soul!—
So gloriously 'midst the endless rays
Of Thought, whose mystery round her plays—
She stood—as all her Life were Light—
All the atmosphere with Spirit bright!—
And all the temple of the mind
Kindled by that keen flame it shrined!—
It seemed her finely-feeling Frame,
Itself transcendantly became
As part and portion of the same—
Fire of the One celestial Flame!—

XLVI.

And other eyes than his had gazed,
With looks that breathed—and tears that praised;—
And other ears enraptured hung
On the Angel-utterance of her tongue!

198

Her Father gazed upon his child
With sacred pleasure deep and mild;—
“May Russia's Daughters all but be—
My bosom-blessing!—like to thee!—
And they shall guard their native land,
A saintly—a seraphic band!—
Scarce the Eden-battlements of old,
Where waved dread swords in deathless hold—
Where cherubims far-flamed and glared,
Might seem to boast a heavenlier guard!—
Aye!—thus Home's sacred Paradise
Seems guarded under favouring skies
By ever-holy Purities!”—
Now turns the Priest—though moved, perchance,—
With steadfastly-determined glance—
To those that lie unconscious near
Of grief or joy—or hope or fear,—
Not there unstraightened shall remain
The limbs that owned Death's stiffening reign;—
His hands composed, with decent care,
Those limbs outstretched—insensate there:
One solemn kiss his lips impressed
On those pale foreheads—full of rest!—
Then,—while his heart seemed half unmanned,
He pressed his Mother's withered hand;
Those cold white fingers gently pressed
Unto his true and duteous breast;—
And took a slender snow-white tress
Of venerable loveliness,—
Which, fondly placed upon his heart,
Shall thence, long cherished, never part!—

199

XLVII.

While yet that Mother lived,—how oft
Her very look to him could waft
The aërial Infancy once more,
Which breathed the fragrance of Heaven's shore!—
For still when first the awakening soul
Is launched on seas that darkened roll,
Play Childhood's fanning life-dreams round,
Unchilled—untroubled—and unbound,—
While every breath might seem a breeze,
With tokens of the Immortal Trees!—
But each,—as Life still farther flies,—
Shall lose these hints of Paradise!—
And now for him such memories flee,
And all is Dark—and all is Sea!—
He was an old man yesternight
In many a fellow-being's sight;
But in the Mother-Presence still,
Would boyhood's feelings start and thrill;—
He felt before her eyes would pass,—
So oft his image—as he was,—
He could not all forget to be
The child her dreaming eyes yet see,—
Those eyes in very love had wept,
While he, the cradled darling, slept,—
And looked through the age of coming years,
Ere he was lessoned yet in tears,—
Those eyes could look him back once more
To all that he had been before!—

200

XLVIII.

But they were closed,—and so must be
That beam-traced Book of Infancy!—
His childhood lived with him beneath
Those eyes that now are sealed in death!—
And that is sealed, too, from his sight,
And he hath sunk in Time's dim night;—
He was an aged man yesterday
In many another's sight, I say;—
A cold, bleak wind of Death hath blown,
He is more aged in his own!—
He looks back on the yawning years,
All swallowed in one gloom appears!—
Once looked he through the Mother's eye,
That would not let his Childhood die!—
But now assailing the inmost part,—
Old Age hath settled round his heart!—
There Time hath raised his fatal scythe
To cut down visions—bland and blythe!—
No other voice can ever come
To breathe back half life's vanished bloom;—
No other heart can dream him young,—
Save that to which his childhood clung;—
That—while the pulse within still played—
Older by mightiest feelings made,—
As well as Years that fleet and fade,
His age as light and wanting weighed!—
While he unconscious lay and smiled,
What passion in her veins ran wild!

201

While he was yet a senseless thing,
How swelled her heart's love-pouring spring,
For him with deep affection swelled—
And could that sweet dream sink—dispelled?—
No!—had they lived whole centuries still,—
Still Nature thus had shewn sweet skill!—
Older by mightiest Feelings made,
The Mother would have still o'erweighed
Her own years 'gainst her son's,—and seen
Fair childhood through his furrowed mien;—
Would still have thus beheld,—and felt—
(Though ages even to both were dealt)
The child of her Affection's truth
Dowered well with bright eternal Youth!—
Even young—as she herself was old,—
And thus for ever would behold,
So wond'rous—Nature!—still are these,
Thy conquering holy mysteries!—

XLIX.

And now the solemn hymn is sung
Above the dead, till the arched aisles rung—
And now the sumptuous pall is thrown
Around those rigid limbs of stone;—
And mass is said, and prayers are prayed,
And blessed saints are called to aid!—
And lifted up and lowered ere long,
By help of the surrounding throng,
Into the gloomy vaults beneath,
Are these pale heritors of Death!—

202

De Courcy turns him to depart,
With saddened eyes, and grieving heart;—
But first he takes the Priest aside,
Faint struggling still, his grief to hide:—
“Fear nothing thou!—but still remain
Housed in this venerable fane,—
With the Armies that begird thee—these!—
Misfortune's children round thy knees!—
Whose tears might melt the very steel
In hands taught, too, at last—to feel!—
Whose anguished looks might paralyze
The Cæsars 'midst their victories!—
Chain Conquest's Pride with Pity dumb—
Make Glory's self as pale become!—
Stay!—good old man!—I haste to tell
Thy harrowing history.—Fare thee well!”—
And then as down the aisles he passed
One glance at that pale Maid he cast—
Who stood absorbed—with mournful air—
Bound still in fervent trance of prayer,
That flowed uninterrupted there!—
No answering glance met his!—Her eye
Seemed fixed on very vacancy!—
Her thoughts alone to grief were given,
Save those that winged their way to Heaven!

L.

He reached the portal—turned once more—
She stood as she had stood before—
Her face upturned—her hands close-clasped—
A crucifix within them grasped!

203

No look of earth—no touch of clay—
She there breathes round, celestial day,—
As bursting from the tomb away!
For what is earth, with all its gloom,—
But one incessant Troubled Tomb?—
Aye!—troubled!—all things but the rest,—
And 'tis the Grave's dark self confessed!—
De Courcy straight retraced his way—
Strong feelings o'er his breast held sway—
Strict counsel with himself he takes,
And many a deep reflection makes—
How best shall he that good pursue,
Which earnestly he hath in view?—
How best serve Vassilii?—secure
The safety of his child so pure?
The right course to his judgment seems,
And soundest,—sagest of all schemes—
At once King Joachim to seek—
With him in confidence to speak—
To him this history to relate,
And trust its own strong worth and weight;
Since still did brave Murat appear
To hold him in esteem sincere;—
With cordial Friendship's warmth to greet—
Pleased with a kindred valour's heat!—
Yes!—kindred their brave spirits seem,
In high emprise and daring dream—
The towerings of their thought the same—
Their Eagle-soarings after Fame!—

204

The same their bright adventurous zeal—
The heart of fire,—and arm of steel!—
Straight sought he then the fiery King,
Right swiftly borne on Hope's own wing!

LI.

Murat before his tent he found,
Girt by a gallant circle round—
In ardent flow of high debate,
On matters grave of warlike weight!—
The monarch marked the hurried glow
Upon the brave De Courcy's brow;
The varying shades—the expressions strange—
That filled his countenance with change—
Frank welcomes full of cheer and grace,
He tendered in that crowded place;—
Then beckoned him a space apart,
Where speech might soothe the o'erburthened heart;—
For well Murat's quick eye could mark
The flush of feeling deep and dark—
That o'er his guest's fine features threw
A startling and unwonted hue!—
And now at once that welcomed guest
His errand to reveal he pressed,—
Well minding him he need not fear
To trust those tidings to his ear!

LII.

De Courcy did the tale unfold,
In words unvarnished, simply told—

205

Though interrupting oft its flow,
Murmuring ejaculations low,
The impatient listener still exclaimed—
Pitied or threatened—praised or blamed!—
Still changed his cheek from red to pale
Till at the finish of the tale,
With voice that well the emotion proved,
That much his generous spirit moved—
“I go,” he cried, “at once to bear
These tidings dark to the Emperor's ear!—
Do thou, meanwhile, await me here—
And fear not!—all shall yet be well,
I have but thine own tale to tell!”—
He paused,—and gently waved his hand,
With graceful action of command,—
While bending low, his gladdened guest,
Mute acquiescence, thus expressed!

206

CANTO VI.

I.

The princely Chieftain straightforth went
To seek the Emperor's neighbouring tent,—
His entrance there at once he made,—
And disappeared beneath its shade!
De Courcy watched—(with anxious thought,
The while, his labouring breast was fraught;—)
Till issuing thence, he saw appear
That warlike king,—who straight drew near,
And ere he reached De Courcy's side,
In voice of joyous accent cried,—
“The Emperor hath vouchasafed to say,
He fain would see the Priest this day,—
Himself would question him, and hear
His tale of sorrow and of fear;
And learn from his own lips aright,
The story of the Fire and Flight!—
Do thou then seek thy friend at once!”—
Pleased,—heard De Courcy this response,
And prompt, when thus the King had said,
With glad alacrity obeyed!
Once more along those streets he strode—
A desolate and mournful road!—

207

While still from time to time he heard
Some distant shout—some greeting word—
Exchanged in haste—in hurried tone—
Or steps as rapid as his own,—
Or caught faint glimpse of groupes that passed
'Mid tottering ruins heaped and massed—
And vanished then, from vision fast!—
Parties of pillagers were these—
Though little there, was left to seize!—
Now turned he down a cumbered path,
Heaped with scorched signs of fiery wrath—
Absorbed in deep and sorrowing thought,—
And startled,—met the man he sought!

II.

The Prophet-like pale Priest was there,
With his loose robes and streaming hair,—
He seemed the Spirit of the Spot,
Wailing above the City's lot!
De Courcy promptly bade him learn
The motive of this swift return.
And then delivered, full and clear,
All the Emperor's message to his ear;
Then chid him much in friendly sort,
For leaving thus his hallowed fort,
And venturing out, at large to roam
From that supreme and sacred home,—
Exposing needlessly his life,
Perchance,—to prowling plunderer's knife—

208

A life so deeply dear to One—
He paused—his eye deep-kindling shone,—
And while warm colours stained his cheek,
He waited for the Priest to speak!—

III.

The venerable wanderer spoke—
Observing scarce his altered look,—
Sighed forth,—his heavy business there
Was seeking victims of despair;—
In hopes to shield them and to save
From outrage dire or blood-stained grave;—
For many still he feared were left
Of house,—and friends,—and aid bereft—
Afraid to trust the open street,
Shivering in some unsafe retreat!—
Already some he thus had found,
Couched trembling on the blasted ground—
Their homes in blackened ruins round!—
Not many paces from the street,
Where now, he said, they chanced to meet,—
He marked a wretched woman laid,
With none to soothe—and none to aid—
Outstretched upon the scorching stones,
And uttering deep her piteous moans,—
Till rang the air alive with groans!—
A new-born infant to her breast,
With clutch of agony she pressed,
With the agonies of life and death,
(Full fast was ebbing out her breath—)

209

While Consciousness and Reason still,
But shewed the worst extremes of ill!—
With agonies of frame and heart,—
Since Misery racked through every part,
And Love and Tenderness arose,
To add new wildness to her woes!

IV.

She clutched that child with raging grief—
She could not yield it dear relief!—
But this it asked not—cold, even cold—
It grew in that impassioned hold—
Cold 'gainst that burning—beating heart,
Where fevered pangs terrific smart!—
“And when,” pursued the reverend man,
“To soothe her wild despair I ran,
Her feeble form she struggling raised,
Alarmed, and startled, and amazed;
Then, bending down her pallid head,
Discovered that her babe was dead!—
Her new-born infant—'twas her first!
Thus cried she in her phrenzy's burst,—
‘The hoped-for—doated-on—desired—
And scarce it breathed ere it expired!’—
‘Be comforted,’ I urged!—‘Oh! yet,
'Tis best its opening sun should set!—
Look round,—at this drear waste of woes,
And thankful feel for its repose!’—
Rejected she my words with scorn—
‘My Babe!—my Babe!—my sweet First-born!—

210

Oh! could thy Father only see
His broken flower, and bless with me
This Lifelessness that once was thee!—
But, he is prisoner made by those,—
The authors accursed of all our woes,—
Who gird us round with death and doom,
Yet take sweet peace from even the tomb!’
The poor delirious creature raved—
In phrenzy's torturing bonds enslaved!
In vain I urged—blamed—prayed—besought—
She sate there lost in maddening thought!
And what were succour—safety—aid—
To her who groaned—by grief dismayed?
That little, clay-cold creature there
Was all she wished to save or spare!—
But hoarse, rough voices muttering near,
Even shook the Desolate with fear:
A glazing terror in her eye
Whitened its blood-shot agony;
And woman's natural dread rose strong
Above her sorrows' mingling throng;—
She rose—she staggered to my side—
Stopped—forwards fell—and moaned—and died!—
Her child,—round whom her arms were clasped,—
With wild, fond, wreathing passion grasped—
Her child seemed wound into her heart—
I scarce could force the twain apart!”—
De Courcy heard with glistening eyes,
And deep, though suffocated sighs,—
That tale which the old man shuddering told,
Which well might make the blood run cold!—

211

V.

“But come,” he cried, “nor more delay,
The Emperor's 'hest at once obey!—
To him reveal—to him declare—
These funeral tidings of despair!—
Be sure within his boundless Mind
The kindliest feelings dwell enshrined.”
“Alas!” the reverend man replied,—
“How strangely then, must maddening Pride—
And fierce Ambition's rage misguide!—
How fearfully must these controul—
The unbounded Mind—the immortal Soul!—
Could conquerors dream what ill they do—
Could this be bared before their view—
Could all the hideous sufferings—all—
That they have caused on man to fall,
Be shewn to them—revealed—displayed,—
Sweet Heaven!—the wretches they have made
Far less should need Thy pitying aid!—
Even blessed compared with those who wrought
Their dreadful wrongs—too dark for thought!—
The Conqueror from His World should fly,
Afraid to meet a human eye!—
Even from his conquered World depart,
With but a shadow at his heart,—
Resign his glory's pride of place,
Rather than view one human face!—
Since charactered its lines should be
With curses—black as Destiny!—

212

A book of curses there unrolled
Should smite the spirit—haught and bold;
And pierce through every fence and fold—
Then he, who bade in wrath to cease
The Heaven-born blessings of man's Peace,
Should feel the deadliest feud by far—
The eternal agonized Self-War!”—

VI.

De Courcy answered not—he feared
That Truth which to his soul appeared
Arrayed too clearly well in light,—
Too keenly and distinctly bright;
And War had still his idol been,
The living sunbreak of the scene!—
The Hope—the Awakening—and the Life,—
Each breath a trumpet in the strife!—
The Pride—the Business—the Delight,—
Each thought a triumph in the fight!—
And must he change indeed his view?—
And are these new impressions—true?—
Was all delusion that was dear?—
And is the heavy truth then clear?—
The stars seemed lighting fresh their flames,
To pour new rays for heroes' names!—
And should they be, indeed, but bound
By cypress-seeming clouds profound,—
The blazon roll of glory—made
A firmament on earth displayed!—

213

(Till Men but trod on Meteors proud,
Where rushing ages seemed to crowd,
To dip their unexpanded wings
In Triumph's bright exhaustless springs!—)
And is't not then what it appears?—
Blotted with blood,—and stained with tears!—
Alas!—War's glories change and cease,—
And vanquished victories yield to Peace!—

VII.

These thoughts revolved he silently,
With changing cheek and earthward eye,
As he with his companion strode
Along their heaped and blackened road!
Together silently they bent
Their swift course towards the Emperor's tent:—
The Churchman fevered and o'erwrought,—
The intrepid Soldier pale with thought!—
Now Vassilii's reluctant glance
Admired the proud array of France,—
The fearful masses of her might
Rushed on his pained and sickening sight!—
How is 't the ground forbears to rock
With every hostile footstep's shock?—
How is 't the dust on which they tread—
Heaves not to Mountains o'er their head?—
How can the Russian rivers flow,—
Reflecting thus—those arms' stern glow?—
How can their own—their native air
Play with the insulting banners there?—

214

Even the Elements as Traitors seem
To him in that indignant dream!—
But they shall yet perform their part,—
As each one bore a Russian heart!—
Hope whispers thus,—with that sweet voice,
That still proves stronger to rejoice!—
Encouraged by its own dear sound,—
And the echoes that it wakes around,
Until its first faint whisper grows
Deeper and louder as it flows!—
Till like a storm of music sweeps
That voice through all the heart's great deeps!—
Dreams—Thoughts—where Sorrow's death-frost lies,—
Hear that Archangel's tromp and rise!—
And all Futurity obeys
The Power that o'er the Spirit sways
(Or so that Spirit deemeth still,—
Moulded and moved by that soft skill)!—
The rosy days roll brightening on,
Until they drop back in the sun!—
All ends—as all begins—in light,
There spreads no gloom—there frowns no night,—
The very Past smiles back more bright!—

VIII.

Before the Leader's tent of state
The Churchman and De Courcy wait,—
Not long in that suspense they stand—
Comes soon the message of command!—

215

The Priest, with solemn mien composed,
No hesitating doubt disclosed,—
With firmest steps and loftiest gait,—
As one beyond all Time and Fate,—
He entereth now that tent of state—
Uplifted by the very grief
That once had mocked at all relief,
He followeth those who came to guide
To his—the Mighty Leader's side!—
Napoleon's arrowy glances keen
Explored that pallid brow and mièn—
That countenance so calm—so still—
So governed by the strengthened will—
Yet governed only to subdue,
The all-fitful change of suffering's hue,—
No guile dwelt there that asked a fold,—
No watchful calculations cold—
No policies astucious wound,
And worked in that great mind's profound!—
The Mighty Master could but be,
Perplexed by such simplicity!—
And now that silence brief, he breaks—
And many a quick inquiry makes—
And multiplies his questions fast,
As though with restless, fevered haste;
Then suddenly his strain suspends,—
And eager for the answer bends!—
Still as a statue,—there had stood
That Priest, as lacking breath and blood,

216

As paralyzed by sudden dread—
At much the Conqueror asked and said—
And petrified beneath that glance,
Which well might bind in frozen trance!

IX.

And is't the inquisitorial strain
That checks the life in every vein?—
And is't beneath that searching eye
His thoughts confused and darkened lie,
Till seems the fainting soul to die?—
That strain hath ceased—relaxed that gaze—
Which seemed to chain and to amaze!—
Now let the grey-haired churchman seek
Those things, required of him, to speak—
To answer each abrupt demand—
(As he before his judge might stand)
He starts—he breathes—the blood pours back
Full swiftly in each wonted track—
A spirit,—kindling up amain,
Seems breathing fast through every vein!—
So mightiest woods, on some still day,—
Might stand unmoved,—in cold array,
But suddenly,—should chance to wake
The gale, behold them change and shake,
They billowing heave,—in sea-broad strife,
Till every leaf is like a life!—
He starts—he breathes—he burns with thought—
He pants with passionate dreams o'erwrought;—

217

The soul within him seems to be
Like some up-ploughed—yet prisoned sea!—
But no!—its bursting tides rush free—
His words in torrent-flow come forth,—
If Tropic Suns might thaw the North,—
(Should these once light her lesser day!—
And melt her ice-ribbed thrones away,—)
Thus might Her thousand fountains play—
Thus flashingly and fiercely wake—
And forth from all their trammels break!—

X.

“Bethink thee!—tremble—and—beware!—
Heaven yet may pardon—yet may spare!—
Pause not—but now, while yet is time,
Reform thy course—repent thy crime—
For mercy yet may wait to hear
The prayer of penitence sincere!—
Await not then, till Mercy flown,
Shall leave her place to Wrath alone!—
Fall prostrate now before the Lord,
And break in twain thine impious sword,—
Or tremble at the unheard-of doom
That yet, to whelm thy pride shall come!—
For be thou sure great Heaven shall still
Perform its high and holy will,
As thou—thine evil one and ill!—
Be sure that Heaven its will divine
Shall brightly act—and mock at thine!—

218

Thou rushest madly on thy fate—
Thy ruin bent to consummate—
No Understanding even thou hast
Of these thine Undertakings vast;—
Thou knowest not all that thou hast dared,—
Nor comest admonished and prepared!—
Heaven hath,—beyond the o'er-arching skies,
Its Armies—Hosts—and Hierarchies,—
The awful Sabaoth of its might,—
Strong 'gainst a War of Worlds to fight!—
To crush—if vast rebellion rose—
Through all that the All Unbounded shews—
Embattailled Universes down,—
Heaven's full armipotence their own!
And Heaven hath here—on Earth—even here—
Its deep-leagued hosts,—which Hell shall fear,—
Armies of ministers that still
Shall do—and must—its glorious will!—
Although they work,—unseen the while,—
Beneath the shelterings of its smile!—

XI.

“Oh, Thou!—that willest!—and it is done!—
That where Thou lookest,—lightest up a sun!—
That where Thou breathest,—bidd'st overflow
The void with wonders none may know!—
That taught'st, whatever Is—to Be!—
To dare exist—exist with thee!—
Aye!—even while Thou—Oh! dread Supreme—
Dost filling all existence seem!—

219

Thou makedst all worlds to shine and roll,—
Thou hast Thy Sabaoth in the Soul!—
Thine armies, Thou hast marshalled, too,
Within the humble mind and true—
Thine Hierarchies within the Heart,
Watch still to do their faithful part!—
There Love, that most Thy grace approves,—
All but Almighty—works and moves!—
A glorious retinue sustains
Its mystic might—nay! countless trains—
Deep feelings living—yet on Earth—
Half in the Heaven of their high birth—
And bearing even through weary Time,
The Eternity's own stamp sublime!—
High thoughts—that angels leave their thrones
To dwell on—as more Radiant Ones!—
And mysteries—tongue may never speak,—
Oh Love!—these gird thee—bravely meek!—

XII.

There, Zeal—whose lip would kiss the fire,
Where Treachery doomed it, to expire!—
Sublimely lifts its glance above,
And dies—to melt but in that love!—
There Faith smiles back all shades of night,—
And deluges the grave with light!—
And more than these—within man's soul,
Assert the most august controul;—
And wage the Eternal's Awful War,
Till victory glorieth free and far!—

220

These—these—and more,—o'erpower Thy Power,—
And bring thy ruin's certain hour!—
Through every turn of Time and Tide—
'Gainst scheme—'gainst strife—at every stride—
In every shape—from every side—
Within—without—thou art defied!—
Quail! sacrilegious spoiler!—Thou,
That bidd'st the Eternal's altars bow!—
Unwearyingly we watch and wait,
To guard our land inviolate;
Secure that He ordaineth still
The Good shall triumph o'er the Ill!—
Perish the foot that dares to tread—
Irreverent o'er a Nation's Dead!—
For what is still that Native Soil,—
Round which, men's conscious heart-strings coil,—
But the beloved dust and blest
Of our dead fathers in their rest?—
Perish the abhorred and impious hand,
That fires the shrine with barbarous brand!—
And taking all that Earth hath given,—
Would rob us too,—at last—of Heaven!”—

XIII.

His words' impassioned fervent flow,
That rushing bore their weight of woe—
Till then unchecked—unstayed—poured on—
The listener's wondering ear was won;
But here,—ere yet the speech was closed,—
Abruptly thus he interposed,—

221

“And think'st thou, then, 'tis through my deed,—
These flames on your doomed city feed?”—
“Assuredly!”—in steadfast tone
The Priest replied,—“Thine!—thine alone!—
Whose mind but thine could have conceived
The outrageous wrong?—whose hand atchieved?—
This dark and terrible design—
This deed of doom could but be thine!—
Whom deem'st thou wrought it,—Scourge of Earth!—
Scatterer of Desolation's dearth!—
Save thee—the Invader of the North?”
“Yourselves!”—the Emperor thundered forth!—
“Ourselves?”—the Priest's clasped hands are raised—
He stands there shocked—o'erwhelmed—amazed—
In breathlessness of wonder stands—
As bound by rigid iron bands!
Conviction slowly forced its way—
Rightly doth he—the accuser say!—
Full many a scarce-marked circumstance
Recurred, in that deep pondering trance!
And strange suspicions that awoke
Erewhile—now doubly strengthened broke—
Through clouds of doubt—while the Armed One spoke!—

XIV.

Lest such harsh measures might appal,
Nor meet the free consent of all,
The Russian leaders had concealed,
(While thus to dictates stern they yield)

222

Their purpose deep—their dark resolve—
Which must such ruin's waste involve—
Broke forth the Priest's deep voice once more—
“Repentance wring thee to the core!—
Think!—think!—if this be so indeed—
Think how thou'st caused our souls to bleed!—
From every vein of Feeling—Thought—
With love and fevered zeal o'er-fraught;—
Think!—think!—what worse than wrong thou'st wrought!—
What worse than waste—what worse than woe—
And all thy Deed of Darkness know!—
Thou'st taught us desperate things, and made
Ourselves,—of our own deeds afraid!—
Beware!—ten thousand times beware!—
Lest worse thou bring us than—despair!—
Lest urged and stung—beyond our strength,
Thou goad'st us into crime at length!—
And arm'st our suicidal hands
With self-aimed bolts—self-pointed brands!—

XV.

“Tremble!—a thousand-fold I say!—
And cower before thine own dark sway,
Lest Heaven such Horrors should design
As yet ne'er cursed a doom—save thine!—
Lest thou—who com'st with spear and sword—
That many a nation's heart hath gored—
Should, with tremendous ruin blast,
And kill—a people's soul at last!—

223

With hideous and abhorred controul,—
Murder a mighty nation's soul!—
O'erwrung with the anguish and despair,
And hardened with the inhuman care!”—
Well such reproach the Emperor bore,
His brow its calm expression wore,
No fury flashed from out his eye—
At this ungoverned, bold reply—
The accents from his lip that fell,
Of no enkindling wrath might tell!—

XVI.

“And was thy Church destroyed by fire,—
Thou zealous minister?”—“Nay, sire!”—
The Priest triumphantly replied—
“Heaven turned the obedient flames aside—
Nor would their ravage there allow,—
'Tis doubly consecrated now!—
Since there the adopted of its breast,—
Adversity's sad children—rest—
Affliction's scattered ones—sore-tried—
Together, gathered there, abide—
Its walls within their circuit hold
The unhappy wanderers of the Fold;
And Powers not Earthly,—but Divine,—
Protect the trebly-sacred shrine,
Which miracles were wrought to save—
Which the elements dared not to brave!”—
“By whom were these asesmbled there?”—
Napoleon prompt rejoined,—“Declare!”—

224

“By me!” was straight the Priest's reply,
With steadfast voice and kindling eye!—
“And, good Old Man!—thou didst right well,—
And there shall they uninjured dwell;
Or else removed from thence shall be,—
Spared—solaced—soothed—from dangers free!—
'Twere well if all like thee had done—
Taught fiend-like deeds of wrong to shun,—
In hideous wantonness of wrath,
Destroying all around their path!—
Better, like thee, to kneel and pray
That Heaven may turn the Storm away,
Than lash the Winds with maddening ire,
That all may in one doom expire!”—

XVII.

But o'er the Priest's expressive brow
A cloud of change comes rushing now,
Now thrill afresh his bosom's chords,—
“I do repent me of my words!—
Of mine unworthy thoughts repent;
The fearful deed,—so nobly meant,—
The proud Self-Sacrifice—the blow,—
Struck through our own hearts at the Foe,—
Can be no wrong—no darkling crime,—
An act even Sacredly Sublime!—
Not done in ‘wantonness of wrath,’
A loftier source it had—and hath!—
It sprung from judgments deep—matured,—
From stablished principles assured;—

225

Gigantic dangers must demand
Gigantic efforts to withstand;—
And deeds thus mighty and thus vast
Such sweeping shadows round them cast—,
So darkening spread on every side,—
Voluminously rolled and wide,
That gazing on the Immediate Ill
We half forget the Distant still!—
I do repent my words—retract!—
And bless the augustly awful act!—
Absolved my countrymen shall be!—
While their great deeds shall keep us free!—
Absolved my countrymen shall stand—
And their great deeds shall save the Land!”—

XVIII.

“Nay! say not so,” Napoleon cried;
“In thy first judgment's truth abide,
And loathe with pure and pious mind
These phrenzies of the Unresigned!—
Their bitter cup they will not drain,—
Which Fate hath brimmed for them with pain,—
That cup fierce-dashing to the ground!—
Thus scattering thousand drops around,—
Embittering even the untainted spring—
Which holier hints, might round them, fling—
It is a foul and fearful thing!—
Enough!”—he saw that Priest prepared
Once more to speak—unchecked—unscared;—

226

Nor wished again those words to hear,
That teemed with sharp reproach severe,—
“Return!—then, to the unshaken Dome—
Thy sacred stronghold's solemn Home;
Thy steps accompanied shall be
By guardians good, for thine and thee!—
A band of iron warriors strong
Shall shield from plunder or from wrong!”
He turned him to De Courcy then—
“Go thou!—and take some twenty men—
And with the Priest set forth at once!”—
But prompt came Vassilii's response.—

XIX.

“Nay!—Sire!”—he spoke in gentlier tone—
“First suffer me to go alone!—
Since Fear—strange Fear—would surely slay
With utter wildness of dismay,
The unhappiest outcasts, gathered there—
In that protecting House of Prayer!—
Should these,—yet unprepared, behold
The dreaded foe break through their Fold;—
Thou know'st not how they shrink and blench
With loathing from the fatal French—
With shuddering agonies of dread—
Perchance even maddeningly misled,—
For still they darkly—deeply deem,
With fevered Superstition's dream,
That heathens all thy host must be—
Followers of Antichrist and Thee;—

227

I lifted even my voice in vain,
To clear these errors of the brain,—
The cry was still, ‘They come, enrolled
In dreadful ranks—the demon souled—
'Gainst the Everlasting Shepherd's Fold!’—
But let me haste—and strive to hush
The terrors that distract and crush,—
And let me tell them—trembling yet—
That face to face we two have met;—
Perchance I thus may soothe their fear,
And calm their troubled minds and cheer!”—

XX.

“Go!—good old man!”—the Emperor said,
“And teach them they have nought to dread!”
With deep obeisance—homage meet—
From that high Presence they retreat!—
De Courcy and the Priest, who now
Stepped forth with cleared and opened brow—
The glad assurance at his heart,
That he had well performed his part—
Nor blenched,—nor shrunk,—with dubious mind,—
From this—the important task assigned!—
They separate now,—the Priest proceeds
To seek the flock he guides and leads!—
De Courcy hastens to fulfil
The mighty Master's uttered will.

XXI.

Brief time hath now elapsed since bent
The Priest his way from the Emperor's tent—

228

And him De Courcy is prepared,
To follow straight with fitting guard!
Once more he takes his gloomy way
Through those wild places of dismay—
And high his eager pulses bound
With sweet expectancies profound—
And wings seemed lent unto his feet!—
Once more shall he that Maiden meet,
'Tis like some glimpse of Heaven to greet!—
Whose image—traced on every thought—
Is ceaselessly before him brought;
And now,—since moves that arméd band,
Beneath another's fair command,
He deems he well may hasten on,
That sooner may the goal be won—
That sooner may be reached that place—
Even the unabandoned House of Grace!—
And then delightedly may he—
Entering the portals stealthily
Of that antique and hallowed Pile—
Bask in young Xenia's breathing smile,—
(For still unsmiling—still she smiled
And shewing grief—with grief beguiled!—
For still unsmiling smiled that face—
Transpierced with all the soul's bright grace!—)
Ere yet the crowd—the shock—the press—
Should trouble that supreme recess,
And startle that fair Loveliness!—

229

XXII.

He quickens now his pace, and hies
Toward that most Blest of Sanctuaries;
But evening's shades frown gathering round—
Darkening the ruin-cumbered ground—
And by degrees, is he compelled,
With fevered, anxious hopes unquelled,
To slacken much his panting speed,—
While fast the lights of day recede!
Now suddenly assailed his ear,
A cry distressful—echoing near!—
And fast his inmost heart is stirred—
'Twas Vassilii's deep voice he heard!
In vain the gathering shades impede—
He darts along with reckless speed—
While oaths and threats, deep muttering, swell,
And guide him and direct him well!—
He speeds along—he strains his eyes—
And soon—a bowshot off—descries
The struggling Priest surrounded close
By numbers of unpitying foes;—
He, to the rescue rushing flew,
And tore his way, that circle, through;
And—well believe—with rage inspired—
With furious indignation fired—
He dealt round blows that even might make
The hardiest shrink—the boldest quake—
Their weapons—raised in threatening way
'Gainst the unarmed man they think to slay—

230

Are lowered, and sheathed in haste again,
Without the fatal crimsoning stain!—
De Courcy's piercing eye detects
(And this his hurried thought expects—)
The same offenders that he saw,
Ere this, their desperate weapons draw
'Gainst the defenceless and the weak—
Fierce vengeance on their heads to wreak,—
Intent their sacred blood to seek!—
The same—that on that very day
Had sought the guiltless ones to slay!—

XXIII.

No doubt enraged, they had but gained
Sharp reprimand—defeat sustained—
In ambush these had lain and stayed
For gathering evening's favouring shade,
In hopes—as it had chanced—they yet
The blameless Churchman might beset!—
While others,—urged by plunder's hope,
Had there, joined the evil-purposed troop!—
And surely then had fallen beneath
Their savage swords—athirst for death—
That venerable man who moved
Reverenced, and honoured, and beloved,
But that awhile their hands they stayed,
And yet the murderous stroke delayed,—
And questioned him of hidden gold,
And buried spoils of wealth untold!—
His answers roused their rage once more,—
And now had rushed his spouting gore,

231

For many a weapon flashed on high,
And dazzled his undaunted eye,—
But that, once more, De Courcy sprang,
While loud his voice commanding rang,
To aid,—to rescue,—and to save,
And snatch him from that yawning grave,—
The grave that seemed to suck him down
Already, for all hope had flown!—

XXIV.

A measured tramp soon strikes the ear,
And 'mid the gloom the files appear
Of those armed men—now sent to guard
The Desolate—preserved and spared!—
And now the leaders of that groupe—
That ruthless and dishonoured troop,—
Disarmed and bound, are marched away,
And forced, reluctant, to obey!—
The others to the Church proceed
Straightforth, with undelaying speed;
Fronting the portals now they stand,—
De Courcy springs before the band,—
First entereth in the holy fane
And sees the Adored One, once again!
In all her beauty she appears,
Though still in the atmosphere of tears!—
And pale with suffering—bowed with woe,
But yet a rose—without its glow,—
A rose of clear, calm, unsunned snow!—
And now the armed men behind advance,
Cloathed in the martial garb of France,—

232

And now they entered the open doors,
And tramped along the wide-spread floors,—
Those hallowed pavements loudly rang
With their proud tread—a steely clang!—

XXV.

But louder rang upon the air
The shriek of maddening terror there,—
Far louder rose that curdling shriek
That seemed of phrenzied dread to speak;
Even though their Priest—their well-beloved—
Beside the dreadful strangers moved,—
Even though he entered there the first,—
Enough!—they glimpsed that garb accursed,
They marked those hated forms—they fled,
With hair unbound—with arms outspread,—
And clinging round their altars, rent
The air with many a loud lament!—
Shrieks, groans, and prayers, together smite
The astonished sense with thrilling might,
And every wildest Form of Fear
Becomes itself a Terror here!—
So startlingly and wildly shew
Their depths of dread—'mid depths of woe!—
Would that a painter there, had been
To snatch unto his soul that scene!—
Then fling it—with that mounting soul—
One beautiful and wond'rous whole!—
Upon the canvass—stirred to life,
And panting with the awakening strife!—

233

Lamps through the vast cathedral spread
Some lowered—some hung—high overhead—
A partial light and trembling shed,
Save where the Soldiers moved,—and there
They cast a wild and fearful glare;—
The bickering arms strange radiance gave
To changeful Light's down-flowing wave,—
And many a beaming flash shot far
From these—the accoutrements of war!—
While—where the feebler radiance plays
In the attitudes of wild amaze,—
How many groupes enchain the Sight,
And lend the flush of Life to Light!—

XXVI.

Old men with beards in lengthening flow,
Spread down their breasts—more white than snow,—
With shrivelled hands all quivering raised,
Up to their saints in anguish gazed,—
Saints they had all their lives implored,
Praised—prized—sought—reverenced—half-adored;—
While children grasped their upstretched arms,
All shuddering with the unknown alarms;—
Their little faces changed with dread—
Changed—ashy pale from rosy red!—
The laughter-lightnings of their eyes
Quenched in that terror's dire surprise;
Their tender features fluttering now—
Where Fear her ghastly path doth plough,—
Till furrowed seems even the infant brow!—

234

Young maidens there,—bewildered, clasp
The blessed shrines, and trembling gasp!—
But Oh!—'midst these, how brightly shone
A matchless and transcendant One!—
All eyes must worship her alone!—
Though trembling, startled, and amazed,
Her eyes with patient hope are raised;
That glance lifts hope and trust yet higher,—
For Xenia sees her much-loved sire!—
She hurries breathless to his side—
Hears welcome words,—and turns to chide,—
While soothings are with blame allied,—
The agonizing fears of those
Who deemed they saw their deadliest foes!—

XXVII.

In vain the Priest had raised his hand
With solemn gesture of command,
They marked not—saw not—would not hear,—
Tormented on that rack of Fear!—
But now amidst them they behold
Their sweet companion—brightly bold;
She rushes from her Father's arms
To soothe and silence their alarms;—
Amidst all the uproar of Despair
His voice had died along the air;—
But now they pause—while her sweet voice
Says to their listening hearts, “Rejoice!”—
They bless her cheering accents then—
Babes,—mothers,—maids,—and aged men!—

235

And following her, they gathered round
Their Pastor soon with trust profound,—
Their wails and shrieks of terror cease,
And all is confidence and peace!—
And now her sire, in few brief words,
That thrill her heart's profoundest chords,
Relates the dangers, dark and dread,
That late hung threatening o'er his head—
Then touched,—to his deliverer turns,—
While she, with grateful gladness, learns
De Courcy 'twas, whose valourous arm
Preserved her father's life from harm!

XXVIII.

Think—think!—how rose De Courcy's pride
Within his soul,—in boundless tide,—
When—“What!—a second time!”—she cried!—
“And what!—a Second Time hast thou,—
Brave stranger!—saved us!—how,—Oh!—how
Can we our grateful love avow!”
Yes, “love!—Love!”—was the enchanting word
His raptured ear half dubious heard—
In sweet simplicity it came
From those young lips—not breathed in shame—
They meant no light—no earthly flame—
A sainted and exalted love—
Such as the Immortals feel above—
With sacred sympathies imbued,
And sense of Heaven-blessed brotherhood,—

236

A love,—whose purity sublime
Was far beyond all Earth and Time,
Of gratitude's deep feeling born,
And Friendship in the heart's core worn!—
And yet, when she that word had said—
And saw the intense emotion shed
Deep hues—o'er all his aspect spread—
Her heart shrank back from that sweet sound,
Which from her heart had burst profound—
She felt the flush his forehead wore
Glowed deepening through its trembling core—
And thus resumed, in tones that greet
Less wildly fervent—still more sweet
The ear which drinks the sound, as might
The new-risen soul, Heaven's opening light.

XXIX.

“Saved us, I said!—I say so still—
Oh!—had my father's heart grown chill,
I scarce could have survived to know
The whole stern fulness of my woe,
So close—deep love and duty bind
The hearts, by grief yet closelier twined!—
And—gallant Stranger!—from the grave
'Twas thine—twice thine—both lives to save!—
But words can slender part express
Of this—the o'erflowing thankfulness—
The gush of gratitude—I feel
At these—thy deeds of generous zeal!”

237

She ceased—and music died away—
That he could wish should deathless stay—
But all his thoughts melodious grew
Beneath those words, and glances too!—
The love that seemed before so deep—
Now, o'er his soul did strengthened sweep
In clouds of tenderness so strong,—
They bore that rushing soul along!—
His life seemed lifted all above,
Yet lost in the Endlessness of Love!—
He felt, too, in that mounting mood,
That he was met—and understood!
That gleam of hope—that first sweet gleam,
Made all things round him smile and beam.
Deluged with the ecstasy of light—
Winged thoughts were checked upon their flight,
And back upon his heart they rushed
All fevered as they were, and flushed,
In rapture of confusion hurled,—
Riven parts of One most blessed World!—
As though the soul, by the o'er-delight,
Was shivered into fragments bright!—
That glassed ten thousand forms of bliss,
While that commingling—mirrored this—
Repeated still—reflected on,—
Till all were—in Division—One!—
Though severed all—yet all alike—
With self-same aspect still they strike!—

238

XXX.

And Xenia—did the electric chain
That round all hearts must twined remain
Thrill thee with pleasure—and its pain?—
(For even such pleasure pure and high
Hath hints of rich perplexity—
And keen and bitter partnery!—)
The electric chain of feeling strong,
That lengthening—strengthening, winds along!—
And makes our Being more than be,
Sublimed by quickening sympathy;
Until we feel we are not born
Into a selfishness forlorn,—
But linked into a world that thinks—
Lives—loves!—whose atoms all are linhs!—
A world—that framed of myriad parts,
Into one life harmonious starts,—
Its portions linked for evermore
Together—through Love's sacred lore,—
And those linked portions linked again,
Unto the throne of the Endless Reign,
Till all is in One Truth comprized—
All harmonies are harmonized!—
Oh! never shews that sympathy
So deep as—Youthful Love!—in thee!—
When in the heart of other seems
The Heart to pour its thousand streams;
When that receives it, and repays
The gifts with breathless love and praise—

239

Forgetful of themselves—each flows—
As though eternally it rose
Without an ebb—in rushing rise,
To mark no boundary but the skies!—
Those thousand streams each heart pours there—
Deep Streams with Streams still mingling fair!—
All hues of Heaven appear to bear;—
Together then they seem to be—
The whole world in One Sympathy!—

XXXI.

Sweet Xenia!—did thy gentlest heart
To such divine existence start?—
Or did pale Sorrow yet chide back
The new guest hovering o'er her track?—
Ah!—surely Sorrow's softening power
Might best prepare for such an hour—
Charm every colder thought away,—
Bid all quick Feeling's touch obey;
And killing doubt, reserve, or pride,
Bare all the deep soul's softest side,—
Aye, turn its soft side to the Light,
And Life, and Love—with conquering might!—
And Xenia loved!—in hours of gloom,
Faint sparks as shining lights become—
And things that had but little moved
In happier days, now powerful proved!—
In hours of storm,—strife,—haste—and heat,
All hurryingly the Soul doth greet!—
Till years contracted seem to be
Even in bright moments as they flee.

240

All sudden seems—all hastened on,
As all must now be lost or won!—
The troubled Time hath cast around
Such semblance of itself profound,
That on its billowy surface stirred
Seem restless deed, thought, look, and word!—

XXXII.

And Xenia loved!—her guileless heart
Felt new emotions thrill and start
Through every keenly-wakening part!—
Yet in that heart's soft budding youth,
Itself but little guessed the truth,—
'Twas friendship—gratitude—esteem,—
Aught but wild Love's delirious dream,
That made the world around appear
Itself more blessed and more dear!—
The common Earth, and Air, and Skies,
Sunlike,—upon each other rise!—
Each, lending each, a flood of light,
And starting as from depths of night!—
Not love!—not love!—it could not be—
Worthier of loftier thoughts is he!—
Aye!—holier sentiments should claim
One who as their Deliverer came!—

XXXIII.

Oh! maiden!—dared thy heart to dream—
Now basking in that glorious beam—
That aught could holier—loftier prove
Than the Earth-emparadising Love!—

241

The holiness of whose sweet hope
Bids every gate of glory ope,
And urgeth man to do and dare,
High lifting him from sordid care;—
This—this—can raise, guide, prompt, and fire,—
Crown,—arm,—illume him,—and inspire!—
Its bright commandments mightiest seem
To rule this Human Nature's stream;—
Whose every current—every tide—
Obeys his influence, free and wide.
All Truth, and Height, and Light, and Power,
From him seem lent—in his deep hour!—
He worketh miracles within!—
From darkness and the gloom of sin
Rises the Soul to strive—and win!—
Rises the Soul in Suns!—Each thought
A world of light—o'er-blazed, o'er-fraught!—
He teacheth high triumphant things,—
What Phantasies unfurl their wings—
What Visions far their scenes unroll,
When he is present in the Soul!—
From space to space they glowing spread,
Yet cause no wonder and no dread;
By his great power seem all things made,—
One life—far scattered—far displayed,—
One Universal Light's Excess,—
From Boundlessness to Boundlessness!—
Endurance strong—and tempered zeal
From him receive their stamp and seal;

242

And patience pure, and rock-built trust,
By him are quickened from the dust,—
And fine Ambition is his own,
Immeasurably mighty shewn!—

XXXIV.

He smiles the stars from his bright path,
That inborn—self-given splendour hath!—
And pulling down the veiling sky,
Would gaze through all the Eternity!—
No light, but his own light must dare
To gild his course through earth and air,—
A whole Eternity of Suns,
Though trebly-bright Celestial Ones,
With all their congregated rays
Concentered in one crowning blaze!—
Their ages of unceasing light
Blent to one midmost splendour bright,
Were nothing to the spirit-glow
Which he through Darkness' self can throw,
Till even that Darkness is more dear
Than worlds on fire with light, appear!—
Oh! Maiden! nought can be so fair,—
So worthy, radiant, pure, and rare,—
So mystically bright and high,
As Love's Soul-throned Divinity!—
And soon in all thy heart and mind
Right worthily was he enshrined;
And soon fair justice didst thou do
To him—the Wonderful and True!—

243

And soon thou gloried'st much to own
That gentle heart his seat and throne;—
To own it to thyself in fear,
With precious tremblings deep and dear,
And rapturous lingerings of distrust,
That yet shall end—they shall—they must—
In confidence so full and free,
That all seems Heaven's own certainty!—
Though still around deep glooms extend,
And heavy shadows without end,
And Destiny and Earth too near
To that divine delight appear!—

XXXV.

O'er all it triumphs!—Still it gives,
While deep within the life it lives,
Its sweet commandments unto all,—
And what hath answered not its call?—
New Courage, Patience, Hope, awake,
Its calm, fair retinue to make!—
And clear imaginings arise,—
With the instincts native to the skies;—
And all the Thoughts like Trcasure lie,
Gladdened with immortality!—
Piled round that costliest treasure there,
Which makes them all so deeply fair;
And Grief itself hath learned to shew
What beauty can be found in woe,
What loveliness may yet be lent
To Sorrow's pale bewilderment—

244

Whose dreams and thoughts with borrowed worth,
Like Melancholy Moons shine forth;—
Illumined with a blessed ray
From the orb of all the Spirit's day!—
Till even their melancholy flings
A new charm o'er created things—
So tender and so beauteous made—
Like dubious births—half sun—half shade!—

XXXVI.

And was De Courcy happy?—Yes!—
Earth grew one heaven of happiness—
Whene'er they met—'twas joy's sweet height—
Whene'er they met not—Fancy's might
Supplied a vision half as bright!—
And Hope and Memory sweetly strove
Which most could minister to Love!—
And rapidly, from hour to hour,
That passion deepened to its power,—
From bright beginnings, free and fast,—
To full perfections richly passed!—
And gathered all its glories round,
In one transcendant triumph bound—
While quivering joys—while rainbowed tears—
And breezy hopes—and kindling fears—
But added to that triumph still,
And taught each pulse a livelier thrill,
And all the soul appeared to bless,
With wealth of costlier consciousness!—

245

Their love—like lightning rose to warm,
The rugged bosom of the storm!—
'Twas war without, and strife and din,
'Twas doubly Heaven and Light within—
Where once doth Love, the Blessed, reign—
There wrong nor ruin, wrath nor pain,
May wholly cloud with murky night—
Nor his ecstatic being blight!—
No!—these shall ravage not—nor shake
The Paradise two hearts can make—
Though each have hoards of Sorrow's store
Hidden within their throbbing core—
Together still they make in joy
A Paradise no pains destroy—
Together make—defying this—
A Paradise of boundless bliss!—

XXXVII.

And Love's Enchantments—brightening now—
For them light Horror's frowning brow—
Dark the volcanic rage may lower—
Come strife—come storm—come doom's worst hour—
For them must bloom one blessed spot,
Where Doom itself shall enter not—
Even like those veins of verdure led,
Round the angry Crater, deep and dread!—
Borderings of bloom—bright gems of green—
Drear yawning rifts and rents between—
Which,—though all else they ravage there,
The lava-lightnings love to spare!—

246

Through waste and ruin's dire eclipse—
These hang like smiles on Fate's dark lips—
Hang, sweetening still destruction's brink—
Of Hope a sign—to Heaven a link—
Since Nature's gentler hints seem given
To bind all Hearts to parent Heaven!—

XXXVIII.

And was De Courcy happy?—Yes!—
His heart was its own happiness!—
So winged—so buoyant with delight—
Each heart-throb seemed a Heaven-ward flight—
The stormy joy of battle strong,
Its fiery rage of raptures, long
Had ruled his soul with maddening sway—
To him seemed like a feast the fray!
War's furious exultations shook
The soul—no weariness o'ertook,—
But now o'ertaken 'twas, and bound
By tendernesses too profound—
And yet not so!—for still the same
His spirit fevered after fame,—
But now, with nobler impulse fired,
Not urged—but rapt—not warmed—inspired!—
He sought for glories ne'er yet gained,
And vulgarer triumphs all disdained.—

XXXIX.

And worthy of his love was she,
That flower of frozen Muscovy—

247

Surely each passing spring that fled
O'er her sweet life, had gently shed
Its best of beauty on her head—
And o'er her form—and o'er her face—
Its freshness, buoyancy, and grace—
And, Oh!—how pure a soul doth shine
Through her smooth forehead's crystalline,
Its soft expanse, like the Open Air,
Breathes of celestial mysteries there!—
A radiant ruler she appears,
In these—her gently flowering years,
A lovely potentate, whose sway
Spreads wide as even the realms of day,
All her beholders must be made
Her subjects—bowed—yet not afraid—
Fair Potentate!—whose living crown
Draws light from all Heaven's sweet stars down,
Wherewith she stands arrayed,—so bright—
Yet so unconscious of her might!—
And now she governs one deep soul—
That widening—wakes to her controul—
Exalted, wears her radiant chain—
Enriched—enlarged—adores her reign—
And moves—more nobly proud and free—
In that enchanted slavery—
Than all who wander unsubdued,
In liberty's most chainless mood,
Entranced to ecstasy seems all,
Beneath that most ambrosial thrall!—

248

XL.

Meanwhile,—far round them darkened still,
Full many a gloomy form of ill,
Hate—Wrath—Strife—Discord—seemed to try—
To shake their bosomed harmony,
Where'er they looked,—one waste of gloom
Yawned round them, like an opening tomb;—
Little of old Smolensk remained,
Save shattered walls, all smirched and stained,
Riddled and raked by shell and shot—
Still smoking dark—and smouldering hot—
Barrier, and bar, and battlement,
Were standing still, but bowed and bent—
Gloomy and fearful to behold,
As though ten thousand ages old.
Smolensk, the sacred and the strong—
Praised, blessed, revered, and honoured long—
Drifts on the winds in ashes pale,
Made now the feeblest of the frail;—
And some few hours could thus o'erwhelm
The key of Russia's mighty Realm—
While round her huge defensive wall,
Her foes, gazed, wondering at her fall;
The old amphitheatre of heights
(Whence clearly marked were those stern sights)
Bristling with war were darkly made
The Eyries of Eagles that displayed
Their wings to whelm with crush of shade—
Their sweeping wings, in threatening way,

249

As they would reach even the Orb of Day,
But to enshroud it and o'ersway—
Extinguishing in stormy night,
The very goal they sought of Light!—
Such reckless heat of rage doth seem
To madden through Ambition's dream;
And worse—that Passion-thirst for war,
Spreading and wasting wide and far!—
So grows its phrenzy day by day,—
Till all must be pursued as prey!
And they who feel that impulse stern,
For Action and Adventure burn,
Till Fame's own temple were o'erthrown—
If on their headlong path it shone—
These would fall out with Triumph even,
Were nought else to their fury given!—

XLI.

How mournfully come Night and Morn
Down on the hapless town forlorn—
The Sun's fair rising wakeneth not
Glad eyes on that much-altered spot,
No busy citizens repeat
Their cheerful rounds through square and street,—
No joyous throngs assembling there,
Wake hundred echoes in the air,
No proud processions lengthening go,
With lofty pomp and solemn show—
On high religious holydays,
Along the City's stately ways—
Threading all the architectural maze,

250

While round a mighty crowd is seen,
With lifted eyes and fervent mien—
Breathless with the Adoration's height,
O'erpowered by rapt Devotion's might,—
No festivals of lighter kind—
Kindling to joy the public mind—
Here brighten all the outspread scene,
With gladness earnest and serene—
While flowers along the paths are shed,
And banners proud waved overhead—
While tapestries fair, and verdurous boughs,
Are stretched and spread from house to house;—
And when the changing light of day
Hath vanished softly ray by ray,
A myriad lamps with wavering light,
Far banished still the 'sieging night—
Till seemed the Royal City there,
In midst of that triumphal glare,
To shine in self-illumined pride,
And shed round light on every side—
As though it had Its Thousand stars—
Bursting at once from cloudy bars—
Its fair ten thousand stars—its own—
A luminous and glorious crown!

XLII.

No merry groupes of children meet
Now in thy pale and ghastly street—
With shout, and bound, and joyous play,
And ruddy smiles and frolic gay—

251

There skeletons on ashes lie,
And shock the sickening passer-by,—
No bride from her loved home is led,
With white veil glittering round her head—
All faulteringly and gently forth—
The sweetest spectacle on earth!—
While blushing, young, companions near
Seem half-infected with her fear;
The wreaths—the blushes—where are they?—
Withered and vanished all away!
A cloud of gloom seems settled round,
In which the whole lies sternly bound;—
The princely City's haughty trust
Hath fallen to ashes and to dust;—
Her bulwarks might not save—in vain
Were all the glories of her reign!
Her sumptuous palaces are laid
In ruins dim—and disarrayed;—
Changed, all the splendours that of old
Made these a triumph to behold!—
A shadowy web of mourning falls
O'er these bowed domes and prostrate walls—
A shadowy web far-sweeping spread
Around thy Ruined and thy Dead—
Ill-fated City—that no more
May shew what thou hast been of yore!—
The Mansions of the Living lie
In funeral gloom, heaped frowning nigh;—
The Mansions of the Dead below
Wear livelier and more smiling show.

252

XLIII.

Ill-fated City!—thou art bowed
Beneath Destruction's blackest cloud!—
While sundered shrine and plundered pile—
Confused in ruin's mouldering style—
Like ghastly monuments remain—
Aye!—of that ruin—not her reign!—
Played like twin Fountains clear and bright,
Midst all this dearth and all this blight—
Young Love and Hope—that all the gloom,
These hours of wild despair and doom,
Could sternly—sadly shed around—
But with more matchless brightness crowned!—
These Fountains in the Desert placed,
O'er-beautified the wondering Waste—
Till seemed the very Heart of Heaven
To that in light intenser given!—
So brightly doth heaven's mirrored pride
Shine out, where all is gloom beside!—
De Courcy's thoughts in music move,
Dark with all the Over Light of Love!—
The Light that doubts itself—and dies—
Of its own deep intensities;
Yet—live thy little life of Joy—
The armed hour comes—missioned to destroy!
In vain thine eyes shall seek that face,
Crowned with all beauty of all space;
Each thought of thine that ruled in might
Shall abdicate its Throne of Light!—

253

For that rare Dream of bliss is o'er—
Thy Xenia charms thy sight no more!—
The idol of his soul is gone—
Now felt he on the earth alone!
The darkness of that change o'er all
He meets or sees, appears to fall;—
Yes!—She and Happiness are borne
From all!—like him left lost and lorn!
Forsaken seems the very Sun—
A vain and dreary race to run!—
And yet not so!—His beams, even now,
Win brightness, haply, from that brow!—

XLIV.

Deep Love had taught him precious things—
And opened joy's uncounted springs—
Till all he met or saw was made—
Through time and tide,—through sun and shade—
A gladness, that from his own heart
Flowed out—pervading every part!—
The air seemed sown with unseen flowers,
Fell still around such odorous showers,
The Sky—far nearer to the Earth—
Looked like a new triumphant birth,
The common Ground was as a Sky,
Within whose bosom seemed to lie
Ten thousand—thousand Stars of Light,—
Half hidden—half revealed to sight;—
As 'twere a cloud of roseate hue,
Which they for ever sparkled through—

254

In bounteous nature's boundless store—
All things still exquisitely wore—
Afar or near—around—above—
The heavenly-human face of Love!—
But now,—they lost what they had gained—
When Love and Hope together reigned—
All disenchanted, dark and drear,
Gloomier than ever doth appear!—
The good old Priest hath left the spot,
His matchless Daughter, too, is not!—
'Twas strange!—no farewell word was said—
Suddenly—secretly, they fled—
Mysteriously they left the place,
Their parting footsteps none might trace!—
De Courcy, bowed by Sorrow's might,
In vain sought tidings of their flight;
No clue had he his Thoughts to guide
To his Beloved One's gentle side,—
And north and south,—and east and west,
They travelled,—and no more knew rest!—
Thus much was clear—thus much alone,—
The Daughter and the Sire were gone!—

XLV.

Meantime,—through changed Smolensk's pale streets,
Where one stern waste the shocked eye meets,
The Gallic Army marched in pride,
While Ruin scowled on every side—
'Twas triumph, desolate and vain,
Destruction darkling filled their train!—

255

Those cinders,—crunched beneath their feet
Dark hints seemed ever to repeat,—
The walls, that where they shook the ground
Fell inwards with a shock of sound,—
A sullen shock—yet stunning too—
Seemed uttering dire predictions true!—
All things around, all near and far,
Whispered dark things oracular,
And mournfully triumphant moved—
Still unapplauded—unapproved—
That Mighty Host, in pride and power,
Past shattered dome and prostrate tower!—
A Show that well might charm—inspire—
But no spectators to admire!—
And Victory seemed to hang her head,
Pale as some mourner o'er the dead,
While round her temples there, did frown,
The Likeness of her Laurel crown,
With thorns and cypress overgrown!—
Still Dead Sea fruits she scattered round—
Ashes to ashes—on that ground!—

256

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,

257

Like lions striving till the last—
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!

258

They have well saved what they have sought
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 seemed
To 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!—

259

The tomb of one beloved—revered,—
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-rule
In rigid, stern, self-mastering school,

260

The Ambition that, too dark and strong,
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!—

261

V.

Such are the trophies that remain
Upon 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 voice
Bids every bounding heart rejoice—

262

He asks,—while pride to pride succeeds,—
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!—

263

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—

264

Would he for them resign—to save
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—

265

The Pomp, and Pride, and Splendours rare,
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,—

266

Heaps of the dead—who just had crept
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!—

267

At Kieff, through Winter's dreaded reign,
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.

268

But fresh considerations spring,
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,

269

(By him—even then with pride received)
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!—)

270

Did Moscow's fair position aid,
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 Cyr
O'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!

271

From fair Bavaria's pleasant land,
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!

272

XV.

From Echmühl's Prince ere long arrive
Tidings 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,—

273

Where trembling nations watch in doubt,
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!—

274

Wiazma's town hath met the eyes,
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,—

275

Those, who bade Fire's wild tempest roar,
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!—

276

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—

277

To check those high reports, and proud
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 prey
To 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!”—

278

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 shews
His 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,

279

Barclay De Tolly, from that hour,
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 now
For 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,—

280

Since that Itself yet—yet must save
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!—

281

An incident ere long did chance
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,

282

To trace his own free footsteps back,
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—

283

With tenderest sound—and smile—and gleam—
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!—

284

High Theatre of warlike Thought
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—

285

Such awe-inspiring glance and gait,—
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 brand
Acquaintance 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—

286

Still made him evermore appear
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;—

287

Then,—all as suddenly it rose,
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;—

288

Those massy buildings' mighty pile—
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—

289

The villages left smoking round,—
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

His thoughts read clearly as they ran,—
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;—

291

There sought they still with care profound,
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!

292

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!—

293

XXXVII.

Still thickly swarmed the neighbouring wood
With 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!—

294

CANTO VIII.

I.

Evening's o'erspreading mantle dun
Hath 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

Raged inwardly his Soul!—
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 night
Behind Italia's host of might!

296

Formed round his tents upon the plain,
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

Seized with some strange tempestuous life,
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

Whatever Was—appears To Be—
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;

299

To greet the works of His dread hand—
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

Crowned One of Victories!—didst thou bow
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 may'st exalt thy Sway—thy State—
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 beneath
With 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

Opened the path—the way outspread—
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

But in such Cloud—since all seems massed
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

The shining river floweth round,—
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

Whose foot plunged deep in a ravine,
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

By Russians, now was France's pride—
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

And Russia's last Redoubt appear,—
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

So, as upon the Russians' Flank
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

Then—with those foremost shots and first—
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

Its Right and Centre cleft and torn—
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

Selected from Italia's force,
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

(And trust to its Umbrageous Skreen
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

On that great road that leadeth where
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 face
The 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

'Mid Moscow's proud Augustan towers,
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

Too soon that Time is speeding on
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 still
As 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

Pale Earth is thrilled by Wrath and Woe,
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!—

321

XXIX.

“Soldiers!—that Battle ye so long
Have 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

And Europe's victors heard!—and well
The Unconquered and the Invincible
Ere long with deathless deeds replied
To that appeal—felt far and wide!—

XXX.

Meanwhile in Russia's camps behold
A 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

Deepening and lingering on the sight
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!

324

XXXII.

The assembled soldiery right well
Hailed 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

Their billowing bosoms swelled o'erfraught
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

To Ye she looks!—on Ye she calls!—
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—steel
Your hearts—where 'twere a crime to feel!—

327

Where 'twere a crime to pity those—
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

(By this most sacred treasure fair,
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

To phrenzy fired their mounting zeal—
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

Well guarded—with observant will—
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

The very humblest soldier there,
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,—

332

For ever in the ethereal realms,
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

In panoplies of blazing light,
(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 still
To 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

To smite the Foe—to crush—to brave—
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.

[_]

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE TO THE READER.

Perhaps I ought to state, before the work proceeds further, that the chief authority to which I am indebted for the facts alluded to in the foregoing pages, relative to the movements of the French Army in Russia, the Defence of the Russians, &c.,—is Count Ségur. Every circumstance (such as the falling of Napoleon's horse on the banks of the Niemen, —the appearance of the single Cossack at the first invasion of the territory by the French, &c. &c.) is taken from his work, “Histoire de Napoléon, et de la Grande Armée, pendant l'Année 1812;” excepting merely those incidents which refer to the love of De Courcy and Xenia. The story of the Priest, however, who collected his flock in the Great Church of Smolensko, and who was afterwards admitted to an audience of Napoleon, is from the above work; and the sentiments he is made to express, together with the clemency and lenity the Emperor displayed towards him, are copied pretty closely from the historian. But though I have taken Count Ségur for my principal guide, I have also largely profited by the pages of Labaume, Sir Walter Scott, &c. Perhaps I should do well to add, that in the Greek religion the priests are permitted to marry once.

For any slight oversights in the text, I am anxious to plead as an excuse, severe indisposition and much suffering, which has rendered the revision of these pages a most painful task.

335

CANTO IX.

I.

While Russia's Armies—bowed in prayer—
Besought high Heaven to aid and spare—
And prayed its mercy to accord
A strengthened soul—a sharpened sword!
Emperor of France!—how stirred—how wrought—
Thy Universe o'er shadowing Thought?—
Emperor of France,—how passed with thee,
Those hours of their solemnity?
Relaxed melts all thy rigid mien,
Kind smiles about thy lips are seen,
Affectionate and loving looks,
'Stead of that glance no gazer brooks,—
Beam from thy softened, gladdened eyes—
Thy boy's smile on thy soul doth rise!—
Doth rise like some new Sun of Hope,
No more to wane, or set, or droop!—
'Twas on that self-same day arrived,—
Oh! treasure that his soul received!—

336

From Love to Love, observant sent,
His child's dear image, eloquent—
His child's sweet pictured form, that said
(While low he bowed Earth's haughtiest head!—)
Ten thousand things of tenderness
His soul to soothe—and charm—and bless—
He stooped him to that blest controul—
Drank all that beauty to his soul—
And let the floods of Feeling go
O'er that wild heart's tempestuous glow—
While tenderness reigned all in all,
And he could bless its heavenly thrall!—
How strained he to his heaving breast,
That calm, unconscious angel guest,
Then gazed into those happy eyes—
And dreamed glad infantine replies—
Imagined looks of answering love—
Thought all that he could yearn to prove—
Conceived the charm he wished might move—
And bent him that sweet face above!—
The Lion playing at the Dove!—

II.

Still gazed upon those cloudless eyes—
The Lord of Thousand Victories!—
And could his own glance back their glance,
Could Countenance with Countenance
Commune in peace—and love—and bliss?—
Oh!—what a miracle is this!—
That dreadful front of doom and war,
Gentle as children's snow-brows are!—

337

Something the soul doth still retain—
Which yet shall rise—and rise to reign—
Of the innocence of the earliest years,
Those hours—fresh fresh from Heaven's bright spheres—
Midst all the strife, and wrong, and wrath,
It hails—it welcomes to its path,
The fiercest soul—most stern—most wild—
Can whiten back to be a child—
To flutter with a myriad wings,
Above this waste of earthly things!
Half hid in Heaven our soul appears—
Till showered on dust—it falls—in tears!—
For Vanity, and Strife, and Doubt—
And all that clasps the world without—
Ambition's dark and sultry dream,
Or Love,—whose light's a rainbow gleam—
What are they,—from the Spirit shed—
The Spirit clouded—wrung—misled—
But weepings—weepings evermore,
Draining the impoverished being's core!—

III.

Bend—Chief of Monarchs!—o'er thy Boy,
And know the Holiness of joy!—
Oh!—learn to smile from thee away
The fevered phrenzy of the sway,
Is Happiness a holy thing,
And dar'st thou blight it—dar'st thou sting
And make unnumbered souls subdued,
Its ghostly Memory's solitude?

338

He gazeth on those pictured eyes—
Where Lightning-laughters glistening rise—
And marks that Beauty-breathing brow,
Traced on his dreaming spirit now—
Till scarce the Love's new yearning pain,
That haughty spirit can sustain—
So strong to cope with Earth and Fate,
And worlds in Arms—and hosts of Hate!
He trembles!—lest some distant chance
Should harm the empurpled Flower of France!—
Though now he throws that dreadful die,
On which may hang in hazardry
His Grandeurs all—and Triumphs high!—
Power—Empire—Dynasty—and Name—
And Earth-electrifying Fame!
He trembles!—lest a breath may blow
Too bleak o'er that sweet forehead's snow—
Yet risks—thus rashly with his Own,
All the earthly fortunes of his Son!

IV.

Soon called he round him—glorying high
With Love's own blameless joyauncy—
His men of mould and might, to gaze
On that young aspect—robed with rays!—
He called them round him there to view
His own blessed Boy—and bless him too!
On the outside of the Royal Tent
(Where—bathed in bliss—he long had bent
O'er each soft-shadowed Lineament)

339

The precious Picture hangs displayed—
While thousands there, heart-homage paid!—
And hailed with proud and fervid joy
That likeness of the Imperial Boy!
Strange contrast there was deeply seen,
That soft, young, tender face between,
And the aspects stern, of those that gazed
With rugged visages upraised—
Where scar—and weather-stain—and mark,
Of many a sufferance deep and dark—
Of many a hardship wild and drear—
Did sternly—hideously appear!
That sweet face of the pictured child
Smiled down upon them soft and mild—
Such trustful looks on them let fall,
As they were nursing-mothers all!

V.

And he looks on without a word—
The World's great Arbiter and Lord!
In blissful silence of Delight—
Rapt far above his Power's proud height!—
While still round those dread lips played mild,
Smiles—that seemed speaking to his child!
Those lips,—whence oft in tempests hurled,
Burst words to shake the astounded world!—
And still within his softened eyes
A depth of troubling transport lies,
From these, now tenderest glances beam—
Such looks as from the Spirit stream—

340

Bland looks—affectionate and deep—
That all bright dews of feeling steep!—
They seemed responsively to melt
To each fresh thrill his bosom felt,—
Those eyes—from whence so oft in ire
Glanced lightnings of terrific fire—
To search—to madden—to appal—
In Love they seemed to look on all!—
His mighty Mind then owned the Excess
Of Love's most trembling tenderness!—
He stood and gazed—then starting, cried
To those that waited at his side,—
“Remove him!—hence!—I say,—remove
That imaged face of Light and Love—
Too soon the Beautiful and Bright—
O'erlooks the Stormy Field of Fight!” —

VI.

Through mortal hours are strangely blent
Joy—Sorrow—Hope—and Discontent—
When evening's gorgeous gloom was spread,
Far round in tints of varying red,—
And stained like dolphins when they die,
Shone all the emblazoned western sky;—
When Day—the fervid glistering Day—
Slowly and richly burned away,
Like fabled Phœnix on its pile,
Where thousand gorgeous mysteries smile—

341

And odorous flame and coloured light
Make Death a dazzling thing and bright,—
(And forth shall from its Ashes spring,
A Day as fair—as fleet of wing—
As bright shall the opening Day arise—
And leap and live along the skies—)
When Eve, thus—th' Opal-like and fair—
Blushed changeful Beauties through the Air—
Came trampling loud with furious speed,
A foaming, wildly-driven steed!—
His rider pale claimed audience straight
Of him—so glad and blissful late—
Gaul's mighty lord!—without delay
Was then—on the eve of that fair day,
The toil-stained man, in dusk array,
Admitted there to see and say!—
How flowed those tidings that he brought?—
His mien declared them evil-fraught!—
Low-faultering, must his voice repeat
A tale of failure and defeat!—

VII.

From vanquished Marmont 'twas he came!—
Fabvier—the gallant courier's name—
He hurried from a bloody plain,
In the far purple Land of Spain—
From Salamanca's Field of Grief,—
Where yielding sank the Gallic chief—
To Borodino's Field Unfought—
Where deeds of doom must yet be wrought!—

342

Long wearying leagues had he passed o'er—
To bring those tidings—sharp and sore—
Those tidings that Napoleon heard,
With mind determined and prepared!—
Bravely the tide of Ill he met—
And masked or mastered his regret—
Yet that stern blow was sharply dealt,
And many a pang the Mightiest felt,
When first that heavy truth was brought—
Distinctly to his grieving thought!—
With indignation deep he heard
Of dark Defeat—detested word!—
And blamed within his secret breast
Him who had vailed Gaul's Eagle Crest!—
Severely at his Judgment's bar
Arraigned he, the ill-starred Chiefs afar!—
Yet word of blame pronounced he not—
'Twas scarce the hour—'twas scarce the spot!—
His own foot,—as he well might think,
On dubious Battle's roaring brink!—
And who shall tell—and who may know
What chance—what change one day may shew?—
Who dream how yet may pass away
The impending and the uncertain Fray?—
On the eve of such a conflict stern,
'Twere wise, harsh judgments to adjourn!—
Thus outwardly indulgent, he
Met sore Defeat with dignity!—

343

VIII.

But seemed not, in such weighty hour,
The ill news to gain yet deeper power?—
And when, in Solitude, again,
He pondered o'er these things—then—then!—
Did no strange Superstitious fear
Rise dark and heavy—dim and drear?—
Seemed not athwart the Future cast
Faint outlines pale of the untoward Past?—
Have not these late events of gloom
Dim shadowed forth the events to come?—
Do not past Fates,—for ever, still
Much influence th' unborn Good and Ill?—
While oft in long succession run,—
Continuing what hath been begun,
The courses vexed—and the issues strange—
Of Earth's wild destinies of change!—
Linked—likened—then—reflecting back—
Each other's semblance on their track!
Till sudden—breaking short the chain—
Fate's march appears made free again!—
'Twould seem, as though when it ascends,
And with the Eternal Ages blends,
The Past's dark Spirit still doth fly,
Still springs to yon recording sky—
Even by the Future's road on high—
O'er that joins all the Eternity!—
Thus casting o'er the void beneath
Its shadowy shape—on that deep path!—

344

Alone the Sovereign Leader long
Might wrestle with impressions strong,
For something seemed to glimpse through all
That bound him in the Present's thrall,—
Like the writ Fiat of his Fall—
Clear as the Assyrian's on the wall!—
And doubts—even lashed to agonies—
Might on his labouring spirit rise!—

IX.

But when 'midst circling throngs he stood,
Controuled and checked was such dark mood;
And by no word—no look—no sign,—
Might these his secret Soul divine!—
Once more—once more he waves away,
As on red Valoutina's day,
(When Sorrow deep and Triumph bright
Too deeply—closely—blent their might!—)
Those gathering griefs that rose to bind—
With heavy bonds—his boundless mind!—
Once more—once more he casts aside,
With stern, uncompromising Pride,
All angers that he felt arise,—
All doubts—and pangs—and agonies,—
And all the lingerings of that Love
His soul could so intensely prove,
But some brief fleeting hours ago—
That left a deeper trace than Woe!—
A deeper trace than Wrath—Distrust,—
That stamped—and stamps!—it shall—it must!—

345

The hardest struggle 'twas of all
To conquer that!—and crush—and thrall!—
Aye!—hard—most hard it was to cope
With all that Tenderness and Hope!—
But Lo!—'tis conquered!—Lo!—'tis done!—
The Bosom-Battle well he won!—
Adjourned his Anger—Anguish—Love,—
And free as Freedom's self could move!—
Scattered his Heart's shrined thoughts abroad,
And with unshackled spirit trod!—

X.

Deep night returned!—Her shadows frowned
O'er all the various scenery round;
A thousand tents—that whitening shone
The surface of the ground upon—
Vanished within her gathering shroud,
Like winged pavilions piled of cloud!—
Assembled round their watch-flames, how
Do Gaul's proud soldiers cheer them now?—
By tales and songs of battles old,
And well cheered these—the Brave and Bold!—
Of various scenes of strife they sang—
Seemed through those strains you heard the clang
Of clashing hosts,—so fierce they rang!—
Of Strifes they told—whose phrenzied wrath—
Leaves hideous tokens in their path!—
Hark!—of the Egyptian field of fight
They sing,—and fire the Old Northern Night!—
Of that great Battle fought beneath
The Mountain-Palaces of Death!—

346

XI. SONG.

1

Beneath the Pyramids' huge shade
Our King of War stood, war-arrayed!
Wist ye what glorious words he said,
To fire his marshalled chivalry?—

2

“From yon proud Pyramids' crowned height
Full forty centuries watch the Fight!”
Like prisoned storms raged Gallia's might,
To the accents of Sublimity!—

3

Our King of Battles gave the word!—
Forth lightened straight, each dreadful sword,—
Sank weltering thousands, gashed and gored,
Till all was Awe and Agony!—

4

Wide spread the Fray!—'twas near and far
One wavering wilderness of War!—
Yelled Mam'louk fierce and Janizar
Loud, o'er the loud Artillery!—

347

5

The old Pyramids with that dread shock,
To their foundations seemed to rock!—
As these, down thundering yet would mock
Our proud hosts' Warrior-Royalty!—

6

And fair and fearful was the sight,
When forth—with speed of wind and light—
The mounted Mam'louks rode in might,
'Gainst squares unmoved as Destiny!—

7

They dashed themselves in brave Despair
Full 'gainst each firmly-phalanx'd square,
To perish in their phrenzy there,
And own our dread ascendancy!—

8

Their proud hands waved they, o'er their head,
Backed their fierce steeds all mad with dread,—
On bayonets—their blood dyed red,—
In wrath's stern—savage mockery!—

9

The armed Spahis like winged demons dashed
Where thickest War's hot lightnings flashed,—
And wild with Europe's horsemen clashed,
'Midst that dark gathering anarchy!—

348

10

Loud burst the thousand-thundering cry!—
That maddened the echoing air and sky,
As though the Crash of Worlds was nigh!—
Far blazed the appalling Pageantry!—

11

The enshrouding smoke—wreathed deep and dense,
Masked War's sun-crowned magnificence!
And veiled Defiance and Defence,
And pomps of gorgeous Blazonry!—

12

In fiery clouds then the Arabs came—
The Desert Chivalry of Fame!
On lightnings launched of arrowy flame—
Their steeds of bounding bravery!—

13

And oft they charged—they charged again!—
Those furious hordes of dauntless men!—
High towered the savage grandeur then
Of War's fierce Earthquake-Ecstasy!—

14

Dusk Egypt shuddered as she saw!—
Grey Nile grew pale with breathless awe!
They owned his might whose word is law,—
Our Chief!—in Victor-Sovereignty—

349

15

For still those words his lips had said,
Like light through all our thoughts were shed,—
We fought in presence of the Dead—
Of Glory's Immortality!—

16

Those words beamed forth like Stars of Light—
“From yon proud Pyramids' crowned height,
Gaze Forty Centuries o'er the Fight!”
Those words were Power and Panoply!

17

And Forty Ages well might gaze—
Might watch—with tremblings of amaze!—
But grant to those high Words the praise—
That blazed—that burned with Victory!

18

And those who fell forgot to die—
So rushed their hurrying souls on high!—
And those who lived—to their proud eye
Life grew one glorious phantasy!

19

Still—still such Lives—such Deaths are ours!
'Tis We are Empires' princely Powers!
Quake Ages!—with our whirlwind hours—
That crash through the old Eternity!

350

XII.

'Twas thus they sang—that dreadless Throng—
And conquered o'er again in Song!—
'Twas thus they sang—that martial crowd—
The old Eagle-bannered battles proud!
While many another haughty lay
Charmed well the sense with victor-sway!—
And how in Russia's camp went by
These hours of Night's regality?
They passed on the awful wings of Prayer—
That hallowed all the conscious air!
The armed Russians still watched—knelt—and prayed—
For favouring Heaven's Almighty aid!—
In deep Humility of Heart,
They girt them for the Avenger's part!
And One there is 'midst Gaul's thronged bands,
Who lifts to Heaven his heart and hands—
Who occupies his hours with Prayer—
While Midnight's Mountain pointeth there;—
Since Darkness towers sublimely still,
The true Heaven-kissed stupendous Hill!—
And heaves its formless feature high,
To the upfilled space of yonder sky!

XIII.

De Courcy knelt in the hours of gloom,
And gave his soul to Heaven and Home!—
His Mother's—Sister's—forms appeared—
By distance and by doubt endeared—

351

Like guardian-angels to his thought—
And Peace—and Hope—and Gladness brought!
And did not yet another smile—
As full of grace—as void of guile—
Rise like a spiritual sun
His vision-haunted soul upon?—
A Sun, indeed!—whose heavenliest ray—
Where beatific brightenings play—
Could shed a day as brightly crowned—
As spiritually splendent round!

XIV.

Slept not the Chief of France that night—
But watched those flickering watchfires' light—
Slept not the Gallic Chief!—he feared
The Russians—though so well prepared—
Might yet with him refuse to cope—
And mock his deep and fervent hope!
But still those watchfires brightly burned—
And still his messengers returned,
With tidings that the neighbouring Foe
Were seen—where flung their changeful glow
Those blazing beacons to and fro—
(With countless shadowy forms girt round—)
By Myriads scattered o'er that ground!—
They did not deem, then, of Retreat!—
They yet would stand!—defy!—and meet!—
Meet Him—and his Unconquered Force—
Ere many hours have run their course!

352

But still fresh messengers he sent—
So pined he for the Near Event!
And these brought back the assurance still,
That rooted as each bulwarked hill—
Which there unchanged—unmoved—remained—
The Russians fixed—their post maintained!
And that, so numerous spread the throng
Of shadows moving dark along—
Where beamed their bivouack fires afar—
(Brightening the fronts of Night and War!—)
'Twas deemed—those watch-fires fluttering red
By no chance scattered bands were fed—
But by all the Army—watching there!—
Till Battle's morn should fire the air!

XV.

Then tranquillized and soothed to rest,
Appeared the sceptered Leader's breast!—
Even tranquillized by stormy Hope—
(That bade him not to doubt and droop—)
Of Tumult fierce—and Havoc near—
And all things desolate and drear!
Young Morning's Mantle—dimly grey—
Seemed spread to tempt the steps of Day!
At once, forth sallying diligent—
The Mighty Monarch left his Tent—
Gazed eagerly with glance of pride,
Turned toward the scarce-seen Russian side;—
Then loud exclaimed—with the accents high
Of keen and tameless energy,—

353

“March!—march!—We have them!—Let us on!—
France!—Forward!—Strike!—and Lo!—'tis done!
So shall proud Moscow's gates be won!”—
Yet pause awhile—let humbler Thought
Be to thy Mind of Tempest brought!—
Think on this proud and pregnant Morn—
O'er all thy countless bands have borne!
Their hardships—sufferings—wrongs—and woes—
Their lack of comforts and repose!—
Nor let too wild a Hope impel,
As thou made them,—The Invincible!

XVI.

Faint—famished—weak—and worn—are they!—
Let wholesome doubt—if not dismay—
Teach thee to fling thy pride away!
Thy soldiers long have sufferers been—
No change portentous hast thou seen?—
No dull decay—no gathering cloud—
That bends the dauntless and the proud!—
Where once seemed nought but triumph high,
And the ever-towering bravery!—
How can they stand, like swerveless rock,
'Gainst the onset's stern terrific shock?—
Oh!—well thy quick—thine eagle glance
Could read the unshaken soul of France!—
Well—well, could mark,—that Sunlike Soul,
O'er which no Change might darkening roll!—
Pain—Sufferance, Doubt—and sore Distress—
And all that could thy hosts oppress—
But promise thee the assured success!—

354

Since the obstacles but fire their soul
Beyond their own—even thy controul!—
And rouse their zeal—their valour's might—
Even to its loftiest, noblest height!—
Thus well thine own unquailing glance,
Could pierce the unquailing Soul of France!

XVII.

Yea!—they will stand, like swerveless rock—
And bide the deep and desperate shock!—
Nay, more!—unmoved when they would halt,
They shall be Ocean in the assault!—
More!—more!—Themselves shall onwards sweep—
Fierce as the storm-march of the deep—
When they would rive and rend their way
Through all—as through bowed Night the Day!—
And who,—or what, shall breast and bide
The onset of their indignant Pride—
The fury of their shock of Hate—
When they would 'venge themselves on Fate?—

XVIII.

Near the Redoubt the Emperor stood,—
Even that by Gallia's arms subdued,
Bought with such streams of valiant blood—
There paused he—in impatient mood!—
There waited he!—while Joy and Hope
Scarce in that awful breast found scope,—

355

There watched—till day, o'er friend and foe,
Should pour its clearer, livelier glow—
Illuminating earth below!—
Till the First Shot should shake the air,
And bid them for the strife prepare,
From Poniatowski's valourous bands—
Then Carnage shall unbind Her Hands!—
Then Havoc shall make Earth a place
Too wild for even fallen demons' race!—
Now breathing thousands watch around,—
Watch on that glimmering battle-ground,—
Who ere the next fair morn's first ray,
Shall breathless lie—Unconscious Clay!—

XIX.

A change hath come upon the scene!—
Stern Preparation there hath been!—
At loud rappel—and bugle-call—
The piled arms of the soldiery all,
(That left their hands through night-hours free—)
Displaced and glittering now ye see!—
Fast—fast—strides on the roseate Day,
And streaks of sheen far gleaming play,
Turn toward the East!—how more than fair
The march of mighty Morning there!—
Light's King of Glories now is nigh—
And soon shall burst in yon bright sky!—
That kindling—glowing—higher and higher—
Shall seem all flushed with his pure fire!—

356

Grows more the Expectancy's excess,
The East is one crimsoning consciousness!
All vapourous wreaths of cypress Night,
Forget themselves and fleet in Light—
Forth comes the Life of Light in Heaven—
And gladness to all things is given!—
The Mighty Chief that watched on earth,
Felt, as he shared that boundless birth!—
He met—with mingling thoughts of flame,
The Orb of Day that glorying came!—
Exulting thus—His spirit rose—
Though ne'er Its fires knew check or close!
Rose high and higher—that dazzling Soul—
A Sun, above the Sun—to roll!—

XX.

Forth came the Sun!—to smile and shine—
Till Nature wore his hue divine—
And never flashed his kingly power
More proudly than on that dread hour!—
Forth came the Sun!—and spread to sight—
While leaped and laughed the living Light,—
While rolled its ocean-sweeping sheet—
All things to gladden—all to greet—
The World beneath its Conqueror's feet!—

XXI.

And glorying there that Conqueror stood!—
Rushed to his brow the blaze of blood!—

357

He points with his proud hand on high,
Where flames the sun in the orient sky—
Then cried in transport-tones that seemed
As they too flashed—as they too beamed—
(So clear they rose—and rang afar—
Burning with strife—and breathing war,—)
Cried,—in loud tones of Triumph's trance,—
While Glory streameth from his glance,—
While Victory on his forehead sits—
“There shines the Sun of Austerlitz!”
And those who shared that Rapture high,—
Hailed—blessed the Auspicious Augury!
Bright shone that Sun!—yet rose in pride—
Full on the phalanxed Russians' side!—
Displaying to their hostile view
Their adverse aim—their practice true—
Yes!—wide displaying to their eye—
Their armed and marshalled enemy!—
And dazzling with intensest light
The Gallic Hosts' bewildered sight!
Sons of the North!—now stand ye forth!—
Sons of the icy—iron North!—
Strong as its storms, and winds, and rocks—
To give or breast terrific shocks!—

XXII.

Russians!—the asserters ye are made
Of Freedom's cause—too long betrayed—
Arm!—arm, then!—Heroes of the Heart!—
Your swords shall smite, like Death's own dart,

358

That touches only to destroy,—
War on!—war on!—in gallant joy!—
No second blow shall ever need
From your avenging swords to speed!—
War on!—in endless power and pride—
All Heaven seems warring on your side!—
Thy sons—Oh! Russia!—rise in throngs—
Armed—roused—and terrible with wrongs—
They rise—and rule the Hour!—
Now let them burst on France amazed!
Not thus the Mam'louk valour blazed,—
Not thus proud Austria's arm was raised,
When these defied Her power,—
Not thus shook Prussia's vengeful dart—
Not thus, Ausonia's Alpine heart
Seemed stirred to play the opposer's part,
When War there dared to lower!—
Now pale thy crest—and droop thy wing—
Swarth Eagle!—Heaven-o'ershadowing Thing!—
Down!—down!—thy blood-gilt sceptre fling—
Red Victory's thunder-bearing king!—
And mark thy Planet set!
For ne'er might'st Thou yet meet or find,
Such concord of high wills combined,—
Such singleness of soul and mind,—
While myriad hearts are more than joined,
Through Earth's—through Heaven's best interests twined—
Till these in one fast wreathing wind—
To Thunder back Thy Threat!—

359

XXIII.

'Twas stir and movement, all at last,
Though yet roared not the Battle's blast.
The batteries—late erected—while
No daylight helped the arduous toil—
Too distant from the Foe were placed,—
Must these be nearer moved in haste!—
Remained the on-looking foe at rest—
Nor sought to thwart them—nor molest!—
An awful thing 'twere first to break
That calm—for Human Nature's sake!—
A fearful thing 't was thus to see,
These two vast Hosts at enmity,
Even while in silence, there they stood,
Unstained,—as yet, with brother-blood!
Appalling in its awfulness,
Must frown the scene where these shall press,
To share in savage Wrath's excess—
To mingle in the embrace of Hate—
And Death—and Agony—and Fate!—

XXIV.

Awhile those two Colossal Foes
Remained at peace and in repose,—
Those two Imperial Armies proud,
Stood—by some weight of stillness bowed,
With looks of interest—stern and deep—
(While each unmoved their place did keep)—

360

Measuring each other's mightiness
With no dismay—with no distress,—
But with a haughty, hopeful sense,
Of deep expectancy intense—
Yet blent, perchance, with some faint awe,
Fulfilling Nature's solemn law!
In such a dreadful hour as this,
While yawned at hand Fate's dark abyss,—
While thousand graves—spread, opening wide—
Ten thousand graves—on every side—
To swallow half that life and pride!—
'Twere strange, indeed, did nought arise,
To hint of human sympathies!

XXV.

The Cannoneers are at their post!—
In Battle-order stands the Host!—
To arms!—set on!—the Morning wears!—
Start!—like stung lions from their lairs!—
Already there are wounds and strife,
In this great Nation's deepest life,
Blood must be shed—doth that not bleed?—
The World awaits your every deed!—
Already there is scathe and smart,
In a great nation's deepest heart!—
Up!—strong Defenders of the North!—
Burning with boundless wrongs—stand forth!—
Up!—strong Defenders!—all are One—
Defenders and Deliverers—On!—
The World is waiting for your works!
Strange terror in her bosom lurks.

361

If ye must fail—if ye must fall—
Shuddering, may shrink the Nations all—
For none may stand against the arm
Red with your Ruin!—Sound the Alarm!—

XXVI.

Napoleon's glance of Fire and Light
Was fixed intently on his Right;
When suddenly—with startling burst—
Loud toward his Left—the Strife broke first—
Loud on his Left outburst the roar—
Of boundless battle—stern and sore!—
Ere long he learned a mighty band—
Of those beneath Eugene's command—
The brave Beauharnais—had attacked,
While fast their way they hewed and hacked,
Pale Borodino's hamlet rude—
By them now occupied—subdued!—

XXVII.

But other tidings quickly came—
The exultant Triumph-mood to tame—
The bridge at Borodino, thrown
Across the stream, was made their own;
And this, deep dangerous risks to avoid,
Should straight have fallen,—by them destroyed,
But driven by the ardour of success
With wild impetuous recklessness—
Their prompt rash way they forced across—
O'ertaken by terrific loss—

362

'Twas their bold purpose to attack
The heights of Gorcki,—frowning black
With Ordnance stern, till thus hurled back
On their too wild and desperate track!—
The Russians mowed down many a rank,
With their fierce fires of Front and Flank!—
Those gallant bands were shaken sore—
They struggling bled at every pore—
While their brave chief in death was laid,—
The chief, commanding that brigade,—
All would have perished on the spot,
A glorious,—though a ghastly lot,—
But straight their dreadless comrades rushed,
With generous warmth of ardour flushed,
And rescued them from ruin dire—
At fearful risk—beneath that fire!—

XXVIII.

It was Napoleon's self that bade,
The left wing urge the attack it made,
From him these orders had been sent—
It seemed 'twas but his shrewd intent,
Thereon to keep the attention bent
Of the Enemy—in such event!
Perchance, scarce deemed he that so well
His studied words they thus should spell—
And to the least, last letter tell!
But thought to mark—with dubious will—
Their partial execution still!—
Howe'er it was—he startled—shook!—
With thrill of ire—and lowering look,—

363

Then soon with stern, imperious pride—
His mandates fast he multiplied—
With strenuous vehemence that bore
All things its passionate course before!

XXIX.

He flung the Battle from his Soul—
Full on the Front to rage and roll!—
Flung the Whole Battle—fierce and dread—
Full on the Front—to blaze and spread!—
What though, within his scheming thought
Its plan had differently been wrought?
'Twas changed,—turned,—checked,—and snatched, and heaved,
From the oblique order then conceived!—
And from That Thought, far flashed and flew,
A fresh Creation—formed anew!
He judged that Poniatowski now—
Whose valour never knew to bow—
Must dwell hard by the Hostile Force—
Where runs the old Moscow road its course!—

XXX.

And hark!—faint sounds hoarse muttering come—
He starts—as 'twere The Tromp of Doom!
Now—now,—the Signal prompt he gave!—
Proud time of transport for the Brave!—
The signal for the Attack!—at once
Bursts out the Battle!—dread response!
Terrific from the erst peaceful Plain—
From circling hills it raged amain!

364

He gave the sign!—and, thundering high,
Burst the loud Battle in reply!—
He spake the word!—like sword from Sheath—
The Battle bounded to his breath!
Men took to them their Strength and Pride—
And launched themselves on War's deep tide—
That round in regal anger swept!—
Bright anger!—while it stirred and leapt
Against those skies that soon shall lean
Above a blood-red ruin's scene!

XXXI.

To them, Men took their strength and might—
Their Memories high of Feud and Fight!
That mingling with their feelings grew,
Till scarce their presence there, they knew!
Proudly, the unvanquished Sons of Gaul
Donned the armour of their memories all—
O'erjoyed—their Friedland fires they fanned—
And high, shook Jena's red right hand!
Their old Marengo minds they kept,—
And on the Steed of Battle leapt!—
The Giant Steed!—that, plunging far,
Shook from his horrent mane the War—
And galloped on the scorching gale—
And pawed the clouds of Havoc pale!
Then heaved in storm-pace on and on
His Mountain-Stature to the Sun!
Which, changed with wondering and dismay,
Made a white Death-Night of the Day!

365

XXXII.

But let him fade!—that Monarch Sun!—
Wreathed deep with smoke-clouds dense, and dun!—
Within their rushing souls they gaze,
At One that shall unclouded blaze!—
A Sun that leaveth no more night—
With long immortal splendours bright!—
Strange Light that never intermits—
Streams from their Sun of Austerlitz!—
Crowned Sun of Austerlitz!—thy rays
Write on their souls—with thee ablaze!—
The burning word of “Victory” write—
To brace their thoughts with statelier might!
Those rays are royal in their souls!—
While fierce that Tide of Tempests rolls!—

XXXIII.

The far-resounding Battle roars—
Like thousand seas on thousand shores!—
It mounts!—it maddens!—all is made
Like blazing shadows of Its shade!
Winged Hurricane-Eclipsings sent—
From mad Earth climb the Firmament!
She bids The Space be gloom and cloud—
And takes for Atmosphere—a shroud!
While every Earthquake-shout there waked,
The echoes with which the wide air ached!
Now both the unblenching Hosts behold—
On—on—like meeting Oceans rolled!

366

Some dreadful voice seemed urging still—
Both urging wildly at its will!—
“Russia in Arms!—March!—Strike!—Advance!—
And Charge!—Charge!—Charge!—tremendous France!”—

XXXIV.

Fierce crash on crash—far-echoing dread—
Raged where the Boundless Battle spread!
The thousand-thundering batteried roar—
With deafening din racked more and more!
Defence—Defiance—and Despair—
Yelled their mixed madness through the air!
While still that dreadful Voice appeared,
As though both Hosts it hailed and cheered!
The Voice of War—so loud—so dire—
It lashed the Soul's tossed Seas of Fire!
“March!—Russia!—March!—Arise!—Advance!—
And Charge!—Charge!—Charge!—unconquered France!”—
In Nations,—heroes hurrying press,
To prove their Warrior-Worthiness!—
Sound!—Sound!—ye deafening noises high,
Peal on!—bewildering Harmony!—
While breathless Empires listening wait,
To learn what they may hope from Fate!—
Call out to them with such a voice,
That they may hear—and may rejoice!
Stern Russia!—Proudly do thy part!—
Worlds watching hail the Mighty Heart!

367

Britannia!—o'er her bulwark-sea—
Britannia!—loftiest of the Free!—
Lifts up her glorious head on high—
Where flash new wreaths of Victory—
To gaze upon thy fateful War,
While smiles o'er thee, her Guardian Star!—
She watches Thee!—even She, whose march
Makes Heaven one Trophied—Triumph-Arch!

XXXV.

She—who hath met thy dreadful Foe—
To lay his haughty boastings low,—
To lift Her Head above his Pride!—
And tell him loud—he is defied!—
Her trebly-crowned and queenliest head—
Unbowed—while bends a world in dread!—
Unbowed—'mid strife or threatened ill!—
For She shall blench not—word nor will—
That World's great Sovereign—Sovereign still!
Even while the illuminated towers
Of London—flush the midnight's hours!
And all the festal City shines,
With triumphs proud and princely signs!
Forgets she not, 'midst stateliest cheer,
The struggle and the tumult here!
Old England's millions watch and pray—
For Thee on thine eventful day,—
For thee, in thine ordeal of dread—
While doubt and gloom are round thee spread!—

368

Unbending Empress of the North!—
High pinnacled on Mountained Worth!
Brightening Renown with Sun-sphered Truth!—
With Virtue's Honour!—best in sooth!

XXXVI.

And wronged and martyred Germany
Hath fixed her thoughtful glance on thee,—
While chains are clanking harsh and loud
O'er her crowned cities, bright and proud!—
And blue Italia's eye of Sun
Shall dwell thy giant deeds upon!—
For while she bends—she burns!—Still—still
She keeps, like her Volcanic Hill,
A World of Fire crushed—shrouded—sealed—
Within—till Time it be revealed!—
Till the hour by Heaven designed shall come,
And bid the sleeping not be dumb!—
Till the hour, when Heaven shall raise her head,
And bid the entombed One, not be dead!—
Strike!—Russians!—Strike the Invaders down!—
Snatch—snatch their Glory's burning crown!—
On!—Russia!—On!—Old Rugged North!—
Let all thy treasured wrath fly forth!—
Defeat them and destroy!—
Sons of the savage North!—Ye stand
On your own strength—in your own land!—
War on—in gallant joy!—
An hundred nations watch and pray
For ye on this momentous day,

369

Bear on—as ye Begin!—
Britannia,—glorying, breathes from far
Her lofty blessing on your war,—
War on!—War on!—and win!—

XXXVII.

The glorious pageant streams unrolled,
Like some huge banner, fold by fold,—
More glorious yet—and more!—
Earth with the deep reflection shines—
Standards on standards—lines on lines—
Bright arms on arms—no bound confines!—
Till Earth's proud Trees—Her teeming Mines
Seemed rooted up—despoiled—where joins
The Battle—sharp and sore!—
So thick those standards' staves arose,
(Like masts o'er waves of friends and foes,)
O'erpoweringly high!—
So thronged, those glittering arms were seen,
With scarce a spear-point's space between,
Bickering—like thick-starred sky!—
Here many a nation marshalled see
'Gainst Russia and 'gainst Liberty!—

XXXVIII.

Switzers!—March ye with these enrolled—
Ye—highest of the haughty-souled?—
Can Ye forget your struggles proud,—
Sons of the Regions of the Cloud!—
For Freedom and your Rights—of yore,—
Round garrisoned by guardians hoar?—

370

Your mountain-heights of strength sublime,—
The Impregnable to Man or Time!
Where, threatening, daunts the invading Foe
The pale Artillery of the Snow!—
The sounding Avalanche that rains
Its white destruction o'er the plains,—
The death-bolt launched as from the sky;—
(Where frowns it dark and angrily,
Touching those crests—half way on high,
Chilled with a dead Eternity!—)
Can ye those sacred strifes forget?—
Your land is glorious with them yet!—
The nations honour Her and hail,
Because she could not blench nor fail!—

XXXIX.

The Kühreihen's long-remembered notes,
Mind ye where the air of Freedom floats;
And can ye unrepentant hear
Its sweet sounds in your dreaming ear?—
Well may you die upon the strain,
If you dare fight for Yoke and Chain!—
Well pine to death when rings that song,
If ye dare swell the Ranks of Wrong!—
The lay of the Alpine herdsman free
Must sting with sharpened memory,
When poured on ears not racked with pain
At clankings of the abhorrent chain!—
Think of the Schreckhorn's peaks of snow,
All shines unstained—above—below!—

371

From Slavery's taint move free beneath
The hearts unbowed through Life and Death,
As from Earth's soil its crowning wreath!—
Think of the soaring Jungfrau bright,
With spiritually-quickening light,—
The soul of Freedom's high repose—
The proudest Sun that gilds its snows!—

XL.

Think of your Lammer-geyer's wild cry,
Whose every tone saith “Liberty!”—
Think of your rushing torrents sent,
In Freedom's own abandonment,
To shew how beautiful—how bright—
How glorious to the thought and sight,
Must be all shapes,—whate'er their birth,—
That blessed Freedom takes on Earth!
How fair all Forms—by mount or lake—
That holiest Freedom wills to take!—
Oh! dare ye strive to fix that yoke
On others' necks your proud hands broke?—
And dare ye strive to make them slaves?—
Think of your chainless Fathers' graves!—
Oh! by those fathers—by their fame—
By each heroic—honoured name—
Oh! By the immortal Patriot Three,
Stretched near Lucerne's blue forest-sea,—
Even Those who on the Grütlii shore
Formed their great starry league of yore!—

372

And by the old dark Morgarthen dell,
Where fast the rocks of terror fell—
Fast on the whelmed and slaughtered foe—
Beneath revenge and wrath laid low!
By the Underwalhden's haughty strife—
With all renown and glory rife!
By every high and hallowed grave—
The martyrdom of all the brave!
By shrine and altar—hearth and hill—
Be Free—and more!—Free-making still!—
Switzerland—noblest Land of Lands!—
On her proud Mountains, tiptoe stands—
To see her sons—(foul sight to see!—)
Fight—Freedom!—fight!—'gainst thine and thee?

XLI.

And can the gallant sons of Spain,
Stand forth to bind the Oppressor's chain?
For this did They pour darkly down,
From proud Sierras of their own!—
And buckle War's bright Terrors on—
Their harness shining in the sun!—
By Saint Jago's honoured name—
By all your old chivalrous Fame—
By the antique strifes of fair renown—
When sank the tribes of red Mahoun—
When Afric's dusky breast received,
The few from Spanish steel reprieved!
By Zegri—and the Abencerrage—
Whose race was swept from Earth's fair page—

373

To shew how towered in matchless might
Proud Spain's high vengeance!—Truth and Right!—
By dark Guadiana's rolling wave,
And shores sunk deep in many a grave—
When Paynim—Moor—and Christian Knight—
There fought the dire and bloody Fight!—
By Rio Verde's wreaths of Fame,—
Those Hymns that hailed the bleeding stream!—
By brave Pelagio's deeds of power,
Where the old Asturias saw him tower,
In haughtiest Independence still,
'Mid its stern fastnesses of Hill!—
By your great Cid's immortal name,
And all your Dreams of the ancient Fame—
Unsay not every loftiest boast,
By strengthening thus the Invader's Host!

XLII.

Such words are vain!—In Gaul's proud van,
See, rage the undaunted Catalan!—
And the Andalusian Coursers bear
Their masters through the Wild of War!
There Leon's haughty banner floats—
Its rustling stirs like trumpet notes!—
And there the plumed Guerilla waves,
That sword whose stroke should free all slaves!
While spurs 'mid Battle's clash and roar,
Shouting—the fiery Torreadore!—
And their own Land the while withstands,
The Gallic Leader's phalanxed Bands!

374

And Salamanca's glorious plain,
Glows red,—beneath blue skies of Spain!

XLIII.

Ausonia's high historic clime—
Once—and For Ever—the sublime!
Sends forth her sons to swell these ranks—
From the Arno's amphitheatred banks;—
Or yellow Tiber's ruined shore—
Where sleeps a proud sun-world of yore!
Should not the Sons of Romans pause,
Ere They espouse another's cause,—
And die to wreathe fresh Laurels now,
Around their alien Ruler's brow?
(The Alps' Desecrator!—he who shook
Those Heights—with Battle's Thunder-stroke!—)
Should their dark sultriness of soul—
Thus spread the tyrannous stern controul!—

XLIV.

And ye!—ye blue-eyed heirs of Fame,
Which streams from the Old Teutonic name!—
Ye, too,—thus on the Moskowa's plain
Have filled the Aggressor's crowded train;
There, the old Teutonic strains ye sang,
Till Russia's pine-woods shook and rang!—
While fast ye sped, to waste and blight,
With rash audacious boast of might,—
And give to Slavery's hateful lot
A nation that had wronged you not!—

375

The Rhine should blush to blood, with shame
To see ye wrong your ancient fame!—
And dare ye breathe your high old strain—
“The Rhine!—the Rhine!”—with shouts again?—
Be silent of the olden days,
When nobler were your works and ways;—
Be silent of the days of Pride,
If now ye take the Oppressor's side!—

XLV.

And ye!—Untamed, undaunted Poles,
With Freedom burning at your souls!—
Think ye to free your native sod
By making Millions kiss the rod?—
By widening thus the Tyrant reign?—
No!—Ye shall rivet more your chain!—
Why should Ye in your rising hour
Thus grasp another's cloak of power?—
Choose your own paths—toward your own end—
On your own red right arms depend!—
Trust to your own high name and fame,
Nor the alien vain alliance claim!—
Nor think true Freedom shall be bought
By deeds unrighteous—darkly wrought!—
If ye, yourselves would freely move,
And proudly glance to Heaven above,
From the unstained Earth—that sees no slave,—
And raise, and right yourselves and save—
Oh! wrong not others,—nor betray
Their hands to chains of iron sway!—

376

Seek not for freedom,—gallant Hearts!
By acting thus the enslavers' parts!—
Deal death around till ye are free—
Leave to the living—Liberty!—
Wreak vengeance—strike—o'erpower—chastise,—
But make them not Themselves despise!—
Nor yield them to the living death
Yourselves have maddening, borne beneath;—
Give them to Ruin's reddest graves,
Do all,—but make them doubly slaves!—
Go, form your own proud ranks and fight,
Nor let such Wrong e'er shake such Right!—
Go! valiant Poles!—Go! men of might!—
For the Universal Freedom—arm!
And sound the long and loud alarm!—

XLVI.

How many nations swell the train,
To widen thus a Tyrant's reign!—
They deem this Might is Right—nor pause
To sound his claim nor weigh his cause!—
Now the Uproar shaketh far and wide
The echoing air on every side,
The hills have each a hideous voice,
And loud in havoc's din rejoice;
Ten thousand fierce explosions rend
The awed atmosphere,—and clash and blend;
Volumes of wreathing smoke and fire
Spread wide, in vast confusion dire,—
While hissing bullets whistling tear,
With ceaseless noise the startled air,

377

Earth seems to spout forth flames and death,
As her deep heart were swollen with wrath!—
In midst of all this deafening roar,
Davoust right onwards hurrying bore—
With threatening cannons ranged before—
Behind—the Artillery high and haught—
Of hearts, that burst with fiery thought—
Living artillery—that around
Shall ruin spread—without a bound!—
Towards Russia's first Redoubt—that frowned
Like Fate's own fortress—o'er the ground!—
Passed on—the Unvanquished and Renowned!—

XLVII.

Began the Northern Musketeers
With their sharp knell to strike the ears—
Loud rang that clear revolving knell,
Sang through the air their bullets well—
Straight answered by redoubled roar,
From cannon-mouths, that deepening pour
Their storms of ruin more and more!—
Still the Infantry of France marched on—
Nor fired—while fast their way they won—
Hastening to reach—check—crush—o'erthrow
The fiery terrors of the Foe—
But he, who at their Column's head,
Waved on—through all that scene of dread—
Brave Compans,—deeply stricken—pressed
The crimsoned earth with bleeding breast—
Fell too his Bravest and his Best,—
While disconcerted paused the rest!—

378

That shattering shower of balls beneath,
They halt—to pour back Death for Death!—
To pour back in their unchecked ire,
The fierce and desolating fire!—
This—this were vain!—thus ruin's worst
On their devoted heads should burst!—

XLVIII.

But Rapp rushed on—and forward led—
In place of Him who stricken bled,
Once more,—beneath his brave command,
Right forward pressed the fearless band;
With levelled bayonets they go,
With quickened pace against their foe,
Like hungered wolves that desperate throw
Their strength on the angered buffalo!—
Whose murderous horn and mangling hoof—
May keep not these apart—aloof—
Until they quench his fiery mood
In torrents of his own black blood—
And tear him into quivering parts—
Each panting as with hundred hearts!—
'Gainst their Foe's fastness—so they rushed,
While Valour's fires to phrenzies flushed!—
They neared that Promontory-Mound,
Thick set with embrazures around,
Where frieze with arrowy threat was found;
They neared it! and their Leader first—
Who joined their shouts' acclaiming burst—

379

Had all but reached it,—when he fell,
Hit from some hand that aimed too well,
Added one other wound,—that aim,
To twenty-one proud scars of fame!—
Then straight a fresh Commander came—
And straight the self-same fate was his—
Till seemed it that they could not miss!—
Davoust, himself, too wounded, bled—
Full well the hostile fight hath sped!—
Unwavering—that devoted troop,
Yet something slackened,—blenched in Hope!—
Their Hope may change—they will not droop!—
While Ney, with his divisions three,
Made speed—Davoust!—to succour thee!—

XLIX.

Divided then their fire the Foe—
Onwards did Ney the Gallant go!—
Supported thus—encouraged then—
Advanced with shouts those fearless men!
And through fierce efforts,—firm and fast,
The entrenchments dread, they reached at last!—
Scaled these—and 'mongst the Russians mixed,
With their red bayonets transfixed—
Pierced, scattered, stabbed them, and o'erthrew,
And bands of stubborn strugglers slew!—
Meantime made Ney his fierce attack,
And left his broad and blood-stained track,
Where raised apart,—with threatening mien,—
The unconquered two Redoubts were seen;

380

These wrested he with furious might
From the adverse ranks that sought to smite—
That sought to smite,—but smitten fell,
And bled where they had fought so well!
Defeated—routed—these remained,—
They paused—with dumb amazement chained;
While felled them fast the unpitying Gaul,
Exulting high above their fall!—

L.

Thus forced the Left of Russia's Line—
The Plain thus cleared—that voice of thine,—
Great Conqueror!—sounded clear and free,—
“Murat! lead on thy Cavalry!—
Thus finished shall Our Victory be!”—
Passed but a moment,—and, prepared,
Murat on the awful heights appeared,
Amidst those hostile ranks that now
Redarkened every lofty brow!—
For Russia's second line was there,
And Reinforcements fresh and fair,
By Touczkoff sent, to check the rout,
And onwards led by Bagawout!
These forward rushed right furiously,—
Thronged thousands, rallying round them, see!—
They braved their Foe's victorious ire
Beneath his very line of fire!—
Advancing to retake—regain
The entrenchments long held out in vain!—
In Victory's confidence of sway
And wild and reckless mis-array—

381

The French surprised,—there wavering paused,—
Stern harm their consternation caused!—
Westphalia's Phalanx, pressing fast
To Poniatowski's aid, rushed past,—
Then crossed the shadowy sundering wood
That 'twixt Him and the Army stood;—
Glimpsed through the blinding dust and smoke,
Whose clouds embarrassed the eager look,—
From the undue course those waverers took—
Who startled and astonished shook—
Were they mistaken for The Foe,
And fired on, wronged—and harassed so,—
Till desperately and strangely grew
On wild distress—disorder new!—
While the adverse numbers well retained,
And followed up the advantage gained!—
Their hostile Cavalry closed round
Murat—who, spurning bar and bound,
Had onwards dashed with sword and cry
To rally those scared troops that fly!—
Though Ruin glared in every shape,
Effected he at length escape;
And threw himself—from that fierce rout
Delivered—in the assailed Redoubt!—

LI.

There, numbers panic-struck he found,—
His Presence made their chilled hearts bound!—
One hand doth well his weapon wield—
The other his proud crest upheld!—

382

That high-waved plume struck every eye,
Till sprang their gladdened hearts as high;
The valour of their first staunch mood
Burned,—thus triumphantly renewed!—
Ney, too, hath fairly formed again
His troops, that well their strength did strain
'Gainst clouds of Cuirassiers that came,
Breathing an element of flame!—
Checked by the Gaul were these o'erthrown,
Murat was disengaged—'twas done!
Those Heights re-conquered were their own!—
The Swordsman-King in triumph high,
Rushed once more on the Enemy,—
With the proud cavalry and fair
Of Nansouty and bold Bruyère,—
With terrible encounter then,
Joined furious hosts of dreadless men!—
As Life were but a weed to fling
Away—a light unvalued thing!—

LII.

Again!—Again!—Again!—the French
Still charged the Foe—they will not blench!—
In vain, the impetuous troops of France
To Victory's shouts timed loud the advance—
One stern fierce hour they deeply strove—
At length the Russ they backward drove!—
But Semmanowska's Heights—where stood
The ruins of its village rude—
Towered yet unvanquished—unsubdued!—

383

They towered unmastered!—while from thence
Far scattering hideous loss immense,
Down poured the Foe's commanding fire—
Fast—ceaseless—desolating—dire!—
Arresting Victory on her way,
Opposing all her soaring sway!—
These must be conquered!—Maubourg first—
Thy cavalry—with valorous burst—
Hath cleared the Front—and braved the worst!—
They cleared the Front!—came Friant then,
With his brave ranks of marching men—
Dufour too—well the attack was timed—
Soon up the opposing steeps they climbed!—
The Russians now give back—they're lost—
Driven—hurled—dislodged, from their high post!—
Marked Koutousoff the danger dire—
Must Russia in his sight expire?—
One vigorous effort must be made—
One stern gigantic stroke essayed—
Nor must the attempt be now delayed!—

LIII.

Murat and Ney, brief while remained
Exhausted,—nor the fray sustained,—
The fiery conflict had oppressed
Their wearied troops, sore needing rest—
No reinforcements came to aid,—
On Victory's road so seemed they stayed!—
Soon from the unhoped-for respite deep,
Shall Koutousoff high 'vantage reap,

384

St raight summoned he his Whole Reserve!—
Strike!—Russians—strike!—nor shrink—nor swerve!—
Even to the Imperial Guards—behold!—
His whole Reserve doth he unfold!
His Left Wing now uncovered all—
Must they support—or ruined—Fall!—

LIV.

Bagration hath re-formed his line,
Strengthened by ranks that hurrying join,
On that Great Battery rests his Right—
'Gainst which Eugene still hurled his might—
His Left—on that dark wood which bounds,
Towards Psarewo, the battle-grounds—
Their fire incessant sharply galled
Proud Gallia's ranks—yet unappalled!—
The attack was fierce—terrific—stern—
Still—still to combat they return—
Flight—failure—or defeat they spurn!—

LV.

With maddened vehemence they strive—
Earth with the uproar throbs alive—
Artillery,—Infantry,—and Horse,
To all and each had they recourse!—
And each and all, tremendous, burst
On Gaul—as't was their Last and First—
Their first and last—their only hope;—
Yet deigned not Her proud ranks to droop—
Murat and Ney stood nobly firm,
Beneath that tempest—to its term!—

385

Their Battle deemed they at an end?—
Their Victory hoped they to extend?—
Enough!—if what indeed is gained
Be well preserved—and still maintained!—
And now some balls, with threatening bound,
At the Emperor's feet have ploughed the ground!—
Where War's Great Master holds his seat,
They kiss the dust at those dread feet!—

LVI.

It fortuned well for bleeding France,
Her own artillery did advance
Towards those stern heights,—she late had won,—
Where perished many a valiant son—
This, while with desperate zeal she fought,
With prompt rapidity was brought!—
Napoleon with impatience bade
This movement should at once be made;—
Throughout that day, 'twas strange—he shewed,
Save then, a still and deadened mood;—
A Mighty Melancholy sate
On his pale forehead—bowed with fate—
And in that dread and piercing eye,—
On fire with far Futurity!—
A gathering gloom,—at times o'ercame,
The insufferable light and flame!—
Upon his spirit seemed to press
A mountain's load of listlessness;—

386

And through the alternate Good and Ill—
His towering soul that day stood still!—
A wonderful and awful pause—
Without a clue—without a cause!—
Near that Redoubt he still remained—
Which first his Gallia's prowess gained!
Now sate he down in listless sort—
Now paced with cold indifferent port,—
So seemed he even as 'twere, self-worn,
By years of Inward Power o'erborne!—
The world by him informed and lit—
Was fired—as he was soul of it!—
All fevered to one Tempest-fit!—
For this he stole no Fire from Heaven—
The Flame from his own Soul was given!
Well might that Soul at times give way—
And sleep o'erwearied on the clay!—
Sleep on this clay of Death and Life—
Dust's life and death—grown faint with strife!

LVII.

The French Artillery now hath crowned,
The fenced heights of the changeful ground!—
And soon out-bursts its dreadful voice—
To bid the fiends of War rejoice!
Three hundred cannon-mouths poured loud—
Their deafening clamours—stern and proud!—
At once their startling terrors roared,
In wildering Unison outpoured!—

387

Till air was madness—and the sky
Seemed rent and staggering shudderingly!
Throbbed all around with knolling pulse—
So did those racking shocks convulse!
Appeared the air—the sky—the ground—
To live and labour with That Sound!—
Until it seemed the Voice of Space—
As though on their eternal race—
Worlds rocked beneath it,—to their base!

LVIII.

First, by this brazen line of doom,
The Russian Horsemen were o'ercome!
Disordered—sought they refuge then,
Behind vast masses dense of men!—
Huge masses that advanced beneath
That dreadful cloud of fiery Death!—
As on they came—with measured pace—
Their ranks shewed many a gaping space!—
Those ranks were ploughed through every part,
By ruin's aids of murderous art!
Still on they came—advanced they still—
With firm, indomitable will!—
A fresh discharge terrific burst
From those stern batteries—like the first:
Fell whole Platoons at once destroyed—
To leave full many a yawning void!—
While o'er their wounded and their slain,
Closed fast those 'minished files again!

388

No forward footstep was delayed—
No pause—in Passiveness was made—
No pulse of that Progression stayed—
No point of powerlessness, displayed,
For that destruction—dire and deep—
Which ploughed their ranks with slaughtering sweep;—
Though ill could these together hold—
So crushed were they—the Brave and Bold!
Each instant severed by the Dead—
The Dying—trampled by their tread!

LIX.

But Lo!—they halt!—advancing not—
Nor yet retreating from that spot!
Hath Horror's petrifying grasp,
At length o'ercome them—that they gasp
As with Amazement's bonds enchained—
Whose suffocating links are strained—
Till sense and life have lapsed and waned?
The cause of this strange check unknown—
Was ne'er disclosed—was never shewn!
It might be that their Leaders viewed
Their failure—nor their plans renewed;—
Dubious what change to make, and how,
To save them, or to strengthen now!—
Possessing not like him whose star,
Had shone the Lightning-Sun of War—
The art of putting into motion—
All calmly as the Moon, doth—the Ocean,—
Such mighty Tides of stirring Life—
And governing through storm and strife!—

389

It might be—all awaited thus
Even in that streight so hazardous—
Some succours fresh—some new commands—
So paused these mute, devoted Bands!
Still shouldering closely side to side
They stood—they staggered—fell and died!—
Still linking fresh each lessening rank—
Thus breathless stood—and bleeding sank!

LX.

What Battle-steed is rushing wild—
With blood—and froth—and dust defiled?—
What Steed—unridden and unreined—
His gallant housings dimmed and stained—
Far flings his reddened foam on air—
That foam dashed dark, with blood-gouts there?
Drips fast with gore his loosened rein—
He darts along—stops—starts again—
Then—Life half bursting through each vein—
Bounds like the Death-balls o'er the Plain!—
Amazement—Terror—and Despair—
Goad like his raging Riders there!
He plungeth on—and swalloweth space—
In that wild agonizing race!
With furious snort—with phrenzied bound—
He smokes along the echoing ground!—
Maddening—as with his own fierce force!—
'Tis fallen Bagration's Battle-Horse!—
Bagration!—bold—and true—and brave—
Hast Thou, then, found thy glorious grave?

390

LXI.

And still the Artillery's volumed roar,
Made Earth, one Shudder as before!—
And still those moveless masses stayed
Two mortal hours bereft of aid!—
Beneath that shattering Cannonade!—
Mowed down—pierced through—asunder torn—
To fragments hacked—riven—bowed—o'erborne!
Yet—passive as their Dead—stood all!—
No Movement made they but—their Fall!—
Like tottering ruins shaken sore—
Crushed inwards—fell they evermore!—
The Living—lifeless seemed to be—
Some wall of senseless statuary!
Throbs surely there no pulse—no heat—
Take root in blood, their reddened feet!
They look adown with eyes of stone—
As though the informing soul was flown!—
As they unto themselves, were then—
The Insensate Images of Men!
This hideous massacre and strange,
Continued thus without a change!—
Two mortal hours—continued thus—
Foul—sickening—stern—and dolorous!—
Pressed on with dreadful dire success—
Till Fortune even wished Triumph less!—
Till even the shuddering Cannoneers—
Unused to pity as to fears—

391

Gazed shocked and marvelling at the sight—
Admiring that mute Valour's might!—
That awful courage—boundless—blind—
Blank—breathless—motionless—resigned!—
Wondering—they shudderingly admired—
Then paused—no fresh discharge they fired,
Awhile the ill-starred ranks respired—
It was The Victors first grew tired!—

LXII.

Sickening at horror's foul excess—
And wearying of the tardiness
Of this Artillery-Battle now,
Those Conquerors—breathing-time allow!—
Exhausted by its length withal—
Low doth their ammunition fall!
They paused!—moved forward gallant Ney—
Burning to crown the Battle-day!
His right extending—made he then
Thus rapidly advance again—
To turn the left of that new Front,
Opposed unto their battle's brunt!
Davoust and brave Murat once more—
Both seconded the Chief—'tis o'er!—
The fragments of Ney's Numbers now
Make fallen Bagration's Remnants bow!—
Then ceased the Battle on the Plain—
While fiercely still the Strife must reign,
Above,—where yet their strength they strain,—

392

On all the unclaimed,—the unconquered heights—
Defended by the Muscovites!—
And near that Vast Redoubt which still
Barclay, with deep determined will,—
That cannot change—that will not bend—
Continued stoutly to defend!

LXIII.

High rode in Heaven the mid-day sun—
When half of Russia's Line undone,
No longer sought their doom to shun,—
The conquerors breathed—their goal was won!—
The brave right wing of France, that so
Had swept down half of the ill-starred Foe—
Its front presented then and there—
With triumph proud—in order fair!—
On the part-opened Flank despoiled—
Of the adverse army's wreck entoiled,
Thus wrung—and shaken—bowed—and foiled!—
The Interior now was shewn revealed—
Without a skreen—without a shield!
The thinned Reserves—the abandoned Rear—
Shall all at length spread—visioned clear!—
All—all—the observant eye shall greet—
Even the Commencement of Retreat!

LXIV.

But weakened—thinned—exhausted too—
These vainly met their Conquerors' view!

393

They scarce might push their triumph's pride—
Wearied and worn, too, on their side!
Too weak to throw themselves are they,
In that deep chasm's broad tempting way!
Yet checks such deed, and such design,
A still, full formidable line;—
Now call they on the Guard aloud—
Let this complete their Victory proud!—
Or but in marshalled strength appear—
With firm and fixed assurance—here!
Let this but follow them!—but shew—
Its Front before their weakened Foe!—
And on these heights but take their place—
Then—they, themselves,—that Foe will face!—
Themselves will finish—close—and crown—
A day that still should be their own!
The Guard!—the Young Guard!—They must speed—
To aid them now at sorest need!

LXV.

Belliard is at the Emperor's side—
He meeteth looks of stubborn pride;—
And urgeth deep—and urgeth long—
With accents keen and reasonings strong!
“The Guard!—but let them now assist—
And all is as The Victors list!—
The Guard!—the Guard!—must this assure.
Their wavering Foe's discomfiture!
One Effort more, and all is done—
The Empire subdued—the Triumph won!—

394

The proud Catastrophe—complete!—
The Nation at Napoleon's feet!”—
But The Emperor dubious, gave command—
Once more the scene should well be scanned!
Straightforth His mandates were obeyed—
And swift return brave Belliard made!
“Already hath the Foe,”—he said—
“Much changed his plans—his flight is stayed!—
That shaggy Copse which lies between
Ourselves and him—even now is seen
With his sharpshooters thickly lined,—
A fatal meaning lurks behind!—
The bright Occasion's chance is lost!
If now forborne!—vain-vain Our Boast—
The blood-bought Triumphs of Our Host!
Not for One Moment more delay—
Or each best hope is swept away!—
Neglected Victory shall disdain
The arms that fail to fix her reign!
A second Battle we must fight,
To terminate the first aright!”—

LXVI.

Soon Bessieres farther tidings brought—
With deep and full importance fraught;—
He saith, the Foes, in order true,
Have ta'en their strong position new!
Where seemed they well prepared to make,
A formidable fresh attack;—

395

Napoleon's brow was sternly set,
“Nay!—nought is well unravelled yet!—
More clearly must I see and mark,
On this strange chess-board—deep and dark!”—
He points toward Moscow's road afar—
Whence hoarse sounds Poniatowski's war—
Then towards that Grand Redoubt—where still
Succeed Eugene's brave efforts ill!—
While hurrying in fresh counsellors came,
With tones of power—and words of flame!—
They urged him—pressed him—charged—implored—
“The Guard!—the Guard!”—is still the word—
By Dumas, and by Berthier sent
Daru to these his efforts lent,—
(To this his eloquence he bent)—
Assured he, the Emperor,—stern and high,
From all sides burst that gathered Cry—
“The time to send The Guard is come!”—
Shall he be deaf—while none are dumb?—

LXVII.

This answer rendered back—their chief,
In chill, grave accents, low and brief—
“And should the Morrow chance to see
Another Battle—answer me!—
Where should my Fighting Army be?”—
Urged then the Minister no more,
He felt all hope—all chance, was o'er;—

396

And saddening from the Presence past—
Wildered—astonished—and aghast!—
Well might he, marvelling thus, behold
This changed demeanour—curbed and cold—
And, wonder-struck, Napoleon see,
Adjourning thus his Victory!—
Adjourning Glory—Fame—Success—
While seemed they on his path to press!—

Napoleon is said to have used these words.

“Quelques boulets viennent même, pour la première fois, mourir aux pieds de Napoléon.”—Ségur, tome premier, p. 386.

397

CANTO X.

I.

Meanwhile had Barclay with the Right,
'Gainst Prince Eugene fought desperate fight!—
When Borodino captured fell—
Eugene pushed onward nobly well—
Nor left the foemen breathing space—
But crossed the Kologha in face
Of that Redoubt—their strongest place!—
The Russians reckoned chiefly there,
On their crowned heights of threatening air,
Hedged round with broad ravines—and steep—
And on their Foe's exhaustion deep!—
Frowned their entrenchments—stern and strong—
By dread artillery flanked along;—
Bristling with flames and iron—shone
The borders of those Heights—unwon!—
But all their Elements of Power—
Art—Nature—failed in the opening hour!—
All—all—gave way—all sank and failed—
By the French Fury first assailed!—

398

The dread French Fury's long-famed burst—
Its fatal shock—its fiercest—first!—
All tongues full well might celebrate
That shock—most like the crush of Fate!—

II.

'Twas Eighteen hundred Men of Might,
Led on by Bonnami aright,
That well atchieved—that feat of power—
And stamped that proud Immortal Hour!—
'Twas there that valiant Fabvier fought—
Whose tongue Defeat's dark tidings brought
From Salamanca's severed plain—
He represents Gaul's Host in Spain!—
He proudly represents that Host,
As in its days of loftiest boast!—
The Army there,—'mid the Army here,—
Seemed in his Person to appear,
Who fights—a valiant volunteer!—
Marked—'midst the foremost of the first
He raged—through that high valorous burst—
With rivalry of glory fired,
By which all Heroes shine inspired!—
Still that Far Host shall fire the front
Through him,—and bear the keenliest brunt!—
In that Redoubt he wounded fell,—
Short-lived their triumph—sooth to tell!—
Since too precipitately pushed
The assault—to which they maddening rushed—

399

Or those who followed, all too slack,
Were found in seconding the attack!—

III.

Morand's brave Troops were thus, alone,
Into the heart of danger thrown!—
Ten of September morn 'twas then,
Friand with his well-ordered men,
Not yet the attack upon their right,
Commenced 'gainst Semmanowska's might—
And on their left the Italian guard,
The troops of Broussier and Gérard,
Not yet in line—no aid bestowed—
While fiery vengeance wakening glowed!—
The Russians, from the amazement deep,
Recovering—started as from sleep!—
And forward rushed from every side—
Even stung to phrenzied pitch of pride!—
Graced Koutosoff himself their head,
While Yermoloff, too, shared the lead—
One Brave Battalion singly stood
Firm,—'gainst the advancing torrent-flood!—
Adventuring even with levelled steel,
To brook their shock of stormy zeal,
'Twas soon enveloped—crushed—driven out—
From that too famed, and dire Redoubt—
One-third of its brave men fall there,
And scowl on Heaven with Death's stone-stare,
There its bold valiant Leader lies
Pierced through with twenty wounds—he dies!—

IV.

Drunk, wild and fevered with success,
Advanced the foes in dreadfulness!—
Attacking fiercely in their turn!—
Vengeance!—with thy hot joys they burn!—
On that sole point united now—
Reigns all that ravening War can shew;
His whole mad fury, strength, and skill,
The storm-world of his tameless will!—
Firm stood the French for four long hours,
Though blind with thick sulphureous showers—
Though pressed as by Unearthly Powers—
On that Volcano's slope of doom,—
That blazing and Tempestuous Tomb!—
It vomited its flames of death—
That scorched their souls with blasting breath—
Till Madness seemed even Matter's life!—
Racked into Phrenzy-fit through Strife!—

V.

Roared evermore in fury free—
Far-heard—the Foe's Artillery!
And still 'mid that terrific scene
Towered gallantly the Prince Eugene!
To these he cries,—upcheering well,
“Ye were—ye are—the Invincible!—
Since those who once that title win,
Which steels with strength without—within,—
Those—those who once win this and wear,
Can die not into Shame's despair,

401

For doubly dying, They should fall!”—
They heard—they answered to his call!—
To those he shouts, triumphantly,
“At Wagram—Soldiers!—think how ye
Proved Victors—Victors—still with me!”—
To these—to those—to All and Each—
His own high soul he strove to teach!—
Fresh succours came his might to swell,
And aid those dangers to repel;—
The Legion of the Vistula
Advanced, with cheering proud hurrah!—
Now rallying all their Forces there,
One stern attack they yet would dare!—
When furious cries, that startling stirred,
Proceeding from their left were heard!
There Ouwaroff, with a numerous Force,
And thousands of the Cossack Horse,
A bold diversion made,—and fast
Attacked the o'erpowered Reserve aghast!
In dire disorder—this they threw,
Till thither swift the Viceroy flew,
With Delzons brave—Ornano too;—
They backward drove their Foe ere long,
More loud and vehement than strong!—
Then to the Attack returned in haste
With added ardour steeled and braced!—

VI.

Murat, inactive on the Plain,
Was darkly destined to remain;

402

Sharp loss his cavalry endured
From Russia's troops, too well secured!—
Those vast Redoubts that frowned between
Victory's broad way and brave Eugene!—
Still skreened the Russians from the fate
Which must their suffering Foes await—
To the Emperor sent the Chief, for aid,
And earnestly, prompt succours prayed;—
'Twas all too late—too long delayed!—
The Russians have found time anew
To form their preparations true;
The third time thus they well renewed
Their left flank there, in dauntless mood!
The Cavalry Montbrun had led—
(Montbrun—then numbered with the dead—)
Murat hath summoned,—the command
Hath Caulaincourt of that bold Band!—
“Forth!—and avenge your Leader's death!”—
He cried, with zeal's inspiring breath!
“And Caulaincourt!—do thou lead on!
Enough!—then glory must be won!”—
To him points out the Warlike King,
The untiring Enemy's fresh Wing,—
This must he break unquailing through,
There wasteful way must hack and hew;—
Even his fierce path must stoutly urge
Toward their Grand Battery's dreadful gorge!—
Then, while the advantage following still,
The Light Horse wheeled—with watchful skill,
He leftward straight must sweep in haste
With his bold Cuirassiers well placed,—

403

Even leftward pass with breathless speed,
And straight his hurrying horsemen lead,
To take abruptly in the rear
That dread Redoubt of doom and fear,
Whose front fires still are mowing fast
The Viceroy's ranks, that breast the blast!—

VII.

And what was Caulaincourt's reply—
While proudly beamed his kindling eye?—
“There look to see me, soon!”—he said;—
“Ere some brief minutes more have sped,
Will I be there!—alive or dead!”—
He spake,—and instant hurrying flew!—
On fire, that deathless deed to do!—
All in his path was straight o'erthrown,
The way—the day was all his own!—
First entered he the dire Redoubt,
With brandished blade and echoing shout!—
Foremost wert thou and first of all!—
And first and foremost too—to fall!—
Thou fell'st!—Death's Angel smiling shone!—
The Angel of Victory's mien he won!—
Thy Conquest and thy Grave were one!—
Then to the Grand Equerry straight
Hastening, they told his brother's fate;
Big tears of anguish burning broke
From his lowered eyes—they speechless spoke!—
With pitying tones Napoleon said,
“Thou'st heard!—Retire, and mourn!”—his head

404

The sorrowing brother bent, while bled
His heart afresh—nor spoke,—but staid!—

VIII.

The Viceroy with his troops drew near
The mouth of that Volcano drear;
When suddenly they saw, amazed,
The fires extinguished where they blazed!
Its sulphurous smoke-clouds checked, dispersed,—
While there a sun-crowned Vision burst!—
Far gleamed its crest—intensely bright—
One blinding glare of burning light,—
With the armour's dazzlery of day,
Which Gaul's proud Cuirassiers display!
Like moving meteors their array!—
Their sumptuous battle-harness burned,
And thrice the enlightening rays returned!—
It flashed and shivered on the eye—
As Flame was turned to Panoply!—
And burned along the sun, where beamed
On that cleared air its smile,—and seemed
As though from thence live lightnings streamed!—
Those Heights they see with one proud glance,
Late Russia's—now are claimed by France!—

IX.

O'erjoyed, to that transcendant scene
Rushed forward fast, the proud Eugene!
That glorious Victory, fresh and fair,
He rushed to terminate and share!—

405

But yet the Russians, staunch and stern,
Paused—to the conflict to return;
Not yet had they abandoned all,—
They heed—they hear the rallying call!—
Peasants, who ne'er before had been
In Battle's storm, unawed were seen,
With front courageous—bold and keen!—
By thousands these, like men inspired,
Rushed forward, still untamed—untired!
All shouting loud with one accord—
“Have Mercy on us, Thou!—Oh! Lord!”—
Yea!—shouting loud and louder now—
“Lord!—Lord!—have mercy on us—Thou!”—
Their national and sacred cry,
That long-resounding,—shook the sky!—
They rushed to dare, and do, and die!—
Plunged deep 'midst Battle's thickest gloom,
They crossed their brows—they braved their doom!—
Even where War's deadliest death-storms lowered,
They strove—o'erpowering and o'erpowered!—
It was a touching sight to see
Those Serfs strive thus devotedly;—
No pomp—no panoply was theirs,
Each one his rude grey doublet wears;
Their beards, thick streaming, clothe their breasts,—
Their long hair on their shoulders rests;
Hundreds have fallen—step hundreds more
To fill the files up as before,—
Astonishment nor awe they shewed,
The Enthusiasts with such ardour glowed!

406

No feeling—save the one —they felt—
Tremendous blows in might they dealt;—
The Eternal Lord of Battles wrought
A world of power in each high thought!
And made, for Russia's aid and boast
Each rugged Hero's arm—a Host!—
And thousands died for hearth and shrine—
Earth's holiest!—which shall brightliest twine
With all most loved of Heaven's divine!—

X.

Russia's armed Cohorts still returned—
While madness raged, and fury burned,—
Returned unto the fierce attack,
Retrampling their blood-deluged track!
The ground was slippery with their gore—
The Land's life-veins seemed running o'er;
They fought—they fell—they groaned and died—
The stern and threatening base beside,
Of ramparts they had reared in pride,
To hurl the foe to sore disgrace—
Defied to his detested face!—
Their corses now warm-weltering crowd
Round those strong works—those Bulwarks proud!—
They mocked the cannon and the sword—
Their gallant blood like water poured,—
And falling—left fresh bulwarks still—
Those corses heaped in darkening hill!—
The fame—the example—the unslain will!—
The memory like a Banner high,
Startling Defeat with Victory!—

407

Their noble Deaths even thus shall give
The Lesson that shall more than live!—

XI.

Their last attacking column came
Toward that Redoubt of dreadful fame,
Reft of the Artillery's powerful aid,
That doubtless had been thus delayed,—
Thus kept from that terrific scene
By many a barrier-like ravine!
Belliard some thirty cannons brought
'Gainst these, that thus fresh combat sought!
Up to the Cannons' mouths they came—
Forth burst at once their clouds and flame!
Those iron showers of shattering death—
Soon crushed and whelmed with hideous wrath—
The Brave that trod that desperate path!—
They paused—wheeled round—then, half destroyed,
Retreated—ere they even deployed!—
On this Great Battery's left, meanwhile,
Had Grouchy striven in gallant style,
And fierce repeated charges made—
Red Victory's stormy cause to aid!—

XII.

The Sun goes freighted with a load
Of gorgeous terrors—stern and broad—
Down his bright slope of western road!—
Empire hath wavered in his ray,
On this destruction-darkened day,

408

And even his Crown of Light seemed riven,
Scattered through that chaotic Heaven!—
And still War's rampant fiends aloud,
Called from their dense and sulphurous shroud,
The blood of nations seemed to flow
Round their stern feet of fiery glow!—
But drunken with that blood—they rave—
And roll them in the reeking wave—
And more and more, they claim and crave!—
And still to either side they cry,
With maddening argument and high—
While those untiring, strenuous foes
Still sternly meet—and struggling close—
Proud North!—with all thy Powers advance!—
And Charge!—Charge!—Charge!—Resistless France!—
“Russia!—ten thousand banners wave—
And strike!—to 'stablish and to save!—
Give all thy war-cries to the blast—
And stand unflinching to the last!—
And thou!—the unmatched in Glory's boast!—
Country of Conquest!—shall thy host
Pause till the World is won or lost?—
Canst Thou ere deem thy work is done
Till Worlds are lost—or Worlds are won!—
Russia!—with all thy strengths advance,
And Charge!—Charge!—Charge!—Victorious France!”

XIII.

Bursts thunder-crash on thunder-crash—
Where Cohorts hurled on Cohorts dash—

409

Where, with chaotic shock, they clash,
Till Air is made one dizzying flash!—
The Battle-Billows roared afar—
The Billows of the bounding War!—
Skies shook—Earth shuddered—as they trod—
Trampling her scarred Death-deluged sod!—
Even like a march of mountains came
Those Battle-thunderers—breathing flame!—
(While like Volcanic Hills—far round,
They showered destruction, terror-crowned!—)
So trembled to their trampling tread
Pale Earth—sore panting with her dread—
While strangely wavering to and fro,
Winged Hurricane-Eclipsings go,
The gorgeous Anarchy spread wide
Still shines ablaze with warrior pride—
With pomp sublime, on either side!—
While the Eagle-standards downward bring
To their dread pride of place—Heaven's king!—
So bright the emblazoned breadth of gold
Still shines—though gore hath dimmed their fold!
Oh! for a blaze of words to tell
That scene—the indescribable!
Winged words of fury and of flame—
Even dreadful as Napoleon's name!—
Like stormy sun's red—red as blood—
To speak that scene scarce-understood—
Such—only such—might make it good,
Oh!—for a breath of fire and flood!—
A sound that should o'erflow all space—
Pealed back by loud worlds in their place!

410

XIV.

The Battle-chargers snort and scream—
The brandished bickering weapons gleam!
Recoil and rally—charge and flight—
Make all a dread to Sense and Sight!
The thousand-thundering shouts arise—
Far shattering the over-shaken skies!
The Heaven-electrifying sound,
Rolls on without a lapse or bound!
Launched on War's living lightning seems
The World—that rocks—and heaves—and beams!—
A Stormy Sun, itself it gleams!—
Keeps this, indeed, its place of old?—
All seems down steep Destruction rolled!
All Earth in madness moved,—o'erthrown,
To outer space—driven—racked—undone!
With frantic charge, and desperate rage,
The unbounded war the champions wage!
Still the Ocean Death-waves swell!—
The Hero-homicides rush on—
As Heaven itself were to be won—
By deeds of blackest Hell!—
Oh!—stay the hand! Oh!—cease the strife!—
Think—think—who breathed the breath of life—
Its quick, informing breath,
In nostrils stretched with anguish now—
Yea!—think who bade the Spirit glow—
Who stamped His Image on the brow
Ye dare to stamp with Death!

411

XV.

No thought in those dread hours of doom—
Can softening—humanizing come—
To souls that seem to fall,
In self-annihilation there—
Maddened with instincts of despair—
And hate and horror—till they wear
A shapeless form—a deadly air—
Of Death and Ruin all!
Like spiritual fragments cast
Into the lowest dust at last,
The Immortal Souls seem hurled!
Self-scathed—thus deathfully employed!—
While Men that murderous Scene enjoyed,
Glorying—destroying—and destroyed!—
As they did build a World!—
And Fiends are surely at their side,
To prompt each fiercer step and stride—
Themselves with Worse inspired!—
Aye!—sure, even Fiends—foul Fiends paused there—
With tranced Amazement's stony stare—
Wondering what next Man's rage would dare!
Thus fevered on and fired!
As once they trembled and adored,
Before Creation's awful Lord!—
So—near those Wielders of the Sword—
With envy stung—with hatred gored—
They shuddering—marvelled—and abhorred—
They cursed—and they admired!—

412

XVI.

Proud Gallia's warriors scoured the Plain—
Assured their bloody Victory's reign—
And revelled in their might!
But Muscovy's brave hosts subdued—
Retreating—may not be pursued—
Bulwarked and fenced aright!
Still echoed their defying shouts—
While fresh ravines and armed redoubts—
Behind them, skreened and guarded well
Their lines—full conqueror-like they fell!
Proud firmness glorified retreat—
And nobly dignified Defeat!
Their Battle had in sooth no end!—
Still furious,—they themselves defend!—
(Till shrouding Night—dusk shadowy friend!—
Comes with their glorious gloom to blend—
And o'er their broken ranks to brood!—
So crushed—so wronged—so unsubdued!—)
Thus covered they with watchful care,
The road that led to Moscow fair!—
Their Holy City—ark of rest—
Their Home—their Haven—bright and blessed!
Fast from the Second range of Heights,
That Foe, who still untiring fights,
With stern Artilley's murderous burst,
O'erwhelmeth fearfully the First!—
Which late abandoned, those thinned bands,
Into the Gaul's triumphant hands!

413

The gallant Viceroy hath concealed,
Even on their Valour's well-fought field
His shorn Exhausted ranks that found
Shelter in that deep-hollowed ground!
Behind the Entrenchments half-destroyed,
They crouched—thus harassed—thus annoyed!—
Skreened by their shapeless parapets—
While roared the Artillery's thunderous threats—
There cramped in painful posture long—
They watched—once terrible—and strong!—
By the Enemy's yet glorious wreck,
Thus sternly, darkly kept in check!—
In check, Itself, by them, too, kept—
While still War's angry Tempest swept!

XVII.

The crowning Victory was at last
Atchieved—and all was o'er and past!
The firing slackened by degrees—
Till died the tumult down the breeze!
Hushed slept the plain—and hushed the hill—
A thousand cannon-mouths are still!
Late from their throats far-shattering poured,
The death-ball-showers—that raged and roared—
In triumph hideous and abhorred!
The wearied now from toil may cease—
The wounded turn to die in peace!
Came messengers fast spurring in—
From all parts swift, their way they win—
To him who marked the expiring din

414

Gaul's sceptered Chieftain!—he received,
The tidings of that Fight atchieved—
With something of a chastened pride—
With boding heaviness allied!
His sword now Poniatowski sheathes—
From Strife,—Sebastiani breathes!—
Victorious both—while yet they see—
From sharp pursuit and capture free—
Entrenched their halting Enemy!—
His fresh position hath he ta'en—
And there well-strengthened shall remain!
'Twas late—with toil the chiefs were bent—
Their chargers worn—their men were faint—
Ranks thinned—their ammunition spent!
Night came—dark Angel of Repose!—
And bade the Battle-Pageant close!
Pale Spirits of the grave with Her
Seemed there to brood and minister!—

XVIII.

And how did brave De Courcy bear
His part in the awful conflict there?
Be sure in Battle's deadliest brunt,
Still passed he to the fiery front!
And well Montjoye—his gallant steed—
Served through that day his master's need!
And midst the Battle-thunders stood—
Oft fetlock-deep in reeking blood!—
Devouring all the Field of Fight,
With his impatient spirit's might!

415

And well the Widow's Son adored,
Wielded his Warrior-Father's sword!
And still where'er might Fame be won—
Dashed his hot Battle-charger on!
Even of the first was he who sprang
Where shivered weapons clashed and rang,—
In that high-reared Redoubt, which saw
A world of agony and awe;
And ere the dreadful spot was gained—
While yet the conflict waxed and waned—
He was of those who burst away—
Like thunderbolts in rushing sway—
And drove their chargers mad with wrath,
Right 'cross the opponents' dreadful path!
Earth shook like sudden-splintered rock,
With that dire, deadly-crashing shock;—
Too terrible for eye or ear
To mark—save where Rage swallowed Fear!

XIX.

And in that dread Redoubt he stood—
While boiled his high heroic blood!—
Near one—a gallant friend and tried—
Near valiant young De Fontanes' side!—
Saint Marcelin De Fontanes—he—
Who, wounded there, bled gloriously!
There, streamed too, staunch De Courcy's gore—
Though less severe the wound he bore!
And proud distinctions both received—
For those fair deeds they there atchieved;

416

And those high wounds they hailed with pride—
Bleeding and glorying side by side!
While round them revelled far and free,
The dash and roar of War's wild sea!
Yet had he shuddered ere the Fight—
While flashed on Memory's yearning sight,
A Form that seemed itself to throw,
Betwixt him and the outraged Foe—
That raised the arm—and waved the hand—
Avengeress of the insulted Land!—
And bade the Invader shrink and pause—
And cursed his Country's Claim—and Cause!

XX.

Night o'er the Field fast spread her cloud—
Sore needed it such pitying shroud!
To veil the deadly horrors there—
Whose hideousness even ill might bear—
Those, who had borne their own stern share,
Of all that day's deep warlike care!
His orders clear, Napoleon gave—
In coldly-solemn tones and grave!
The Young Guard had the charge that night,
Of that dark finished field of fight,
This were they ordered to defend—
(In nought must they o'erpass that end—)
Whate'er might come—whate'er might chance—
Must they retreat not—nor advance!—
Deeper and deeper in their hue,
The shades of night fast thickening grew!

417

Murat—whom no fatigues could tame—
No glory satiate—hurrying came—
His step, the wind—his brow, a flame!—
And pressed the Emperor then once more,
As he had keenly pressed before,
To bid his guards' stout cavalry—
Beneath his martial orders be!—

XXI.

“The Legions of the Foe,”—he cried—
While flashed his eye's dark burning pride—
“In haste and in disorder move—
Then deign my scheme to aid—approve—
I fain their ruin would complete—
Lay their crushed fragments at your feet!—
Pursue—prevent their safe retreat!”—
Napoleon checked his hope at once,
By calm, considerate, stern response,
And with rebuking glance did meet
His wild intemperate ardour's heat;
The Imperial Leader felt and knew
He must preserve that Cohort true—
Still deeper that conviction grew—
While strange events came thickening round,
And circumstance portentous frowned!—
Europe 'twixt him and France stretched wide—
These Warriors must not quit his side!—

XXII.

To Europe he announced, ere long,
The safety of that Phalanx strong—

418

That Phalanx of devoted men—
So needful and so cherished then!—
The proud despatches of the day
Proclaimed this truth in strenuous way—
His foes throughout the world shall droop—
Nor feed upon the faintest hope!—
So long as still remains untouched
That Guard—whose safety he avouched—
He felt secure of his allies,
And championed 'gainst his enemies!—
Safe—safe he felt from Friend and Foe—
While that much-prized Reserve was so!—

XXIII.

The glorious victory just obtained—
Without its gallant aid was gained—
Conquest could crown the arms of France
Without that dread Reserve's advance!—
His Actual Power, and that which sprung
From Man's opinion,—round him clung
While still remained at his command,
That faithful, formidable Band!—
While still His Guard surrounding girt—
Unthinned—unweakened—and unhurt!—
Yet—while he pealed in haughty tone
That boast to Europe's ear made known—
Strange oracles disturbed his own!—
Far different musings—grave and chill—
Much pained his labouring bosom still—
And ever-deepening frowned the thought,
Full dearly was his Conquest bought,

419

A host of far-famed Chieftains brave
That day had delved their gory grave!—
Not one of his own circle round,
But mourneth with a grief profound
Some kindred fallen—some long-tried friend
Whose lives had found untimely end!—
For on that day—that awful day—
Of bloody Conflict's bloodiest sway—
Had fallen the fate of Battles stern
On all the loftiest—in their turn—
On all the noblest—thus they mourn!—
Brothers for brothers weeping wail—
Friends sigh for friends—as deathly pale
As those they could not shield nor save—
Bestowed in Battle's blushing grave!
The encircling countenances there—
One shade—one stamp—woe's heaviest wear!—

XXIV.

When Victory's sun-blaze boast shall reach
Fair France—this triumph's might to teach—
Oh!—what a Cloud of Mourning cold,
Shall all its sheen and pomp enfold!—
Oh!—what a Cloud of Mourning pale
Shall pall it with Eclipsing Veil!—
Through all the host—in even his tent—
Her haughty forehead,—Victory bent,—
As touched with lingering languishment—
Down-weighed with streaming deathly dews,
That all her laurelled wreaths suffuse!

420

Throughout those Hosts—in even his tent—
Crowned Victory like a Victim leant
And clasped her hands—and bowed her head—
And called—low wailing—called—Her Dead!—
No flatterers even were fluttering there—
Long funeral shadows dimmed the air!—

XXV.

That conquest, too, was scarce complete,
The Foe had bowed not at his feet!
Had he—into the abyss of Strife—
Risking a throbbing World of Life
Precipitately plunged—in vain,
But half a triumph thus to gain?—
Now left with thinned, exhausted Band—
Bleeding and broken, there to stand,
In midst of an infuriate Land?—
Surrounded by a nation stung
To wildest phrenzy—galled and wrung—
A people mad with wrongs and rage—
That swear one boundless war to wage—
To breathe but Battle and his blast—
Till free in Life or Death at last!—
'Midst hideous deserts, too, that spread,
As Earth was doomed—and Nature dead—
And Great Creation's soul was sped!—
Far from all succours—helps—supplies—
Munitions—levies—and allies—
Eight hundred leagues betwixt them thrown,
And all resources of their own;

421

Shall theirs be failure—wildest—worst—
Shall they in vast Despair—tower First?
Must this, then, be his final fate,
Of Grief—made Greatest of the Great?—
These thoughts throughout that solemn night
Thronged to thy soul with gathered might—
Dread Hero!—once the Fate of Fight!—
And heavy Discontent around,
Mingled with mourning chafed and frowned—
And murmurs rose too boldly near,
(Though scarce designed to meet his ear,—)
While lips that ne'er were wont to blame—
Breathed harsh impeachment on his name!
The Battle of the Day they styled
A planless Battle—vague and wild—
A Victory but of Soldiers—where
No towering genius triumphed fair!—

XXVI.

That night, while howled the autumnal wind,
Accordant with the uneasy mind—
While shook the tents, as shake on walls,
Rent tapestries old—where swells and falls
The armed gust through antique feudal halls—
Importunately clamouring came,
As though to check their pride and tame,
From Russia's Host a swell of sounds,
(That spurned their broad division's bounds),—
Far echoing o'er those Battle-grounds!—
A swell of sounds—of shouts—that told—
How little blenched the Strong and Bold!—

422

And when young Morn's first gleam was sent,
That flushed and fired the firmament—
Close—close—unto the Imperial tent—
Was sounded suddenly the alarm—
And rang the cry, “The Foe!—Arm!—Arm!”—
Aye!—near his place of proud repose
Strange!—there the alert was heard—which shews,
How fearless still the unrouted foes!—
Seemed this an insult to the might
Of those who conquered in the fight!—

XXVII.

When dawned that stern tempestuous morn,
Which naught of cheering might adorn,
Bestrode his horse without a word—
The Sceptered Chief—the Victor Lord—
With thoughtful mien and saddened look,
His way unto the Field he took—
That Field of Battle—drear and wild—
Where mounds of ghastly dead were piled—
Ne'er yet might Field of Conflict shew
So horrible a scene of woe—
All adjuncts dire more stamped it so!—
The wind with bellowing howl swept strong,
Those dreary heights and plains along,
It howled—as though in savage scorn—
Of all men there had brooked and borne—
While tossing dark against the sky,
The giant pines seemed sweeping by,

423

Though rooted ever to the spot—
They seemed to pass—while passed they not!—
So swayed they—bending—rocking—driven—
Now Earthwards—rampant now to Heaven!—
The stern and sombre foliage sad—
In which those groaning boughs were clad—
While heaved their sable banners free—
Well-cloathed that funeral scenery!—

XXVIII.

Scorched ruins cumbered all the ground,
Fallen hamlets smoked in ashes round;—
Heaped blackened stones—and smouldering piles—
Frowned dark, where once gleamed peaceful smiles!
The sky was like one cloud of gloom—
Even there was colouring of the tomb!—
The sky was all one angry cloud,
Where o'er that angry earth it bowed—
Hissed round, the dull chill sapping rain,
Whose drops seemed falling there amain—
Cold tears shed o'er the colder slain!—
These poured and plashed on that heaped plain—
Where wide Destruction dwelt!—
As though in very mockery shed—
Tears, that no feeling shewed nor said—
Showered—(not from hearts that loved and bled!—)
Unconscious o'er the Unconscious Dead—
Unfeeling—and Unfelt!—

424

Ploughed was that plain—defaced—upturned—
Which that winged wind so harshly spurned—
Where shot and shell had bounding burned—
There hideous sights the eye discerned,
That froze the blood with fear!—
All strewn with ruins groaned that ground—
Where human ruins dreariest frowned—
One world of wreck lay yawning round,
'Twas Desolation's haunt profound—
'Twas Horror—far and near!

XXIX.

Thick, countless scattered fragments strewed,
That vast Death-haunted Solitude,
Where Life, in Storms had been!—
There lances shivered even like glass,
And trampled casque—and crushed cuirass—
And forms once proud—once loved—alas!—
Distorted to a shapeless mass—
Confusedly blent were seen!—
There gleamed lopped plumes and banners rent,
Cannons o'erturned and faulchions bent,
In wild disorder cast!—
And there the murderous grape-shot lay—
That well its slaughterous part did play—
Through all that dark and desperate day—
Thick—thick—along the trampled way,
As hailstones heaped in close array,
When thunderstorms are past!—

425

In all directions round were seen,
Gaunt shapes of bowed and ghastly mien,
O'er their companions fallen they lean,
Rifling the dead all hungry-keen,—
For food to cherish life!—
Their eyes but glare with wolvish stare—
No human heart outspeaketh there—
Their very soul is Strife!—
Hideous the wounds that shock the eyes,
Where'er some slaughtered Frenchman lies,—
Their Foe's death-balls, of dreadful size—
O'ermatched the balls of France!—
With ponderous swing—with murderous sweep—
Did those huge death-balls thundering leap—
They ploughed tremendous gashes deep—
Disfiguring foully those that sleep—
Till shrank the shuddering glance!

XXX.

Behold—all mournfully revealed,
Some cheerless bivouacks on that field
So sombre and so dread—
Mute—mute are they—no voice is heard—
No lightsome tone—no soldier-word—
The men remain unmoved—unstirred—
And scarce raise up the head!
Their voices sheathed like their sheathed sword—
Sink hushed—while no vain plaints are poured—
And they—so fierce when Battle roared—
Respect the neighbouring Dead!

426

Not now the old Battle-songs of Pride,
Sound echoing far from every side—
Chorussed by hundreds loud!
No stories now are boastful told—
Of by-gone fights and fields of old—
In Silence all are bowed!—
Grouped round their Eagles proud were seen,
Soldiers and subalterns of mien
Though saddened—yet full high and keen!—
While mute with thoughtful looks they lean
In stern—though sobered guise!
But joy was roused—and doubt was quelled—
When there—before them they beheld
Their much-loved Emperor on the Field!—
Then—thousand wakening hopes impelled—
Heightening, the tide of transport swelled—
Loud burst their warrior-cries!
Wild looked those groupes of glorying men—
Excited and upwakened then—
As by fresh Victories!—
So gladly did they hail him there—
Who moved with stern and troubled air—
O'er that portentous heath!
While many a heavy mark they wore
Of that fierce conflict lately o'er;
Their cloathes all soiled with dust and gore—
That tattered, told of struggles sore—
Deep blackening stains of powder bore—
Their Life looked lorn as Death!

427

XXXI.

Thicker and thicker piled around—
The dead even darkened all the ground—
A sad and wond'rous sight!
Proof of the courage deep and rare
Of those that had been vanquished there;—
Far rather—thus did Thought declare—
Than of proud Victory free and fair!
Triumphant, laurelled Fight!
'Twas known, when paled that day of blood—
Their Foes—in dauntless, changeless mood—
Retreated calm—in order good—
And, scarce discountenanced, withstood—
Disaster and Distress!
That Field of Battle's sterile gain—
Might prove a triumph vague and vain—
For those who reaped success!
Since battle-grounds enow remain,
And many a vast unmeasured plain—
Where well may She her cause maintain
In Russia's Boundlessness!
And for her Foes?—can they then chain—
And whirl in Victory's thundering train,
What thus they snatched with strife and pain—
Shall not their triumph surely wane—
And swiftly—less and less!

XXXII.

Was this, then, Conquering?—Conquering!—what?—
A speck of ground—a narrowed spot—

428

Which theirs might not be long!
And that faint furrow they had traced—
From Kowno with disastrous haste,—
'Cross sands and ashes—dreary waste?—
Since this alone their power embraced—
By peasants such might be effaced!
Rude serfs—a chance-armed throng!—
This—this might close behind them now—
As waters, parted by the prow
Of some proud ship no storms may bow—
Shew not where she her path did plough—
While shuts again The Sea!—
Who calls this—Conquering?—Conquering!—Think!—
Have ye not climbed, and towered—to sink?—
Have ye not thus, but neared the brink—
'T were wisdom's part—to flee?—
Now reached that silent cavalcade
The famed Redoubts—there pause they made!—
A ghastly scene was there displayed—
They well may pause and grieve!
Thousands of French—stark—breathless—cold—
Outstretched,—heaped high, the ensanguined mould,
And, prone, in scattered dust, were rolled!—
Drear heavy hints to give,
More Conquerors dead they there behold,
Than Victors yet may live!—
Stay!—'midst, those crowds of corses pale—
That tell dread War's strange hideous tale—
One Form sure breathes even yet!
Yon fiery charger's glancing hoof,
Hath touched him—and a sigh gives proof
His Life-star hath not set!

429

XXXIII.

Then—prodigal of pity—stoops
Napoleon—filled with fears and hopes—
That fainting Form above!
And he—who could be cause of fate
To thousands—who could immolate
Whole nations—He,—the darkly great!—
For One such care could prove!
O'er One could he—with grief o'ercome—
Thus bend with sympathy of gloom!—
He—who hurled Myriads to their tomb—
And signed remorselessly their doom—
O'er One could stoop and sigh!—
Compassionate each throb—each throe—
Feel pang for pang—give woe for woe—
And mourn while generous feelings glow—
And sympathetic sufferings grow—
His Single Misery!
A Voice—even at that moment cried—
In tones of cold, contemptuous pride—
“'Tis but a Russian!—Sire!”
Calm came Napoleon's quick reply—
“A fallen and conquered enemy
Becomes a Brother in the eye
Of all who merit Victory!”
He spake with chastened ire!—
Then bade that the injured sufferer there
Should be removed with tenderest care—

430

And soothed and tended straight!
Bade that whate'er might serve his need,
Should be administered with speed—
Thus willed the Man of Fate!

XXXIV.

Then turning to his followers round—
He bade them scour the encumbered ground—
And seek out the distressed!
While groans and mutterings of despair,
Rose heavy on the inclement air—
And chilled the saddened breast!
Those accents shrill—or faint—or high—
Spoke all of varying agony!
And pained the uneasy sense!
In steep ravines half-hid from sight—
Vast numbers lay in piteous plight—
Tortured with pangs intense!
Some groaned aloud—and some were dumb—
Precipitated there fell some—
And hundreds more had crawling come—
And dragged themselves with pain—
To shield the racked and writhing form—
From that dire pelting of the storm—
Or furious foe's fierce train!
Some—though by Death's stern grasp enthralled—
On their dear, distant country called—
In fond and fervent tone!
While some of tenderer age and frame—
Ill-starred probationers of Fame—

431

Did faintly, shudderingly exclaim—
And called upon their mother's name—
In deep desertion lone!
Their Mother's name!—Oh! saddest sound!—
With all that wild of Horrors round—
Blessed name!—with Household-memories bound—
Soft memories, hallowed and profound—
Pathetically dear!
Too much your precious music pained—
While cold Despair's last drops were drained—
'Twas sweetness scarce to be sustained—
And still the hovering soul enchained
To Earth's fast-fleeting sphere!

XXXV.

All agonies of Frame and Heart,
Seemed there to hideous life to start—
Beneath that wrathful sky!
Oft—shrilly loud—and sharply clear—
Rang piercing shrieks upon the ear—
Long—long distracting shrieks and drear—
And many a wildering cry!
For Death the unhappy ones implored—
Bathed deep in blood—all gashed and gored—
With many a wild and maniac word—
They called for Mercy's succouring sword—
They shrieked and prayed to die!
There others crouched whose deep despair
Wore Scorn's sardonic, bitter air—
They deigned not to complain!

432

The while big drops of anguish rolled
Adown their curdling foreheads cold—
And witnessed to their pain!
Amongst the Russians some were seen—
Whose stricken legs had fractured been—
In silence—with determined mien—
And steadfast fortitude serene—
Calm straightening the injured limb!—
Even firmly fastening 'gainst it there
Some stout, strong branch—with strenuous care,
While drenched in blood they swim!—
Then bears another branch their weight—
And 'midst their pangs—how nobly great!—
Thus towards some neighbouring hamlet straight—
They crawled with faultering, staggering gait—
Yet uncomplainingly sedate—
Nor spoke one groan their suffering state!—
Poor objects!—ghast and grim!

XXXVI.

Still hissed the rain—and howled the wind—
Fast driving on—with fury blind—
Heightening these horrors all!
And ever through the muttered sounds—
That stirred the very soul's profounds—
Is heard the dull rain as it bounds
To Earth with plashing fall!—
The cold, grey, hurrying, hissing rain—
It beats upon that Purple Plain—

433

As though with wash of waters fain
'Twould cleanse its dire and dismal stain—
And Slaughter's hues o'ersweep!
Could this, that scarlet shadow find—
Which stains The Crowned Transgressor's mind—
And conscious thoughts incarnadined—
'Twere well!—still let it weep!
But nought should e'er that stain remove—
Not seas beneath—nor springs above—
Vain for the hopeless task should prove—
Those Floods the howling Deluge drove!—
The Founts of Either Deep!—
The Waters o'er the Firmament—
With those beneath broad-mingling blent—
In vain might search and steep!

XXXVII.

That sad Review is o'er at last!—
And from that field The Mightiest past—
'Mid howlings of the fitful blast—
And threatenings of dismay!
A sad Review!—and strange—and dread—
Even of the Dying and the Dead—
That choked the Conqueror's way!
And mournful trophies were alone—
Mournful and useless—made his own!—
To speak of that dark triumph flown—
And poorly to adorn!
But some few scattered Prisoners,—proud
'Midst wreck—and wrong—untamed!—unbowed!—

434

Still fearless—though forlorn!—
And near those Forts, dismantled, found—
Some broken cannon,—from that ground—
Defaced and darkling borne!
And these are all now left to shew
Their conquest o'er their powerful Foe—
Still powerful—still!—Who blow for blow
Shall yet deal out in scorn!—
Murat, meanwhile, without delay,
Swift toward Mojaïsk pursued his way—
There found the Russian's Host!
Scathed Warriors rage like Lions speared!—
These on the o'erlooking heights appeared—
And when those Heights the Victors neared—
So haught a Front The Vanquished reared,
Seemed—Victor-like—their Boast!
Fierce rose Murat's impetuous mood—
Fierce raged his fiery storm of blood—
When there he found himself withstood
By those who scorned to fall!—
His passion foamed to phrenzy high
He bade his Horsemen furiously—
Advance—and conquering—do or die—
Burst—break—their way through all!—

XXXVIII.

Walls—Gates—Battalions—rent and riven—
To wide destruction instant given—
Shall see his Battle-Thunderers driven
Through all—in triumph free!

435

Flashed far his dark dilated eye,—
“March!—March!”—is still his whirlwind cry—
“Charge!—Conquerors!—Charge!—crown all!—or die!—
Upon them!—with the sword!—defy!—
Disperse—destroy them—let them fly
Before ye—Heirs of Victory high!—
And whelm them like the Sea!”
At length his cooler judgment came,
To temper this fierce mood of flame,
A lesser Triumph's boast to claim
For once, content was he!—
With smothered indignation flushed,
Their scattered Cossack hosts he crushed—
Where round him—howling mad—they rushed
With savage bravery!—

XXXIX.

At length Mojaïsk unbarred was left
A desert place—of all bereft—
A melancholy waste!
In vain to pay them for their toil,
There sought the French for wealth and spoil,
Threading its streets in haste.
'Twas then a feat of valour blazed—
On which Two Hosts admiring gazed—
In Consternation's trance amazed—
So dazzled-blind—their thoughts they raised—
To reach its dread display!—
No far-famed champions—plumed of old—
Ere shewed such courage—calm and bold—

436

'Midst Danger's worst dismay!—
Impetuously—with hurrying leaps—
Climbed half a hundred men those Steeps
Where bristled Russia's War!—
Of France's Voltigeurs were they,—
The few that dared that dangerous way,
To shape,—from succours far!
Wide scattered round,—these met the eye—
On that Exposed Declivity—
While galled the Foe unwearyingly
Their sharp tormenting fire!—
They seemed at play, with Danger there!—
With such assured—such reckless air,
Rash—dauntless—desperate, they prepare,
To call down vengeance dire!
Of Russia's Cavalry—at first—
Thousands they harassed thus—till burst—
In Fury's wildest heat and worst—
Their victims' stormy ire!—

XL.

Dense hostile Squadrons swift surround
The intrepid few—who guard their ground
As though their lives were charmed!—
Straightforth they formed in phalanx close,
Hid by the numbers of their Foes,
That round them circling swarmed!—
Dreadlessly stood they—unallied—
And faced—and fired—on every side—
They formed—fired—faced,—and still defied!—

437

Still facing—firing still!—
Burst from the ranks of France a sound
Of sorrow and dismay profound—
All felt the shuddering thrill!
Each soldier strained and stretched to see
The movements of their Enemy—
Endeavouring so to guess
His valiant comrades' fate, who thus
Maintained their station perilous,
In this extreme distress!—
The impulse mechanic some obeyed—
Their Musquets loading—straight, they played
Their fancied part aright!
Or crossing, with determined air,
Their bayonets—flushed—fevered there—
They longed to march and fight!—
They counselled these—they challenged those—
They cheered their Friends—they cursed their Foes—
As these could hear—still thundering rose
Their hurried accents loud!—
Some seemed—with the overkindling life—
Rapt in the ecstatic rage of strife—
With triumph and with gladness rife—
Now looked they Conquerors—proud!
And now—(for swiftly rose and fell
The Emotions—indescribable—
As Fortune's turns they thought to tell—
As varying chance they deemed befell—
While still—mind-moved—they struggled well!—)
Appeared they bent and bowed!—

438

XLI.

The Russ Commander by thy hand,
Commander of that Valourous Band!—
Hath fallen—from where Gaul's legions stand—
Confusion wild is seen!—
The summons to surrender—So,
Answered the Frenchman to the Foe!—
With quenchless ardour keen!
The Tirailleurs ne'er pause—nor tire—
Ne'er ceased their well-directed fire—
The plunging chargers blench!
By miracle preserved—appeared
That Band—(for whom the Brave even feared,—)
By boundless gallantry endeared,
Thus,—to the all-gallant French!—

XLII.

Russians!—from Borodino's Plain
Your glorious arms received no stain!—
Ye lost not Name nor Fame!
But glorified was your retreat—
By constancy that crowned Defeat—
Nor Yours was stain nor shame!—
O'erpowered—the Russian Host withstood,
In noble strength—still unsubdued—
The inroads of that despondent mood—
Which oft from failure springs!
Distemperature of thought which still
Oft riseth from the O'ershadowing Ill—
With darker, inward gloom to fill—

439

To teach untoward things!
All-conquering Thoughts—in conquered Breasts—
Exalted still the abasèd crests!—
Illumed the o'erclouded mien!
More—more—than Victory could have done—
Though she had blazed from Sun to Sun—
A sovereign—bournless—chainless One—
And fired—till worlds their bounds o'errun—
To Stars—all Space between!
In their high souls that Victory lives—
Which Heaven unto the Faithful gives!—
Who trust—and dare not sink!
Thus—They had conquered even Defeat!—
And staunchly stood, prepared to meet,
Whate'er might yet oppose and threat—
Secure they could not shrink!
Secure—they could not shrink at least!—
While strong and stronger towered each breast—
They should not—shall not—fail!
They may be crushed and ruined all!—
Yea!—they may bleed—and they may fall—
They still must trust—they should—they shall—
They should not—shall not—dream of thrall!—
Such thoughts ne'er lowered,—to grind and gall—
No faint Misgivings dared appal,
They knew they could not quail!

See Ségur, vol. i. page 409.

440

CANTO XI.

I.

There is a place where shines the sun—
As though its march were just begun!
Fresh from the Almighty Former's hand—
Celestially serene and bland—
With such a living, loving ray,
It shoots its deep heart-smiles away—
And melts into the mightier Day!—
As though the Eternal's breath was blent,
With every beam-flash that it sent!
So seems to speak that breathing Sun—
(A conscious dreaming—feeling One—)
Its Own—Creation's march, begun!—
The Bloom seems on the opening light—
The Birth-bloom—rapturously bright!
Even while the eyes o'er-gladdened gaze—
Where skies more beautifully blaze!—
There is a Place where glistening streams—
More brightly glass his gathered beams;
And sing with thrilling voices sweet—
As they did angels' songs repeat!

441

There, winds that tremulously blow—
Like Treasure-Bearers come and go;
And fling strange, costly wealth—like slaves
That in the East, from mines and waves,
Bring spoil—some Sultan's luxury craves!
Then overburthened lay their own
Life-offering—with those offerings down!—
Dying, where those rich gifts are thrown!
There, stars look down with human eyes—
Such deep love midst their splendours lies!
There Paradise!—Oh! sweetest part—
Lives straight from Heaven into the Heart!—
Which beats engirdled—warm and clear—
With the all-ambrosial atmosphere!

II.

There yon ethereal cope divine,
Seems one wide, opening, sparkling shrine!
Till manifest almost to sight,
Appears the all-glorious Throne of Light!—
Till the dread triumph of Heaven's King—
With which all worlds untiring ring—
O'erflows the Unbounded Space—and most
Within the Unbounded Soul is lost!
(For that hath power it may not know—
And Spaces that for ever grow!—
Thronged—trembling—teeming, still with more
Immensities—that find no shore—
Vaster and deeper than before!
On fire with the Universe it streams,—
On fire with Godhead's Shadow beams!)

442

III.

Still—still the glory more than great—
The pomp of the Creator's state—
More clearly shines to yearning eyes,
Through the arch of long-familiar skies!
Oh!—who—whate'er their clime—their doom—
Can doubt that Heavenly Earth is Home!
Through peace or pain—through weal or woe—
There smiles our Better-Land below!
There blooms the Paradise—the Place,
Of Refuge for the Exiled Race!
The hallowed and the saving Ark
On this World's hurrying waters dark—
Still doomed through Life's mazed wilds to roam—
Our hearts throb back their sweet way—Home!
And every step we take with pain,
But adds a fresh link to the chain!
But yields the lengthening chain a link—
Which yet must round existence shrink!
And clasp with closer clingings still,—
Those links the chain's fair measure fill!
Distance—still space by space shall seem—
To deepen more that darling dream!
Division doth but dearer make
The scenes for which our senses ache!
And in that distance more divine—
Like stars that All celestial shine—
(Though many a sphere is like our own
Its light from alien sources thrown)

443

The Parted Home indeed appears—
Bright as some sun-throne 'mongst the spheres!

IV.

Yes!—still—as through Life's wastes we move—
Mournful with human, aching love—
We fix our hearts on some dear spot,
Through all the days of living lot—
And deem—through this world's turmoils driven—
While Heaven is Home—so Home is Heaven!—
And be the adoring Dream forgiven!
For all Earth hath of First and Best,
Smiles—gathered in that place of Rest!
And midst vain jarrings—wild and rude—
'Tis sacred-calm—as solitude!
The World's breath dare not come to break,
Thy peace so blessed for Love's own sake—
Thou starry—clear—unruffled lake!
Nor hurl its weight of stormy hours
'Gainst all thine amaranthine flowers!
Yes!—Love there builds his Towers of Trust—
(Which yet shall scale the Skies—and must—)
And breathes, and deifies—the Dust!
Oh!—be it unto Love forgiven—
Heaven—Heaven—his Home!—to deem Home—Heaven!

V.

Ye Russian serfs!—ye proved ye knew
Home's blessings—and its duties too!
And all the Household Healthfulness—
Of feelings—wholesome in excess!—

444

Perchance in your so rugged clime,
That feeling, darkling, shewed sublime,—
And boasted mightier depth and force—
So near the stream ran to the source!
Confining there its straitened course!—
Through no bright tempting flowery way,
Might this in soft-linked labyrinth stray!
No blandished Decorations there,
Were found to make the scene more fair—
The love from whence it sprung and grew,
Was all its charm and treasure too!
Who calls ye Slaves?—have ye not shewn
The Heart's great freedom was your own!—
A freedom that it felt and used—
Unshorn—undimmed—and unabused—
From veins to kindling veins transfused!—
Yes!—nobly did ye think and move—
In the great Liberty of Love!
Ye owned that godlike bright controul!—
The Free—who make not this their whole—
The Free—who seek less sacred goal—
Near ye were Slaves—worst Slaves—of soul!

VI.

In Ranza's town was shewn a scene,
Of burning patriotism keen;—
The armed Peasantry even dared oppose
The progress of their conquering foes!
But little practised—ill their part
Sustained they—lacking warlike art!

445

The Lord of that ill-omened band
Still grasped his poniard in his hand—
Still, reckless, made his desperate stand!
He sought the unequal war to wage—
And foamed with rabidness of rage!—
He glared around with glance inflamed—
Like tiger speared—then fierce exclaimed—
“Kill!—Kill!—ye Homicides!—that dare
To taint our once blessed native air!
Our native air—empoisoned so
By the impious, desecrating Foe!
Give me, at least, my life to end—
There lives no Country to defend!
No Country lives—to bless and guard—
With shame our Russia's heart is scarred!
A Land disgraced is not our Land—
Sweep forth!—with axe, and sword, and brand,
And—as ye have despoiled her worth—
Rush on!—raze Russia from the Earth!—
Leave not a name behind—to shew
An Empire could be humbled so!—
Our Homes—our Altars—are o'erthrown!—
Finish!—ye Fiends!—make all your own!—
Russia!—beneath your tread and glance—
Shall be a second shame-bowed France!”—

VII.

He glared—he raved—in vain they sought—
With generous care and pitying thought—

446

To check his fury—rashly bold—
And wrest the dagger from his hold—
He struck at random—here and there—
Fierce lowered his sable brow's despair!—
The indignant soldiers heard his prayer!—
They plunged their weapons in his breast,
And sent his troubled soul to rest,
But not before his frantic ire,
Bade victims at his feet expire!—

VIII.

The troops elated onward trod,
Past the Abbey old of Zwenn'ghorode,
The shadow of the embattailled walls,
Upon the marching legions falls—
As though with stern, ill-omened frown,
Looked the ancient abbey darkling down,
While little recked those troops elate—
That mocked even the iron Front of Fate!—
They onwards passed—and onwards still—
Can so much triumph lead to ill?—
Can so much Hope be bowed—o'ercast—
With Disappointment's clouds at last?—

IX.

The mighty Czar, in Moscow's walls,
His loyal vassals round him calls,—
His haughty nobles at the word,
Thronged round him there, with one accord.
The circumstance—the scene—the hour—
Might well the staunchest heart o'erpower—

447

Lofty the audience—loftier far
The Orator—the Patriot Czar!—
And well his words the assembly fired,
And well, with breathless zeal inspired.
The emotions that his voice betrayed,
More dear the awakening accents made;—
He ceased—then burst the impassioned cry—
From hearts that heaved even, mountains-high!—
“Whate'er thou wilt for Russia's sake—
Guardian of Russia's Honour—take!—
Take all!—for all is Hers and Thine—
Take all!—but 'stablish Throne and Shrine!—
All—all—dread Liege—we freely give—
And joyful would the Death receive—
That Russia yet may reign and live!—
That he—Her execrated Foe—
May sink beneath a Nation's blow!”—
Their Sovereign's voice they well obeyed,
And swore to grant the wished-for aid,
Vast levies on the spot were made!—
It seemed that high Patrician crowd—
Of boundless sacrifices proud—
But sought how most, and best, to shew—
Their deep Devotion's generous glow!—

X.

Next to the assembled merchants all,
Who kindling heard their Monarch's call—
Infuriate 'gainst the threatened yoke—
The sceptered speaker nobly spoke—

448

Against the Invader's aim abhorred,
He launched full many a powerful word,
And fulmined curses deep 'gainst those
Who dared to touch their soil as foes!—
He painted well the wrongs—the alarms—
Which thus had called their Land to arms—
And charged them—in the holiest name—
For Peace—for Honour—and for Fame—
For all beneath—for all above—
To shew their Hate—and prove their Love!—
Those Proclamations then were read,
That had, ere this, been widely spread,
Which sternly—and in solemn tone—
Denounced the Sacrilegious One—
The Moloch of mankind—who came
With brand and spear—with steel and flame!—
And hoped to crush—to blight—and tame!—
To stamp their much-loved Russia's fate—
To blast her—and annihilate!—
But say!—shall He and His—who plan
This death-blow to the peace of man—
Who strive—thus armed 'gainst Truth and Worth—
To blot them from the face of Earth—
Shall He and His—who seek to bind
A Patriot-People's Heart and Mind—
Eclipse them with such crush of gloom?—
Condemn them to so foul a doom?—
Shall not that Fate—so dark—so dire—
Which to express is to expire,—
Such death seems curdling through the words,
That shivering strike the heart's wrung chords;

449

Shall not that Fate far rather find
The Accursed who have conceived—designed?—
Whose soul could nurse so black a dream—
Whose thought could shape so base a scheme?—
The wreck—the wrath—the doom, alone—
Just Heaven but aid—shall prove,—their own!—

XI.

Then the Autocrat appealed once more,
To burning hearts uproused before,
Flashed from his lips a glowing strain,
That stirred and quickened breast and brain:
His soul came rushing in the sounds—
His lifted being scorned its bounds!—
The soaring Nature seemed o'erwrought,
With endless ecstacy of Thought!
They hailed the pictured scenes—entranced—
Free, from that royal spirit glanced!—
He paused—their maddening hearts swelled forth—
As though rushed melting all the North!—
The dark strong North—by chains long bound—
Huge chains—that still to gird Her round—
Hundreds of winters forged and wound!—
Their deep-flushed visages expressed,
The keen emotions of their breast,
Wroth at the Aggressor's threatenings foul—
Stern lowered each Liegeman's shadowy scowl—
Burned their swarth cheeks with darkling fire,
And quaked their stalworth frames for ire!—
Their features fluttered with the rage,
Stamped there, as on a moving page,

450

Terrific glance of passion flies,—
Wild fury gleams in fevering rise—
From their white-rolled and phrenzied eyes,
Convulsed with wrath they foamed and writhed—
And shuddering stamped—and muttering breathed,
They clenched their hands—they struck their breasts,
Their long beards tore—that swept their vests—
Their Beards—that curled with rage unchecked—
While stared their bristling hair erect!—
They ground—they gnashed their teeth—and sought
In words to clothe their storms of thought—
Rose Passion's might to agony,
They tossed their brawny arms on high,
Their livid brows they fiercely knit,
In that terrific phrenzy-fit—
They glanced—they groaned—their soul's dark hoards—
Too fierce for tears—too great for words—
Remained unuttered—though displayed—
So sternly, in such gloom arrayed;—
With one wild effort sought they all,
To loose their passion from its thrall,
Deep, in their palms—they dug their nails—
They heaved—they glared—but it prevails;—
Dark words unto their rage were given—
Like clouds before the tempest driven!

XII.

First, shuddering execrations low,
Hissed through their lips in broken flow,
Then burst the mighty deafening cry,
At once to stern ascendancy;

451

The sea, high billowing through their souls—
Now through their clashing accents rolls—
The sea was in their souls, and poured
Its tossing strength through each deep word!
And never sovereign's will was met
With such Devotion's fulness yet!—
Well they responded to his call—
All proffered they!—They promised all!—
The elected reverend chief, who there
Presided,—for his own proud share—
Great, generous sacrifices made,
And boundlessness of zeal displayed,
All followed in the same high path—
Love,—swayed their Hearts, Love!—strong as Death!—
Their bleeding Country's claims appeared,
By each new sacrifice endeared!—
Till even their rage forgot they thus,
In their high hopes magnanimous!
In their majestic joy and scorn,
Forgot they thus to grieve and mourn!
Whate'er their Czar could ask, they gave—
As flings forth weeds, the ocean-wave!
As freely—at the imperial word,
Thus showered they fast each treasured hoard!
To give—to glorify—to save—
Is all they wish—is all they crave!
Donation on Donation heaped—
Their Land from that Heart-Harvest reaped!
And Wealth on Wealth shall gathering flow,
To build fresh walls against her Foe!

452

In abject beggary let them sink—
Ere they shall see their Country shrink!

XIII.

Slow dawns a stern and awful morn—
Strange sounds on every breeze are borne!—
Thousands on Thousands pass along
Through Moscow's streets—Throng following Throng!
A deep continuous hum, and low,
Seems like a funeral dirge to flow—
A City's or a Nation's dirge—
While onward rolls that living Surge!
Thousands by Thousands!—Crowds on Crowds!—
Pale as the Dead within their shrouds!—
'Twas that deep Day of pain and woe,
When Moscow saw her Children go!
Her Children from her ancient heart—
Thus forced by Fate's stern will,—to part!
The sad Procession onwards passed—
Tears rained from eyes of millions fast;—
With their young babes, pale mothers went—
Beneath the weight of anguish bent;—
Nor stayed to hush their children's fears—
Whose shrill, sharp wails assailed their ears!—
Nor paused to lull their griefs to rest—
Too deeply with their own oppressed!
The while those babes (soon taught to mourn)—
With very grief seemed changed and worn!
They bowed, with bitter woes dismayed—
Heavy as years upon them laid!

453

A dark, mysterious anguish spread
Its clouds even round, each infant's head!

XIV.

And there the grey-haired elders wept—
And faint with sorrow, feebly crept!
Their withered hands they shivering raised—
At their own grief's excess, amazed!
So long the deadening crush of years,
Had sealed their springs of Hopes and Fears!
Their thin hair fluttered in the breeze—
Scarce bore their weight their trembling knees!
And must they from their own old Homes—
Those well-known roofs—those neighbouring tombs,
Where long they hoped, their bones to lay—
Be dragged in the Evening of their Day?
In their last hours of mortal care—
The season of their snow-white hair?
Must they, indeed, from Home depart—
With Time's dark Mountain on their heart?—
That mighty mountain which should rise,
From each heart's base to reach the skies!—
Days piled on days—hours heaped on hours—
Till high with snow-bright crest it towers!
Till the Earth-commanding summit fair,
Magnificently steep, point—there!
Till climbs the Heights of Heaven at last,
That Hill upheaved, of the Undead Past!
But seems that Mountain now to rock
Beneath their Sorrow's withering shock—

454

As their past Life were whirled away,
By the awful earthquake of that day!

XV.

Still onwards—onwards sadly passed—
That moving concourse, dense and vast!
With them, their worldly wealth they bear—
Their stores—their hoards—with mournful care!
Before those thousands marched in state,
Long ranks of Priests, with solemn gait;
Within their hallowed hands upreared,
Religion's symbols grasped, appeared!
Before those countless throngs forlorn,
Their holiest Images were borne—
To shew them, in that dismal day,
Their Hope—their Succour—and their Stay!
Silent they moved—but not for long—
The fearlessness of Faith grew strong!
If Earth seemed crumbling from their feet—
Descending Heaven appeared to greet!
When shadows cloud our nether sphere—
Seem not the star-strewn skies more near—
Earth fades—and Heaven alone is clear!
The Sun once past from that proud sky—
A thousand worlds more feelingly—
Glass back their Maker's sleepless eye!
Wide scattered round, their lights serene
More boundless shew the ethereal scene!

455

XVI.

They silent moved—but not for long—
The Light of Faith grew bright and strong!
The Priests, with ringing chaunts, uprouse,
The echoes from empty house to house!
Respond at once the People all—
Shook frowning tower—shook desert wall!
People and Priests together sang—
And far the sounding anthems rang;
The mighty Hymns shall swell and rise—
To drown the tones of faultering sighs,
The crowned Sun heard them—and the Skies!
'Twould seem the voice—first opening forth—
Of all the aroused and stricken Earth!
The old City shook, with those proud tones,
From turrets to foundation-stones!—
Her streets—whate'er their forms and styles,—
Through which passed slow—those countless files,
Seemed stretched like long cathedralled aisles!
Like solemn hallowed aisles—whate'er,
Their architectural aspects fair—
Those broad and stately streets appeared—
While proud, their shining piles they reared!
No roof save Heaven to crown their state—
As those emotions vast and great—
That shook the living hearts that day,
Which heaved and throbbed along the way!

456

XVII.

The roads to Cazann,—Wladimir,—
And Yaroslaff—dense-thronged appear!
Press on—while Grief with Patience strives—
The innumerable Fugitives!
Vast crowds of cars and wains convey
Their household wealth along the way;
The treasures they have left behind—
Are loves—and joys—and peace of mind!
And linked associations kind—
With many a place familiar twined!
Deep, mystic, cherished sympathies—
And countless torn and trampled ties!
Again—again—they turn to gaze—
Where shines proud Moscow's palaced maze!
Where gleams great Moscow's golden zone—
Their praised—their cherished—and their own!
Alas!—her pomps no longer bright,
Seemed clouded o'er—and snatched from sight!—
For all who looked their last look there—
Gazed through the tear-mists of despair!
But still their Churches' hymns they sang—
Till distant pine-woods rocked and rang!
'Twas solace, in that sound's high swell—
To drown the Earth-agonized Farewell!
Still their reluctant eyes they turned—
Where Moscow's spires in sunshine burned!
With upraised hands—reverted head—
Their path of bitterness they tread!

457

Still—still those Hallelujahs deep
They chaunt—and worship, as they weep!—
And so, a weeping Nation driven
To roam—first turned its steps toward Heaven!
The while—magnificently great—
The Old City—stretched in towering state—
Seemed beckoning them once more to rest—
In Her deep, shielding Mother-Breast!
They gazed—and gazed again—until
That Solemn City—mute and still—
Uplifting all its thousand spires,
Into the sunshine's flooding fires,—
Seemed rather pointing far on high—
To their bright Home within the Sky!—
To soothe them—and remind them still,
Of their great Ark from Wrong and Ill!
Than seeking, with persuasive smile,
Back to Her bosom to beguile!
She points with fingers eloquent—
To the azure arch above them bent!—
While seemed—those thousand towering spires,
Reflecting back the Morning's fires—
Thus pointing—tapering far and fair—
(Religion's hallowed watch-towers there,—)
Uplifted thus on high, to be
In the hours of their extremity,
Conductors of the Lightnings dread,
Of Heaven's great wrath,—from Man's frail head!

458

XVIII.

And rose, too, ever and anon,
High thoughts, that keenly-kindling shone,
And fond impressions and intense—
Then gaining mystic influence—
Since in such seasons of distress,
When nations mourn in bitterness—
Oft, re-asserting ravished power—
Grey Superstition rules the hour!
And omens bright, and auguries fair,
Had lately blessed a People's prayer;—
'Twas at a moment deep and dark—
When fluttering faint gleamed Hope's last spark—
While wrung, and shaken, and dismayed—
Hundreds of thousands trembling prayed—
Before the old Altars prostrate bowed,
In their Cathedral-Temples proud,
Or 'midst their darkened chambers lone,
Imploring still the Holiest One!—
When all on Earth looked stern and drear—
And nought, save Heaven, could guide or cheer—
That suddenly,—swelled loud and high—
To the azure vaults of yon proud sky—
Wild shouts of revelling ecstasy!—
Soon were the strects thronged thick—while poured
Dense congregations fast abroad—
All scared with wonder—wild to know—
Why Joy broke forth 'midst so much Woe!—
Why Exultation glorying by,
Thus mocked the kneeling Agony—

459

Why feverish Triumph, trampling rushed,
O'er dying Hopes—so bowed and crushed!—
And what the cause?—with joy and awe
A startling spectacle they saw!—
Where shone on high, with lustrous gleam,
A mighty Cross (from whence the stream
Of splendours did most sacred seem—)
A Vulture, fluttering, strove among
The entwined chains round the emblem flung—
Entangled there and 'toiled he hung!
Suspended o'er the people's heads,
Meshed'mong those sun-touched, glittering threads,—
(Those chains that fixed, and fastened there
The hallowed Cross—sublimely fair!—)
'Twas this, roused, rapture far and free—
Trampling the kneeling Agony!

XIX.

Bright presage 'twas!—and omen glad,
Their griefs at once forgot, the sad,
The timorous—their disturbing fears,
And smiles effaced all trace of tears:
Of joy's intoxicating draught,
The mourners and the tremblers quaffed—
Soon the omen was by all believed—
The augury to all hearts received!—
Thus should the man of evil power,
Be snared, in Heaven's appointed hour;—
Thus should Religion high and true—
The Tyrannous and the False subdue!—

460

The Powers of Darkness and of Night—
Should thus confess the Powers of Light!—
And well it was such presage came,
Their minds to raise and to inflame;
For soon a heavy scene and sore,
Was spread, their wildered sight before!—
From Borodino's distant plain,
Now comes a long and ghastly train—
The weary and the wounded—they
Who suffered on that desperate day—
Aye!—suffered more than those who fell,
And now in the endless quiet dwell—
(Far more!—as their changed aspects tell!—)
Their blood-stained garbs—their staggering gait—
Their livid looks—their friendless state—
All saddened the awed spectators bowed
Beneath Compassion's trembling cloud—
Re-entered, too, their Moscow's walls,
To languish—'midst her sumptuous halls,
Their proudest princes—like the rest—
Pale—racked,—and wounded—and distressed—
Strange Fear and Anguish well might spring
To blight their shrinking hearts and wring—
But yet some hope remained to cheer
All frowned not desolate and drear!—
The auspicious, well-remembered sign,
Still hints of hope—of help Divine!

XX.

Rostopchin fervently addressed—
With swelling soul and heaving breast—

461

The assembled city's numbers all,
Ere yet they left their Moscow's wall.
He bade them nerve themselves—and steel
With Patriotism's deathless zeal!—
Nor fear,—nor shrink—from threatened harm!—
He cried, “Be steadfast!—Arm!—Oh!—arm!—
Let every high and princely lord
Bare fearlessly his father's sword!—
Let every peasant proudly wield
His hatchet in the Solemn Field!—
Tools of your trade, seize every man,
Mechanic—serf—and artizan!—
And ye, pale women! cast down fear—
Your husbands—sires—friends—brothers—cheer!—
And arm them—gird them—for the fight—
And bid them go and guard the Right!—
Soon 'gainst the French shall they prevail—
For weak are these—and slight—and frail!—
But snatch—to clear the encumbered Land,
Your three-pronged forks in Hate's nerved hand—
Thus threat the unhappy, powerless band!—
These foes—faint,—famished and forlorn—
Weigh less than doth the sheaf of corn!—
And dread not scathe and scar!—for know
To soothe and charm your every woe
Shall masses solemnly be said—
And blessings showered upon your head!—
And fear not scathe nor scar!—for more,
To staunch the wounded sufferers' gore—
To salve their hurts—and bring them rest—
Straightforth the waters shall be blessed!—

462

XXI.

With Morn's first dawn shall I repair
To Koutousoff,—his plans to share—
His measures learn—his methods aid—
Through which shall fall our Foe dismayed!—
Just Heaven thus break the Unrighteous Blade!”—
The people heard him—and replied
With shouts—that echoed far and wide—
“Amen!—Amen!”—They thundered high—
With lengthened and tempestuous cry!—
Now,—near her kingly capital,
Thronged Russia's Banded Legions all,
And could they doubt—and could they droop—
While these inspired with trust and hope?—
While these remained to guard and shield—
And the arms of proud defence to wield!—

463

CANTO XII.

I.

The Prisons' gates unbarred allow,
The Escape of the Entrammelled now!
Pour Hundreds forth—at once, set free—
Loud bursts their savage revelry!—
Tumultuously they take their way—
And bless their disenthrallment's day;—
Yet,—darkening lowers and frowns that hour—
Stern Justice claims her awful power!—
Since two selected from the rest
Were yet detained—at high behest;—
When all their cells were searched—explored,—
Marked out from this flagitious horde,—
These two were guarded yet—and chained—
And thus by stern command detained!—
A Russ was one unhappy man,
Whose days seemed shortening to a span,—
His comrade came from Gallia's clime—
(Ah!—was not that itself a crime?—)
Both were in opening life's fresh prime;—

464

Of aspect high—and presence fair,
But blackening, round them, lowered Despair!
Impeached for traitorous crime abhorred—
The Russian youth no grace implored—
He felt—he knew, too well, 'twere vain,
Convulsively he grasped his chain!
Thick rose the heart-dews of distress—
With their damp—deadening iciness—
Along his once unclouded brow,
Burthened with bursting anguish now—
Wild rolled his eyes—pale lurid streaks
Checquered his smooth, unbearded cheeks—
Perchance, 'twas not the approaching doom
That struck his soul with blight of gloom!—
'Twas not the desperate danger near,
That made him quake with ghastly fear—
'Twas Conscience!—Conscience!—then that woke—
That loud in trumpet-language spoke!—
The rending heart, beneath her sway,
Pours its own darkness through the day,
Till shrinks the chilled sun's smothered ray;
Its subterraneous world starts forth—
Naked as Nature in the North!—
And, Oh!—what Passion-monsters spring
To sight—with many a loathsome thing—
Reliques of dreams and deeds passed o'er!
But whose remains last evermore—
Embedded in that parent soil—
Which gave them birth—received their spoil!—
Like Skeletons of Mammoths found
Secreted darkling under-ground!

465

II.

From that sepulchral spectacle—
He shrinks—as from an opening hell—
Faint cowering back—and crouching pale—
'Tis Conscience!—Conscience!—bids him fail!—
And yet, in sooth, his sin was slight,
Though grown gigantic in his sight!
The fearful Crisis now at hand,
That casts strange shadows o'er the land,
Made flashes of a transient fault,
Glare, meteor-like, to Heaven's far vault!—
And while his sin did mingling blend,
With wild, fierce horrors, without end,
That high, and deep, and wide extend—
It seemed their mystery all to share—
Their heinous hideousness to wear—
Till the error-monsters of the heart—
Even self-out-monstered seemed to start—
More deadly in their demon hue,
Blackening and blighting on the view,
Self-judged,—thus sad, the Accused One stood
As though he lacked sense—breath—and blood!—
The victim of a wild remorse—
(That far o'erflowed its spring and source;—)
Still gathering, still—increasing force!—
The stranger, too!—be sure that he
Cherished scant hopes of clemency;
His name and race alone must shed
A sevenfold vengeance on his head!—

466

That he had sprung from Gallia's land,
Was, sooth, enough of crime and brand!

III.

Straight, either shuddering criminal
Was dragged unto the Judgment-Hall—
A furious crowd assembled there,
Viewed both, with deep and dreadful stare—
From Mercy's hope the wretch must turn—
At that tribunal—strange and stern—
Hundreds of judges frowned around—
Muttering with hoarse, harsh, curdling sound,
The hundreds then assembled there!—
Who looked the Sentence of Despair!—
For deeply felt the unhappy man,
Weighed down with self-inflicted ban—
The Accused One—branded with the name
Of traitor—and its deadly fame—
That even could pitying Heaven forgive
Did softening Justice bid him live—
The people's fiery vengeance yet,
Should stern exact the enormous debt,
And still, a sterner judge within—
Pronounced the sentence of his sin!—
The youth was one of gentle birth,
Descended from a line of worth;—
His merchant sire with care had trained—
To knowledge high the youth attained!—
Large sums his Father pleased resigned,
With loftier wealth to store that Mind—

467

But he had left the lettered page,
To roam in leisured pilgrimage,
'Mid Germany's far scenes and fair,
And breathe her wild and mystic air—
His soul her conquering influence proved—
It felt—fired—fevered—and it loved!—
It soared on her quick spirit's wings,
And drank of her dark bubbling springs,
Strange stores of dangerous wealth he piled—
Of travelled speculations wild—
And hopes outshining—full and free—
Endeared each journeyed phantasy!—

IV.

His full heart preyed on glittering schemes—
His fancy built a thousand dreams—
And fast the visionary light,
Bathed all his thoughts in triumph bright,
Inspired he deemed with zeal sublime,
The Illuminati of the Clime—
Amidst their ranks enrolled—he sought
To track their soul-steps—thought by thought!—
And joined—with fervid zeal avowed—
A sect of Independents proud—
The Martinists!—and fondly dreamed—
While Hope with beaconing radiance beamed—
His father-land to raise and bless,
With Liberty's large happiness!—
'Twas said that he had scattered wide,
With strenuous stealth, on every side,

468

Dark scrolls,—of foul seditious tone—
Some taught—some borrowed—some his own;—
That lately, in the Russian tongue,
He dared—from Russian Fathers sprung!—
To publish even—forth scattering so—
Vile Proclamations of their Foe!—
Nay—more!—those treasons he disgorged—
'Twas said he fabricated—forged!—
(Still all, tremendous Vengeance urged!—)

V.

Was thus of deadly, treacherous sin,
Impeached, the ill-starred Verestzchaginn,
Confession nor defence he made—
Nor yet to shelter, or to aid,—
Accomplice or ally betrayed;—
Now silent as the grave he stood,
In bitterness of desperate mood,
Before the Judgment-Seat—where sate
A Man of War—in solemn state—
Stood savage Cossacks round his chair—
Ranged—armed—with wild ferocious air,—
Like executioners—that yearned
To strike—their eyes with fury burned!—
Proclaimed, were the accusations loud,
Before the vengeance-thirsting crowd;—
Rose, shrill sharp sounds, like owlets' screech,
And mutterings hoarse the ear did reach—
A monster sound—of shapeless speech!—
Confused—and horrible—and wild!—
No pity there, breathed—kind and mild;—

469

Soon sunk to breathless silence all!—
Within that frowning Judgment-Hall,
You might have heard a feather fall!
When rose Rostopchin in his place—
With glance severe—and threatening face—
He sternly raised his haughty head,
And thus with deep full voice he said,
While all hung listening through that court—
On each clear word in solemn sort!—

VI.

“What word, to all succeeding time,
Can speak this dark, unheard-of crime,
Could fiends even find its name?
Think!—What,—should be his deadly dole—
Who stabs his Country's living soul—
And blisters It with shame?—
His own, hath portion with the dead,
Through outer darkness let it tread,
Is not the sentence stamped and said
By Heaven and Earth beneath?—
And in Her sorrow this is done!—
And in Her mortal need—Her Son—
Would crush with fouler wrath!
Did the whole world in judgment sit,
To fix the sentence—just and fit—
Would One heart wish the wretch to acquit—
One Voice his dreadful doom remit—
Would pause One fatal breath?

470

Would not the assembled World, met there—
Would not the whole wide Earth, declare—
And thundering clamour—Death!—
Were Heaven to judge the wretch—whose crimes
No match can find through bye-gone times—
Could grace or pardon come?—
Even Mercy's self should snatch the sword,
And hurl Wrath's thunderbolts abroad,
With sevenfold terrors 'gainst the abhorred—
The soul of Strife and Gloom—
Love's seraphs, seize the quivers, stored
With the worst vengeance of their Lord,
Angels and saints with one accord,
Should sound his blast of Doom!”

VII.

He paused—tumultuous murmurs spoke—
The indignant ire his accents woke;—
When sudden—'midst the throng was seen—
An old grey man of awful mien,—
All gave him way within the hall—
The Father of the Criminal!—
With firm free step he onwards came,—
His front, unbowed, by grief or shame!
All the ashen cheek of age, on flame!—
That sunken eye—enkindleth stern
With thoughts, within, that rage and burn!—
“Old Man!” Rostopchin cried—“Draw near!—
Three minutes yet I grant thee here—
That thou mayst bless thy son!

471

Haste!—Haste!—for Vengeance asks her prey—
Immortal Justice waits this day—
To crush the Self-Undone!”
The savage Brutus of the North—
His shrivelled hand, stretched threatening forth—
And straight he spoke aloud!—
“Bless!—Bless!—What!—bring him, blessings?—prayers?—
Proud Chief!—Thou mockest my proud—despairs!
Insulter of these whitening hairs!—
Scorner!—my heart no weakness shares—
Though this changed frame be bowed!

VIII.

“I curse him!—with my full deep heart—
That ne'er yet took the Traitor's part—
Lo! I condemn—and curse!—
And let his Father's curse even now
For him,—of branded heart and brow,
For him—who breaks Earth's holiest vow,
Terrific judgments nurse!—
And, with his Country's curse entwined—
Cling withering all that loathsome mind—
Which seas should ne'er absterse!—
Till hope of mercy be resigned!—
Till sick Despair, lower black and blind!—
And if there be indeed behind—
A wilder and a worse,
With chains of deadlier clasp to bind—
The thoughts round fiercer racks to wind—
Which men or fiends rehearse!

472

Let that, too—that—the Traitor find!—
And grappling with existence grind—
His soul from the Universe!
Betrayer of thy Land—thy Home!—
Blasphemer of our loftiest doom!—
Thine be no rest within the Tomb—
Thy dust shall wrath disperse!

IX.

“All the four winds of Heaven shall drive
That restless dust—the dead-alive—
Heaved from Earth's loathing breast!
No tenement shall ever hold—
No shroud contain in pitying fold—
No regions grant thee rest!
Death shall refuse to his cold heart
To press thee—blasted that thou art!—
As Life from thee shall shrink!
Nor Death—nor Life—shall call thee theirs!—
Go!—where some nameless state prepares—
'Twixt both some dreadful link!
Thus, the Excommunicated Soul—
The Spirit—scorched like shrivelled scroll,
An exiled wanderer through the whole
Of great Creation—(while no goal
Shall greet thee—bowed to Wrath's controul!)—
Shall waste where worlds indignant roll—
Suffered in none to dwell!
Thus every sphere should thrust thee forth—
To wander on in Mercy's dearth—
Like thine abhorring Mother Earth—

473

And shudderingly expel!
The Traitor Wretch shall find no place—
Shall reach no spot of rest in space—
Shall claim—while ages run their race—
While Fiends—even Fiends—shall curse and chase—
No Country—even in Hell!”

X.

A sharp electric shudder ran—
From breast to breast—from man to man—
While burst the Father's rage!
So terrible his looks and words—
So ill that maddening wrath accords—
With that grave, reverend age!
But this forgot they—when again—
The Ruler spoke in startling strain—
Appealing loud to all!
His voice shall fire their souls once more
With fury—deadly as before—
They hear and heed his call—
“People!—to ye whom he betrayed—
To ye he sought but to degrade!—
People!—to ye—the Avengers made—
Do we commit him now!
Strike!—as with dark insidious aim—
He hoped to strike your truth—your fame—
And stain with worse than blood your name—
And brand the loyal brow!
Strike!—strike!—as ye would smite the Foe—
His crime is equal!—nay!—not so!—
His own doth tenfold horrors shew—

474

And deadlier depth avow!
The Invader's crime to his is slight—
Who fain his Fatherland would blight—
Crush—shame—destroy—and disunite—
His Countrymen—and Country!—Smite!—
Strike!—Strike!—Despatch him in our sight!—
Crowd murderous blow on blow!”

XI.

The infuriate listeners asked no more—
Keen thirsting for their Victim's gore—
At once on him they rushed!
Like bloodhounds on their prey they bound!—
Axe felled—knife pinned him to the ground,
Sword hacked—lance pierced—and bludgeon stunned—
Down rained upon him—wound on wound,
Thick—thick the life-streams gushed!
It was a horrid, sickening sight,
To see him feebly writhe and fight—
Against his murderers there!
Through the instinct of convulsive life
Resisting still—with hopeless strife—
In anguish and despair!
And once the assailants back he bore—
All bathed in floods of spouting gore—
With superhuman strength!
Such force doth desperate Phrenzy lend—
Throughout the frame such vigour send—
But he is crushed at length!
Aye!—as a swarming circle strong
Might round some writhing adder throng—

475

And quivering life outpress!
His gnashing, howling, raging foes—
Around him, mad with vengeance, close
And glut their wrath's excess,—
As pards their jaws of fury ope
Round the o'ermatched, struggling antelope—
They mock his dread distress!
His groans—his shrieks none hear—so swells,
The echo of their maniac yells—
Who pierce him—and o'erpower!
To pieces hewed—hacked—riven—and torn—
He dies!—They pause—outbreathed and worn—
Deep drenched in gory shower!
Then bursts once more their fury fierce—
With barbarous blows the dead they pierce!—
Wrath ruled that dreadful hour!
The Governor o'erlooked severe
This strange, dark, slaughterous scene of fear—
With stern, unpitying eye!
Nor motioned he with hand or head—
To stay those horrors wild and dread—
This mad barbarity!—

XII.

Meanwhile the unhappy Frenchman gazed—
Dismayed—thrilled—agonized—amazed—
On this revolting sight!
Anticipating the anguish all—
That yet to his dark lot shall fall—
With shuddering, still, affright!

476

Calm toward the Gaul Rostopchin turned—
No gloom was in his glance discerned—
No fatal sign he made!
No anger from his accents broke—
With cloudless look, composed, he spoke—
Nor wakening wrath displayed!
“Stranger!—and Brother of those Bands,—
Who dare with hostile glaives and brands—
Invade our much-loved clime!
Thou'st seen our Vengeance!—Justice!—Power!—
Hast marked through this appalling hour—
Our patriot-fire sublime!
Now learn how high can glow and rise
Our generous scorn of injuries—
Now know how we—forgive!
Own our Forgiveness high and proud—
As our avenging wrath avowed!—
Stranger!—I bid thee live!
Go! Frenchman!—To ourselves it well
May likeliest seem—nay!—laudable—
That,—wheresoe'er Fate bids thee dwell,
Thou most shouldst love, thy Land!
Still love,—with passion and with pride,
Far more than every Realm beside—
Through all the huge World—wild and wide—
That Land—with Hope—with Heaven—allied!—
This best we understand!
Whose hearts even now are running o'er—
With zeal that thrills them to the core—
Who love our Country,—nay!—adore!—
Aye!—meet it seems that thou shouldst more

477

Thy Gallic Brethren love!—
Than us—whose garb for long ye wore—
Whose Land long gave ye of her store—
And in her nursing bosom bore—
As 'twere thy native clime and shore,
Thou'rt French—and such must prove!
Frenchman and Foeman!—thou'rt forgiven!
Go forth!—beneath the boundless Heaven
Thou'rt free—as Her wild breezes even—
Thou'rt free—at choice to move!—

XIII.

“Thy countrymen are near at hand—
That France which is Thy Fatherland—
Shall speak to thee, through them!
Howe'er thou mayst transplant the tree—
Leaves—bark—and branch—distinct shall be—
And bear some marks indelibly—
Of that far clime where sprang up free—
At first, its root and stem!
Go!—let thy Countrymen be told—
All thou didst Here, this day, behold;—
Go!—Frenchman!—go and say,
That Russia, 'mid her far-spread bands—
Where'er Her Sovereignty expands—
Through all her length and breadth of Lands—
From Moscow's spires to Caspian sands—
(Since boundless spreads her sway!—)
That Russia,—'midst the armed nations proud
Which round her Throne of Glory crowd—
Found but One treacherous heart avowed,
Of dead and dastard clay!—

478

But One—beneath Shame's crushing cloud,
And Conscience flawed, of Falsehood bowed—
'Midst Her thronged myriads all!
That Russia,—stretched from zone to zone—
Had but One foul, ungrateful Son—
But One disloyal traitor—One!—
And that thou'st seen him—fall!
That SHE—'midst thrice ten thousand tribes—
Despite of threats—or taunts—or bribes—
Beneath her rugged sky—
From City throned to Desert wild—
Found but ONE false unworthy Child—
That One,—hast thou seen—DIE!”
Loosed are the Gaul's late fettered hands—
Free as the chainless winds he stands!—
But long remembered he that day
Of gloom—and anguish—and dismay!
The Lubianka's murderous scene,
Recalled he long with memories keen!
That tragedy—so dark and drear—
Its very Memory frowned—a Fear!

XIV.

The Army leaves the City-Queen!—
It is a strange and stirring scene!—
A haughty melancholy seems
To mingle with disturbing dreams!
The Troops marched slow,—with looks of woe—
With Royal Banners furled,—they went!
Their measured tread, seemed dull and dead—
Their gloomy eyes were earthwards bent!
No proud and gladdening signal comes,
From doubling roll of stormy drums!

479

No trumpet's kingly clamour wakes;—
No war-cry through the silence breaks!—
They marched!—They marched!—through Streets of State
Then passed through the old Kalomna Gate!
They marched on slow, with looks of woe—
That lacked brave warrior-cheer!
No glad sound comes—from double double drums—
No blast from clarions clear!
The uncrimsoned air, no standards fair—
No Gonfalons of Pride—
Stirs fluttering light—and spreads to sight—
With blazoned sunshine dyed!
Yet Banners dread, ere long shall spread
Forth shaken—free and far—
To lend the skies, their dazzling dyes—
Their blush of fiery war!—

XV.

These Hosts still slowly passed along—
Followed their track a mourning throng!—
For in their train the remnants crowd
Of Moscow's population proud!
Since, though Her roads had groaned, before,
For forty leagues—thick covered o'er
By the Exiles of her mighty heart,
Yet hundreds then, forbore to part;—
Hundreds and hundreds there had stayed,
(In hopes of dear reprieve and aid!—)

480

Who—while their hearts with anguish swell,
Now breathe through tears their long farewell,
To homes where they were fain to dwell!
And some among the helpless Poor—
Torn from their cabin's mouldering door—
Their own coarse roof—their own rude hearth—
To them the dearest of the Earth!
With air resigned, and steadfast mien—
Harnessed to humblest wains were seen—
Wherein some suffering child was placed—
Sick—worn—and weak—and pallid-faced!
Some superannuated Sire—
Who leaves his homestead—to expire!
Whose querulous and shrilly tone,
Clamoureth for comforts lost and flown!
Or some pale helpmeet—wan and wild—
Who clasps her slumbering, new-born child!
Sharp cries were heard of deep distress—
And moans of heavy weariness—
As forth the sad Procession passed—
All Moscow's lowliest and her last!
They moved behind the columned host—
In fulness of Affliction lost!
They followed through those Streets of State,
And through the fair Kalomna Gate;—
And all by sorrow seemed subdued—
That hopeless—helpless multitude!
On Mother Moscow back they gazed—
And many a wail of sadness raised!

481

XVI.

“Oh!—Mother Moscow!—Fare thee well!—
Moscow of Stone!—where Princes dwell!
Since proud—since regal—still, in death—
Our Monarchs sleep, thy wings beneath!
Dread Kings!—who bound by Slumber's chain,
More glorious in their tombs remain,—
Than other Kings,—on Thrones of State,
'Mid all triumphant pomps—elate!
More glorious in thy tombs by far,
Than these—Our silent monarchs are!—
More honoured in those tombs renowned
Than all Earth's Monarchs throned and crowned!—
The Majesty of Death hath met—
Their Majesty of Splendours set!
Our grey Forefathers lie reclined,
In thy blest dust—Oh! Moscow kind!
Mother of Generations!—Queen!—
And must we leave thy stateliest scene?
Flow!—River of a thousand years—
Henceforth, be turned into our tears!
A stream of tears henceforth be made!—
Weep—wandering, past each pillared shade,—
Save when the armed foes beside thee tread,
Then, turn to founts of fire instead!
Oh Moscow!—Moscow!—Ark and Home!
Thy children's hearts are bowed in gloom,
Farewell!—Be Beautiful!—Be Great!—
Be mighty in thy queenly state!

482

Yet let the sacrilegious Foe,
Glean in thy streets but our pale woe!
Still let him wrest—from Thy proud Towers
But these sharp agonies of ours!”—

XVII.

Dies off the noise and movement deep—
The City seemeth wrapped in sleep!
But no!—the tramplings scarcely cease—
'Tis lost again—that Pause of Peace!
Another tumult doth begin,—
One Nation like a sea poured in;
Another, like a sea poured out!—
With clang—and tramp—and stir—and shout,
One came—while one in parting rout—
Scattered its shadowy gloom about!
With dreadfulness of strife and din—
One Nation like a Sea poured in!
But all around its path was drear—
Was nought to charm—was nought to cheer!
In the Architectural Wilderness—
Through which the surging numbers press—
Seemed nought of life—and nought of breath—
All like the shadow frowned of Death!
With heaviness of grief and doubt,
Another like a sea poured out!—
But mighty Powers yet hovered near,
Their drooping hearts to nerve and cheer!—

483

XVIII.

The hosts of France there wondering gazed—
Mute—and sore-troubled—and amazed!
It seemeth that they there behold,
Some City of Enchantment old!—
Some Genii City fair and vast—
Some solemn Pageant of the Past!
So hushed is all—in stillness dread,—
So hushed,—so lorn,—so chill,—so dead!—
And how, first hailed the Invading Gaul—
Proud Russia's gorgeous capital?
With all her glories—deep and wide—
The sumptuous mysteries of her Pride!
Her dazzlery of rainbowed Light—
Her haughty Queenliness of Might!
Her rich and sight-bewildering show—
Too bright—too fair—for Earth below!
A Vision of supreme display—
Colouring the Sun—and brightening Day!
How had she first—stupendous sight!—
Burst on their view—in power and might?
Slow-paced with cautious care marched on,
The Cohorts of the Unvanquished One!
Before their way—for prudence sent—
Swift scouts innumerable went!
These plunged through all the twilight woods—
And searched the out-hollowed tracks of floods;
And climbing every eminence,
Looked for the expected Foe from thence!

484

Followed the Host!—alone remained,
One Eminence to climb—'tis gained!

XIX.

Then burst forth simultaneous shouts—
Loud echoing from the astonished Scouts—
And “Moscow!—Moscow!”—far and wide—
Rang like a Pæan Song of Pride!
That wond'rous and sublime display,
Then shook their souls with conquering sway!
All hurrying thronged!—All forward pressed!—
With kindling eyes—with heaving breast!—
Wild with the Expectancy's Excess—
And wakening Hope's deliriousness!
In fine disorder rushing came,
That Host like some wild,—wind-driven flame!
Some conflagration fiercely sent—
In reckless free abandonment!
They sweeping strode—their strength they strained—
Hill of Salvation!—now thou'rt gained!
('Tis thus the Russians call the height,
Which first gives forth to Pilgrims' sight,
The view of their fair City's might!
Since on its summit evermore—
They kneel—and breathlessly adore,—
And free to Heaven thanksgivings pour!
Even where their sacred City stands
Before them—Crown of all the Lands!
They prostrate fall—and make the sign,
Of the all-atoning Cross divine!

485

And there with fervent prayers they bless,
That Holy City's Kingliness!
Heart of the Universe!—to them;—
The wide World's jewelled diadem!—)
The whole French Army now amazed—
On the outspread matchless Moscow gazed!—
Bright glistened then the Orb of Day—
Where thrice ten thousand colours play!
It beams—it burns upon their gaze—
That City of all Pride and Praise—
With Morning and Itself ablaze!
Then burst—as though the heavenly shock
Of Joy did rend their hearts and rock;—
And striking every chord at once
From roused Existence drew response!
Burst from their bosoms loud and high—
The Earth-Electrifying cry;
The skies seemed stirred—the far heavens heard—
And “Moscow! Moscow!” was—the word!

XX.

That long-resounding cry burst forth—
And shook the Storm-Throne of the North!
The old North shook on her pillared throne,
At the deep sea-swell of the tone;
In thunderous royalty it rode,
On all the winds of Heaven, abroad!
An Earthquake-burst of ecstacy—
While human joy seemed, heaved on high!—
And “Moscow!—Moscow!”—was the cry!

486

Broke forth afresh the enthusiast Bands—
They stamped their feet!—they clapped their hands!—
Winged Exultations proudlier rose,
From the ashes of ten thousand woes!
From Pale Dismay's stern, smouldering wrongs—
Until their very thoughts found tongues!
(Man's passion seems the Phœnix true—
That springs from Ruin bright and new!
Since still 'tis thus!—Past grief and gloom
Lend Joy, his loftiest crest, and plume!)
Still gazed they long entranced—enchained—
Still drunken with delight remained—
While ever and anon burst forth—
Their “Moscow”-shout—to startle Earth!
So mariners, who chance, have been
Long bound to the Ocean's billowy scene—
The waste wide world of waters,—stand—
In tiptoe joy at sight of Land!
And while they smile at hazards past—
“Land!—Land!”—they shout, full blessed at last;
And he—their Mighty Monarch too—
Exulting hailed that stately view!
He hastening flew their bliss to share—
He, too, cried “Moscow! Moscow!” there!
From His glad lips these accents burst—
He gazed with joy unmixed at first!

XXI.

His eyes were rivetted and fixed—
On the outstretched scene with joy unmixed!—

487

“And there at length—at length thou art!
Crowned Mother of the Mighty Heart!”
He cried—pleased, studying part by part—
“Hail!—far-famed City!”—then aside
Half-turned—and paused he in his pride;—
While sadder accents seemed to throw
Across the triumph—hints of Woe!
Like knells heard through some marriage chime—
Came these cold words—“'Tis Time!—Full Time!”—
City of many nations proud—
Like Pageant bright of sunset-cloud—
That spreads in endless shapes and fair,
Along the illuminated air!
How fair thou lookedst—on that strange morn
Seemed all thy queenliest splendours worn!—
To dazzle with a bright dismay,
Thy daring Foemen from their way!
She seemed in all her pomps arrayed—
Of Rainbows and of Lightnings made!—
Or like some dream in endless change!—
Some gorgeous exhalation strange!—
Some crowd of Exhalations bright—
All trembling off to one rich Light!
Or like Creation's Heaven-born bride—
Hewn from the Sun's own living pride!
Part of his Fire!—most glorious part!—
Breathing and blushing from his heart!
And Thou'st thine own starred Firmament—
Where splendours beam, with splendours blent,
Oh! Moscow,—the Magnificent!

488

Thy globes of gold far-glistering shine—
And make Earth near thee seem divine!—
Till turns fatigued the o'erdazzled eye
To look for shadows—in the sky!—
Such wildering radiance hangs round thee—
The Enthroned One,—Everlastingly!

XXII.

Nay! hush!—these words are wild and vain—
Thou'rt but of Earth!—and even thy reign
Ere long may know the check—the chain!
The Invading Legions in that hour,
High triumphed in their Might and Power!—
And revelled in thy rich display—
That shed intolerable day!
The hour may come when both may pale—
The Glorying—and the Glorious fail!
Like Pyramids of Thrones appeared,
Those Fanes and Towers they boastful neared!
For Victory now shall Kingdoms raise,
On Kingdoms to the Conquerors' praise!
The astounded Universe shall hear,
Their doom-like deeds, and quake with fear!
And all are Conquerors!—all are crowned
With growing glory—without bound!
The nations, wondering, strain their eyes,
To see like suns o'er suns arise—
Those dazzling deeds—that scale the skies!
Thronged acclamations yet shall sound—
And wake a world's long echoes round!

489

History shall make these acts her own—
Her Pride—that these through Her are shewn!
History shall be one Fame at last—
Theirs!—sounded through that lengthening blast!
Blushing shall she from the outdone Past—
Turn—half-exultant—half-aghast!—

XXIII.

Their age—all ages high above—
Shall they yet lift—and far remove;—
So that from their proud day shall date—
Earth's loftier and sublimer state!
Even a new Earth shall she appear—
A nobler and a lordlier sphere!
The lowliest, humblest soldier there,
Enacts on this great theatre—
A solemn and imposing part—
Watched by the whole World's listening heart!
Doth the air miraculously seem
Round these with Prodigies to teem!
Long had they, all the Great surpassed—
They have outshone themselves at last;—
And done—what none beside could do—
Eclipsed the old deeds with glories new!—
Paled their past triumphs' blinding blaze!
And left behind,—all fame—all praise!—
Henceforth must they inactive live—
Renown hath no more wreaths to give!
Such wild presumptuous thoughts and proud,
Within their warrior-bosoms crowd!—

490

XXIV.

Napoleon gazed on Moscow long—
The impatience of his heart grew strong!
“On!—On!”—they must not now delay—
Fate calls—and shall not He obey?
The Child of Destiny, who now—
Hails his kind star with lifted brow!
And on they go!—with glare and noise—
High Revellers in their thunder-joys!
The Golden Eagles toss and flash—
The foaming chargers wheel and dash!—
The dazzlery of arms makes Light—
A painful wonder to the sight!
Earth trod by trampling hoofs seemed stirred—
By all she saw—and all she heard!
Loud trumpets pealed—each ringing note,
O'er height and vale did lengthening float!
Now shadows swathed that beaten ground—
Now splendours fired the dust around—
Till sun-sparks seemed to shower about—
From the Ember Earth quick glistening out;
As though herself—the Illumined One—
Was sooth, a half-extinguished Sun!
Warmed back to Glory now once more—
Kindling to all she was before!
And tossing like a freshening sea—
She sparkleth out so restlessly!
Spangling to those bright points of light—
That dart and deepen on the sight!

491

She seems beneath their feet to play—
Even those who tread that radiant Way,
In undulating waves of sheen—
A brilliant and a buoyant scene!
On her they tread—as 'twere on air—
They walk on mirrored splendours there!
Their path with Fames and Hopes is strewed—
March on!—thou marshalled multitude!
March on!—and dream while yet ye can!—
Continuance was not made for man!
Enjoy this triumph while ye may—
Hold fast the Present and the Day!
Yet—yet may all be changed and lost—
And Ruin reap your scattered host—
And Shame strike down the unfinished Boast!—

XXV.

Strange seemed it to Napoleon now—
While gloomed and lowered his haughty brow—
That issuing from yon princely gates,
Advanced not straight the assembled States!
That Deputation proud and high—
Which yet should greet him fittingly—
And own his dread ascendancy!
(Acknowledging his Conqueror-Power,
In that important fated hour!)
And—all delivering to his hands,
Wait watchful for his high commands!
Where are those bearded Boyards?—Where?—
That yet should haste to hail him there?

492

Proffering their wealth's vast stores and sums,
To him who as their Master comes!
He gazeth towards those gates of pride—
Shall he, be silently defied?—
In vain his anxious eyes he strains—
Thence stream no long and pompous trains;—
And where her brow the City rears
Strange!—Strange!—no sign of Life appears!
On those towered battlements afar—
He marked no scattered men of war!
From all those princely houses broke
No faint blue wreaths of spreading smoke!
Misgivings darkened through his mind,—
Proud Hope—her sky-kissed front declined!—
And they who crowded in his train
Confessed a thrill of boding pain,—
Already seemed a shadow cold—
Lengthening o'er all they, there, behold;—
Chill doubt, and wonder, and dismay,
Uncrimsoned all that joy-flushed day!
Now Poniatowski and Eugene—
Hard by those hostile gates were seen—
And brave Murat the suburbs near,
Did soon with swarms of scouts appear!

XXVI.

Yet poured no Deputation forth,
From this Crowned City of the North!
Perplexed—bewildered—and disturbed—
Napoleon scarce his anger curbed!

493

At length 'mid all this discontent,
A single messenger was sent
From Miloradowitch—to bear
A message to The Monarch's ear;
And haughtily this speech was framed:
Full time the hostile general claimed,
In tone unshaken and untamed—
To march the rear through Moscow straight—
To march them, scatheless, through her gate;
Else menaced he,—with threatenings stern,
The Imperial Capital to burn!—
Napoleon spoke in prompt response,
And granted the armistice at once,
The foremost troops of the armies twain—
Together mixed awhile remain!—
And intermingling thus—as though
In generous Concord's friendly flow,—
By those, Murat was recognised,
Who well his dauntless valour prized!—
The fierce Cossacks—who swarming round—
Made the air with plaudits wild resound—
Chivalrous Champion!—Fame's bright star!—
Thou Child and Chosen one of War!—
Of War—the terrible!—the wild!—
By thy emprizeful deeds beguiled—
Stripped—shorn of half its horrors so,
Its native hideousness of woe!
And coloured, lit, sublimed, and raised,
Made something to be loved and praised;—

494

Even something beautiful and bright—
A splendid and a proud delight!—

XXVII.

High Chief!—the savage warriors there,
Basked in thy warlike presence fair,
Thy battle-breathing aspect spoke,
To souls where restless ardour woke;—
Loud lauded they thy bearing bold—
Thy bravery's eagle-flights extolled—
Wild signs and exclamations well,
Served then, their wondering thoughts to tell,
Some hailed thee as their Hettman brave,
High brandishing their bickering glaive—
A new Mazeppa deemedst thou then,
Thou stoodst, 'mongst those rude, bearded men,
So Flatters still delights—disarms—
To roughest speech gives honeyed charms!—

XXVIII.

Meanwhile sank day—declining slow,
Burned the rich west with sunset's glow,
The impatience every heart confessed,
Might scarce be conquered or repressed.
At length Intelligencers came,
With news that fanned the increasing flame—
And what the tidings that they brought?—
They seemed impossible to thought!—

495

“Proud Moscow is deserted—left—
Of her thronged habitants bereft!”—
Within the Emperor's breast of pride,
Stern wrath with disappointment vied,
But such emotions he controlled,
Hid in his bosom's deepest fold—
Descended he with countless men,
Salvation's peaceful mountain then!
And toward the city took his way,
Scarce crediting what hundreds say—
“It cannot be!—The tale is vain!—
Yet wherefore should they forge and feign?”—
Approached he then, the Moskowa gate—
There, fain, once more, would pause and wait—
But urged to enter—he advanced—
And sternly round him glared and glanced—
No life,—no movement—dead and chill—
All seemeth fixed and frozen still!—

XXIX.

But ye the will not think 'tis so!—
He will not trust this tale!—No—no!—
“Moscow deserted!—Can it be?—
Out on their weak credulity!”—
Then turned he, to his followers round,
While stern his angered accents sound,—
“Go!—bring these dubious Boyards here—
They pause and crouch—in gloom and fear!—
Make speed—and bring them to my foot!”—
His Followers heard him—gravely mute—

496

Yet hastened they to do his will,
While doubts still pressed with heavier chill!
'Twas vain!—their mission fruitless proved—
Through lonely streets the wanderers moved;—
Some wretched outcasts sole remained,
Vile slaves and felons—late unchained!
Back to the sovereign they returned—
He heard—he marvelled—and he mourned;—
“Can this, then, be indeed!—is't true?”—
Reflections sad and dark of hue,
Shot, sudden, through his breast anew!—

XXX.

“And have they torn themselves away,
From Moscow's walls—their pride and stay?—
Forsaken all their best-loved homes—
Their thousand towers—their clustered domes—
The temples, where their fathers prayed,
Their palaces in pomp displayed,
Their Wealth—State—Honours—Luxuries—Powers,—
All left—in these tempestuous hours?
Strange characters—deep—stern and strong—
These Russians shew!”—He paused!—ere long
Fell other accents from his tongue—
Resumed he thus his speech, the while
Lowered round his lips a stormy smile,
His looks grew powerful to express,
A keen and cold contemptuousness—
His accents—tuned to harsh disdain,
Spoke, too, the sting of angry pain,

497

Of bitter scorn—yet wounded pride—
And thus, with curdling sneer he cried,—
“Ha!—We will teach these Russians yet—
A juster value's weight to set
On all they now forsake—forget!—
On their proud Capital sublime,—
Such knowledge shall they learn in time!—
The effects, themselves they scarce may know,
Which yet shall from its downfall flow!—
But, We in time will teach them all—
They yet shall mourn—their Capital!”—

498

CANTO XIII.

I.

Shake Moscow!—Shake!—ye Towers and Domes—
Napoleon and a Nation comes!
A Nation of such Names,—for round—
Stand thousands maddening with its sound;
Who pant at least a part to claim—
Of the endless glories of that name!
There many a one rears crest on high,
Whose mention seems a battle-cry;—
And many a one plants flag unfurled—
That—but for Him—had fired the World!

II.

Murat, unchecked, led proud and free,
His columns close of cavalry;
Then entering Royal Moscow's Gate—
They moved through mighty streets, elate!
Looked they as nothing could oppose—
Not flood nor field—nor fire nor foes!

499

Yet at Zelkowo a check had made,
These warriors pause—in might arrayed!—
Proved slight that check—and soon once more—
They marched in triumph as before!

III.

First joyously they rode along,
And pride was deep, and hope was strong,
But soon the solemn silence round,
Even their high hearts in stillness bound;—
Their horses' measured tramp was heard—
But not a whisper—not a word!—
The palaces that lined the way,
Still rich in splendours of display,
Were all forsaken, and forlorn—
The senseless buildings seemed to mourn;—
The humbler mansions, too, looked drear—
Deserted—deathlike—far and near!—
That load of silence and of gloom,
Made each lorn dwelling seem—a Tomb!
Their clattering horse-hoofs sounded far—
This was not Peace!—this was not War!—
The heavy hush the heart oppressed,
It shook the warrior's haughty breast,
Through bars of brass—and shrouds of steel—
And made him fear—and made him feel!
He feared!—for something vague and chill
Seemed treacherously foreboding ill—
Not Man he feared!—Man's absence 'twas,
That taught through valiant breasts to pass,
Those thrills that mocked at steel and brass!—

500

IV.

Hark!—Hark!—a sound familiar now
Hath called the blood to each bold brow!
A shot!—Another!—halted there
That Mighty Column—proud and fair—
Full far, stretched out its lengthened line,
A glorious spectacle—and fine!—
Still covering o'er the field-ways green,
Its latest horsemen might be seen;
Its centre, filled in squadroned strength,
The broad, chief streets of mightiest length;
The while even reached its bannered head—
The old Kremlin's bounds—so wide it spread!—
Seemed closed, the Foemen to repel
The gates of that vast citadel;—
Wild fanatics, of aspect foul,
Thence hailed the French, with hideous howl!
While from the battlements were poured,
By that outrageous clamourous horde,
Volleys of musquetry—whose sound
Shattered that solemn air around!
These wretches, garbed in uncouth dress,
Reeled in ferocious drunkenness—
Fierce, phrenzied imprecations loud—
Yelled forth the whole infuriate crowd;—
In loose, disordered misarray,
Reckless—they threw their lives away—
A horrible and dread display!—

501

V.

Another proof affording so,
To their dismayed and wondering Foe,
Of zeal—which mounteth high and higher—
Of their great Passion—stern and dire—
Their barbarous Patriotism's fire!
Another!—still full many a one,
Had they beheld since strife begun!—
Since feud and fray, far round were spread—
And human nature's heart-veins bled!—
Full many a one they yet shall see—
To shock with dread sublimity!—
The warlike king a message sent,
Of favouring, fair advertisement,
To this ungovernable crew—
That sought to make their Conquerors rue!—
With mockery harsh—and challenge rude,—
'Twas answered by the multitude!
With fierce defiance, straight, 'twas met—
Wild boast—and foul, injurious threat!
Then sought the Gauls to force the gate—
Stood firm and fast, its iron weight!—
Still every effort of their might,
Resisted this, in strength, aright,
Till, at the orders of their king,
The battering cannons, there, they bring.
Soon grows the enduring iron weak—
The huge bars yield—the hinges creak—
It bends—it rocks—it falls at last!—
Unchecked—like loosened Tempest's blast,

502

The assailants—furiously and fast—
Then inward straight—and onward passed!—
Fast, inward!—onward!—upward!—press—
The shouting French—in all success—
Before them, the o'ermatched herd they drove—
Who crushed, and 'whelmed, yet struggling, strove!—

VI.

One maniac wretch, with desperate spring,
Rushed, black and gnashing, at the King!
Seized by a powerful grasp—he sought
To grind his foe—and foaming fought
'Gainst him who had perceived his aim
And interposed a stalwarth frame!
The Gaul—with giant stroke and thrust—
Hurled down the miscreant to the dust;
There, prostrate for a space he lay—
As 'twere a breathless corse of clay!
But once again he rose—he sprung—
Then, like a wounded tiger clung—
And rolled his victim on the ground,
While desperately his arms he wound,
That panting, sinewy frame around,
Those arms were seized, and held, and bound—
And yet, the maddened savage there
Strove with his teeth to strip and tear—
Till,—felled to Earth, he quivering sunk—
His head, half severed from the trunk!—
Brief time Murat, delayed had been,
Thus by the Kremlin's barbarous scene,

503

This despicable band disarmed,
Dispersed, and checked,—he left unharmed,
Onward he past—nor paused again—
Onward with his imposing train!—

VII.

No pause he made—but traversed straight,
That city proud, from gate to gate;
Nor deigned to halt within its walls,
For still the Voice of Victory calls!—
He made no pause—no sojourn brief!—
Passed the indefatigable Chief;—
Passed in pursuit—opposed no more—
Of Russia's rear-guard gone before.
Unhesitating—promptly still—
Spurred by quick thoughts—and swerveless will—
His choice left free—his course made clear—
He took the road, with dauntless cheer,
The Asian road, to Wladimir.
Nine hundred leagues—of pain and toil—
Of dearth and danger—care and coil—
And sixty conflicts—nought had tamed
The zeal which yet all zeal outflamed!—
Those leagues of wearying land passed o'er,
That travel, terrible and sore,
These fierce encounters—fought to reach
Moscow—the goal of all and each—
Left him, insatiate, as before,
For Victory!—Victory!—evermore!—
And through that city,—thus attained,
He passed, scarce heeding that 'twas gained!

504

Since On,—and Onward he must go,
To seek the strife—to strike the blow!—
Tired of the peace of half a day,
His pulses bound in fevered play,
And the Armistice is o'er,—and all
Doth onward—forward—beckoning call!—

VIII.

Some thousand Cossacks by that road
Retreated—o'er which now he trode;
A loud discharge of carbines soon
Proclaimed that the Armistice was done!—
Thus War was recommenced—renewed
The Firing—for awhile subdued—
Which seemed even threatening Asia now,
While cleared the chief's commanding brow!
Ah!—had he known this scarce would cease,
With interval of peaceless Peace,
(So racked by restless dread and doubt—
'Twas still, a breathless flight,—and rout!)
Till scattered remnants of that Host
The World's great Dread—the Conqueror's boast—
With agonizing toil should gain,
The distant banks of smiling Seine,
How different had his feelings been—
How clouded were that now-cleared mien!—

IX.

Napoleon entered slow the gate,
Of the proud Kremlin's towering state,

505

When rose the next awakening morn,
To gild Great Moscow's streets forlorn.
Yet when he entered there—the day
Had sent no fair poursuivant ray—
As yet, though midnight hours were done,
The hour of dawn smiled not—nor shone!—
To decorate that saddening scene,
No gentle splendours smiled serene;
The night a gloomy night had proved,
Even troubling hearts—till then, unmoved—
Reports and rumours—deep and dire—
Full oft announced outbreaking fire—
Of Conflagration's neighbouring ill,
Those threatening tidings gathered still;
Incredulous, the Emperor heard,
And answered brief, with haughty word,
Till came stern news, each hope to wreck,
To end each doubt—each dream to check!
The dreaded flames—in hideous strength—
Had burst, and broken forth at length!
'Twas in the City's central part,
Even in the mighty City's heart—
That desolating fire began,
Which later mocked all powers of man!
By him, whom all around obeyed,
Mortier—the Mareschall,—had been made,
The City's Governor—to whom
Entrusted was its state and doom—
And earnestly enjoined was he,
To check all acts disorderly;

506

And now Napoleon hurrying there—
Reproached him with indignant air!—

X.

But Mortier pointed out at once—
For all defence—for all response—
The iron-covered mansions near,
Whence issued dense the sign of fear;
Thick smoke and black—while closed and barred—
Untouched by those who watched to guard—
Unscathed without they still remained—
'Twas dark, and strange, and unexplained!—
The Emperor then, with clouded eye,
Entered the Kremlin thoughtfully;
But when he trod its honoured ground,
And marked the various wonders round,
And gazed on palaces of pride—
Which long had mocked at time and tide—
Shewn by the flames' far-spreading glare,
That flashed along the sombre air,
(These promised, to one part enchained,
To spare that Mighty Spot—where reigned
The Pride of Ages—yet unstained!—)
When these he viewed with kindling glance,
As one new waked from dizzy trance,
And raised that piercing glance on high—
Where Temples met midway the sky;—
Where massive piles sublimely stood—
Like Giants fixed in towering mood!
Seats of dread monarchs—haught and bold—
The Rurics—Romanhoffs of old—

507

And hailed great Ivan's cross sublime—
Which seemed beyond the clouds to climb—
Then downwards gazing—marked the Pride—
The Pomp still spreading deep and wide—
And all the outstretching city viewed,
Glittering in wond'rous solitude,
Beneath that wild and meteor light—
Alas!—too luminously bright!—
A change came flashing o'er his mood—
With beaming aspect there he stood!—

XI.

Hope—Pride—and Triumph—gathered strength—
“I stand in Moscow, then, at length!”
Even thus with gladsome tones he cried,
Of wakening hope, and wondering pride!
“I am in Moscow!—in the place
Of the olden Czars—that far-famed race!—
Within their Kremlin's sacred bounds—
'Midst their crowned towers—and trophied mounds!—
Their monuments of Triumphs proud—
Scarce dimmed by Time's oblivious shroud—
Whose Gathered Glories now must yield,
On their own mighty place and field—
Even now must fade—must shrink away—
Like Stars—before the burst of Day—
Changed—changed and bowed—fade dim and fast—
By One—by Ours—by mine, o'ercast!—
Henceforward, these shall speak aloud—
In Russia's heart!—the stern!—the proud!—

508

Immortal France!—of thy great Fame—
Thine own—and thy Napoleon's name!”—

XII.

Soon meditations through his mind—
Deep—strong—of stern obtrusive kind—
Passed shadowingly—for much is there
To claim his caution—and his care!—
Thus communed he ere long with those,
In whom he best could trust, repose;—
“Now would I compromise the war—
Strike down each stern opposing bar—
Make composition with the Foe,
And staunch the World's great wounds of woe;—
Fain would I thus,—with such design,
While fair doth still, the horizon shine,
Send Peace-Ambassadors straightforth—
To the awful Cæsar of the North!—
And friendly overtures commence,
Nor longer hold this drear suspense!”—
No voice dissentient, there was heard—
None disagreed in thought or word;—
To Peace,—all hearts and eyes were turned,
For her deep rest all bosoms yearned;—
'Twas by the flames' portentous light
Outshining fiercely, strangely bright—
Napoleon traced the important scroll,
Which bore the purpose of his soul!
The important scroll he thoughtful traced,
Then straight dispatched it thence, in haste!

509

A Russian,—whom the French had found,
Recovered late from dangerous wound—
A Russian noble of the land,
Who 'midst her hosts held high command,
Charged with that letter, straight was sent—
To speed his hope's accomplishment!
When passed that night of wrath and fear—
When dawned at length the Daylight clear,
That Daylight's steady radiance spread,
O'er scenes of turbulence and dread,
Favoured Treviso's efforts well—
The fires subdued,—shrank—faded—fell—
Flash after flash they sank away—
As though ashamed—they might not stay
'Whelmed in the whirlpool bright, of Day!—

XIII.

Say!—shall not now a softened strain,
Sacred to tenderest griefs and pain,
Devoted for a season be,
To thine afflictions and to thee?—
Sweet Xenia—launched on troubled sea!—
'Twas Moscow, was thine earliest home,
She nursed thee in thine opening bloom—
Thy life's young flower, there, leaf by leaf
Grew lovely, all unchilled by grief—
'Midst playmates fond—and kindred dear—
Thine hours of infancy passed here—
And thy sweet girlhood's seasons bright,
When all is tinged with rainbow-light,

510

Maiden of Moscow!—fair to thee—
Spread boundless, the architectural sea!—
Thy youthful eyes—enchained—entranced—
With sparkling pleasure, shone and glanced—
While Moscow's wond'rous splendours all,
Girt thee with glories magical!—

XIV.

Well didst thou deem, on earth might nought,
Be e'er so dear to sight, or thought,
Well might'st thou feel, that nothing e'er
With Her perfections could compare!—
To thee, she was a place sublime,
Beyond all chance—and change—and time—
Of all things bright and proud a part,
The enchanted City of the Heart!
Full many a sorrow hast thou learned,
Since last thy steps from her, were turned,
Dark griefs on griefs, came crowding fast—
Till seemed it none were left at last—
None left untried—so thick,—so free,—
Had flown those shafts of Misery!
Oh!—she hath suffered strange distress,
The darker for past happiness!—
And struggled 'gainst it with such strife,
As doth but fix it in the life;
As storms that vainly sweep and strive,
But deeper the oak's foundations drive!—
Yet deeper in the faithful soil—
Though seems it bowed and bent the while!—

511

XV.

Yes! she had suffered—she had wept,—
With long, long, grief—that never slept!
For others, and herself, had bowed,
Her head, beneath Affliction's cloud;—
And, Oh!—the aching love which wrung
That heart—unshielded and unstrung!—
On that most sad and dreary night,
Of their mysterious hidden flight,
Her father's questions, sore dismayed
That heart—of its own voice afraid!—
The inquisitorial glance and speech,
Her inmost bosom seemed to reach—
Speechless in sorrowing trance she stood—
Back from her cheek ebbed fast the blood—
Her voiceless lips stirred quivering, still,
Like some touched harp-chord's lengthened thrill,
Like some touched harp's long-trembling string—
By finger swept—or breeze's wing!

XVI.

“Alas!—my Child!”—the Father said—
Uplifting sad, his stately head—
While seemed his patriarchal brow,
Perturbed with endless trouble now!
“Alas, my Child!—thou 'rt shrinking back,
As in my looks, I bore a rack!—
Shrinking and cowering from my gaze,
As with an anguish of amaze—

512

Thou see'st—thou know'st—I read thy heart—
Through every throbbing, suffering, part,—
And though thyself, hast known before,
The secrets of its folded core,
That knowledge, seems more sternly shewn
Through my pierced thought—than through thine own!—
My Child!—thou lov'st!—thou lov'st!—but rise—
Subdue that darkened love which lies,
Aching with buried agonies!—
A plague-spot at thy heart of hearts—
Or all my dearest hope departs!—
For thee I hoarded every thought,
That yet a gentler promise brought!
I saw my land, all wrung and torn—
With the iron in her deep heart worn,—
Her cities sacked—her homes despoiled—
Her sacred, honoured soil, defiled;—
I saw—as still I see it—still—
And evermore—Ill following Ill!—
But with a governed thought and mind,
I bowed—to many a grief resigned,—
And soothed,—'midst sufferings wide and wild,
Turned from my Country to my Child!
Consoled—while still this bosom mourned
To thee—my light!—my flower!—I turned!—
As though, my Russia—I could see,
Embodied beauteously in thee!—
Still fair—still pure—still radiant-bright—
Shewn in one Heavenly Form of Light!—

513

XVII.

“But now, Oh, Daughter!—can it be,
This worst of shame and misery?—
Thou lovest the Stranger—and—the Foe?”—
Sighed forth the Maid, with accents low,
Scarce heard—but felt—“Deliverer too!”—
“Aye!”—groaned her Sire—“'tis true!—too true!
Yet, would we had together died,—
Fallen heart to heart—and side by side—
Ere thus we were preserved—to owe
Such cruel mercies to a foe!
And yet I scarce mean this—not so!
'Twere impious thus to think and speak,
Not this my heart should grind—should break—
(Though bitter still, must be such mood,
Of forced unnatural gratitude!—)
But 'tis to see this love—this love
Which stands 'twixt thee and Heaven above!—
This dark—this hateful love unblessed,
For 'tis a horror unexpressed!
Thus rise, in dire and fatal hour,
The holiest feelings to o'erpower!
Ah!—think that he thy heart adores,
Is one, thine outraged Land abhors!
Since he—Deliverer as he was—
Through strange events to us,—Alas!
Deliverer,—as he thus was made,
Through Heaven's almighty Grace and Aid,
Moves—one of that detested band,
The Murderers of our Mother Land!—

514

From him must thou this instant part!”—
“Ah!—would I could!—this clinging heart
Can ne'er be severed from his own;—
Though worlds were wide, between them thrown!—
How can I check my feelings? how!—
How spurn,—forget,—forsake him now!—
How bear to see his sorrow?”—“Fly!”—
“'Twere vain—till death I love!”—“Then die!”—

XVIII.

The unhappy Father could no more;—
His breast he struck—his beard he tore,—
Then, wild implored his child to live,
And all his madness to forgive!
Together then, they knelt and prayed,
Imploring each Heaven's blessed aid,
With flowing tears—with murmured prayers—
They wrestled with their heart-despairs!
That gentle daughter, then, at length
Fast gathering, new, unwonted strength,
With steadfast voice—with cloudless eye—
Mastering the Master-Agony!—
Exclaimed, “My Father!—I will go!—
Forgive these tears, that yet will flow—
'Tis meet—'tis right that we depart;—
Lo!—I have crushed my rebel heart!
Yea!—I am ready! let us hence!—
Ere anguish wake yet more intense;—
Ere Sorrow,—in recoil too strong,
Drive all my shuddering soul along,—

515

At once—at once depart—ere yet
With new regrets, I sink beset!—
Oh!—Father!—snatch me hence!—Oh! save!—
Even should my refuge be,—my grave!”—

XIX.

With showers of tears—with bursts of sighs—
The Father shudderingly replies;—
Then, whispering tenderest words of praise,
Whose faultering tone his grief betrays—
Blesses his daughter's nobleness—
Her greatness 'midst her worst distress!
Her gentleness—and strength—and power—
All, shewn sublime, in this dark hour!
And then—while woe reflected woe—
While griefs to griefs, did gathering flow—
While mute Affliction made reply,
To the eloquence of Agony—
He bore her from that Place beloved—
Where first her soul's life, breathed and moved!
The only spot on Earth where shone,
The Sun for her, from heaven's far throne—
The Awakening and the Enlightening One!
The only spot where seemed to stir
A breath—a dream of Heaven for her!
But Lo!—'twas o'er—'twas past—and done—
The Vision and the Voice were gone!
The Vision of a bliss divine—
The Voice that said—“'Tis thine!—all thine!”

516

XX.

And now that dreadful word—Farewell,
Through her crushed soul, must sound its knell—
While every echo there shall wake—
Answer, eternally to make!
So shall it sound—sound on in gloom—
Through her wrung heart—that hollow tomb!
By Memories haunted evermore—
Which, sleepless, crowd that heart's sick core—
And only living on the Past,
Which shone too dazzlingly to last!
Ah!—there is Joy and Life alone—
Now nought but Memory is her own;—
Hope left behind on Life's dimmed shore!—
And Memory—Memory—all before!
But they departed—yes!—'tis done!—
She breathes Farewell to Air and Sun!
To Earth and Heaven—to Life and Death—
There is no rest—no calm—no breath!
Oh! Young Delights!—that sing like birds—
Your inner dreams—too sweet for words!
Like birds too,—plumaged radiantly,
But only plumaged so—to fly!
Ye seemed belonging once to Earth—
But soon, ye spurned its gloom and dearth!
Ye could not, or ye would not stay—
Ye passed to Heaven like clouds away!
Like Sun-touched clouds—that when they part—
Seem melting back to Heaven's own heart!

517

XXI.

Once more through Moscow's streets she trod—
Bowed, beneath Grief's stern chastening rod—
Yet beautifully desolate,—
And cloathed in Sorrow's queenly state;—
For Sorrow teacheth noble things,
To those that taste her bitter springs!
Above the World, the wounded heart,
Throned on the dust, can act its part;—
It seemeth lowest—and most lost,—
It conquereth—and it knoweth most!
It shakes the World, from off its wings—
And close to Heaven, it dwells and clings!
Aye!—close to Heaven!—though bowed in dust!—
For there is Heaven where breathes its trust!

XXII.

'Twas Evening's solemn gathering hour—
Red clouds paled off,—like flower by flower!
They paled and perished,—bloom by bloom—
While deepened dreamily the gloom!
De Courcy, pondering, moved along—
Moscow's deserted halls among!
Fair, through the twilight, glimmering shone,
Her pillared avenues of stone!
Where hide the hundred nations—where?—
That traversed these proud streets and fair?
When in her palmy days she towered
With wealth and pride, exhaustless, dowered!

518

Full many, to her sceptre proud—
That in allegiance, fain were bowed;
And many that from Climes afar,
Were beckoned, by her brilliant star—
Who left their homes and lands to dwell,
High on crowned Empire's Pinnacle!
These streets were trod not long ago,
By Rich and Poor—by high and low—
Native and stranger—many a one,—
And naturalized, adopted son!

XXIII.

Calpacked Armenians here were seen—
And brave Circassians fair of mien—
The blue-eyed Georgian—smooth and sleek—
The kilted, haughty, striding Greek!
Proud Polanders with flashing eye—
Whose every glance spoke Liberty!
And Jews that crouched with leer and whine—
With girdle coarse, and gabardine;—
And fair-haired Dane—and serious Swede—
And reindeer-vested Samoyede;—
Small-eyed Chinese—and Persian pale—
With robes that on the pavements trail!—
(Whose vestments, fashioned still remain,
As in the old days of Tamerlane!)
Bucharians too, and Cossacks wild—
And sunned Italia's dark-browed child!
And Spaniard swarth, whose fire-glance played
Beneath the broad Sombrero's shade;

519

And Mongol Tartar—strangely dressed
With quiver light—with opened vest;—
And casque of iron,—such, of yore—
As Attila, the Conqueror, wore!
All thronged these streets—and more—yet more!

XXIV.

Where bide they now?—thus swept away—
Like leaves on some autumnal day?
Where dwell the crowds, that hurried through,
Those streets, so mournful now to view?
Where—where are all, those busy scenes,
To which fond memory, lingering leans,
Processions gay—and joyous throngs—
Feasts—dances—sports—and games—and songs?
How oft at such an hour as this—
Pealed, echoing sounds, of harmless bliss?
While in the suburbs—gaily met,
Laughed many a merry-making set!
There did the Balalaika sound—
While danced the youths and maidens round;
With cheery shout, and graceful bound!—
The Balalaika—small and slight—
Whose notes to joy and mirth invite!
De Courcy gazed in sadness there—
And seemed to miss this joyaunce fair!—
For he had read of such—and sighed—
To look on change so wild and wide!
Here, too,—on smiling, festive eve,
When, Labour, freed—its task might leave,—

520

The light Barina's dance was seen
And then,—with graceful pause between;—
Another, calmer, and more grave—
Soft as the motion of the wave!
Reminding with its mazy turns—
Of dance pourtrayed, on the old Greek urns!

XXV.

But all these merry-makings seem,
Gone like the sweetness of a Dream!
And banished are the exultant throngs—
The feasts—the dances—and the songs!—
De Courcy, marked a mighty Church—
No pious crowds beseiged its porch—
Of Congregations reft—it stood
Hallowing the solemn solitude!
He entered—and with start and thrill—
Paused at the entrance—mute and still!
A thousand lighted tapers shed
A glorious light—far-glowing spread!
Shone decorated the altars all—
As for some sacred festival!—
Attesting thus—here, late had been,
Displayed a high and hallowed scene!
Here had the Patriarchs knelt and prayed—
And long invoked the Almighty's aid!
With the bowed people,—ere they passed
From Moscow's walls—high act and last!

521

XXVI.

Heaped offerings, rich, were meetly placed—
On shrines with artful carvings graced!
And silver vessels fair were seen—
Which grasped by sainted hands had been;—
And precious pictures were displayed—
Whose hues, too hallowed seemed,—to fade!
Eternal as the haloes shed,
Bright,—round some consecrated head!
He turned him, saddening from the sight,—
Ashamed of Victory's boast and might!
He left the Church—all darker frowned,
To his late dazzled senses round!
'Twas that still, deep, delicious hour—
When truths seem tales—when dreams have power,—
A thousand thoughts had swept his soul—
But now, they ceased to shine and roll!
They shrank like stars, when shines the Sun—
Before the Presence deep of One!—
That rose upon his spirit then—
As though it ne'er might set again!
And Loved and Lost One!—could that be,
Aught but a yearning thought of thee?
And now, Love's deep impassioned Dream,
Poured o'er his heart a sunny stream!—
And now, Love's Melancholy came—
To temper thoughts of light and flame!
That Melancholy, deep and sweet,
Where but too many transports meet!—

522

Till sinks, subdued, the languid breast,
By o'er delight's full depth oppressed;—
Till thoughts of flame and light are crossed
In that more precious darkness lost!—
And now, Love's jealous fears arose—
His self-nursed doubts, and restless woes!
These, wakening would not sleep again—
Settles the hovering heart on Pain!
'Tis still so here!—hopes fleet and fly—
Dreams—of their own deep beauty die—
And sweet rich thoughts—fade, lost in air—
The hovering heart but dwells,—on Care!—

XXVII.

And thus unto himself he said—
The while that heart within him bled—
“And doth she love me?—No!—ah! no!—
She could not love her Country's Foe!
It was a passing, baseless dream—
A bright,—but momentary gleam—
Part gratitude—and pity part—
She read my maddening—maddening heart!
She dreamed—perchance, she loved—'twas vain!—
I dreamed it, too!—but woke again!—
Those eyes—to which such soul is given—
With all their Beauty of the Heaven—
Methinks, too often looked on me,
With freezing, frozen brilliancy!
They struck—they smote my heart's deep fold—
Fair—glorious—wond'rous,—bright,—but cold!

523

Those looks, by trembling Memory brought—
Like crystal daggers, pierce my thought!
Daggers of ice!—they stab my soul—
Chilling and withering through the whole!
She loved me not!—I feel—I fear—
But Oh!—the love unbounded here!
The unbounded love in this deep breast—
That asks no change—yet hopes no rest!”

XXVIII.

Thus—all his thoughts like mourners moved—
But still he desolately loved!
Still fondly doating—he deplored—
And agonizing—more adored!
Still blushed before his dreaming eye,
His matchless Rose of Muscovy!
Though pallid Grief essayed to throw
Her dusky shroud, o'er Fancy's glow!
What shape is gliding through the gloom—
Still,—as some shadow of the tomb?—
With stealthiest step—with dubious tread—
As though on errand dark and dread?
Behind—a Form of statelier height—
Looms dim, upon the uncertain sight!
The foremost of the twain drew near—
Then cried De Courcy loud and clear—
“Thy name and need?—Stand! stranger!—stand!”
No voice replied!—a gentle hand
Outstretched—when ceased, that loud command,

524

Touched, tremblingly, his half-raised arm—
And fixed him there, as by a charm!—
Something instinctive,—inly told,
“'Tis Xenia that thine eyes behold!”

XXIX.

“Oh! speak!”—he cried;—“And is't then thou?—
My Life!—my Love!—Whence cam'st thou?—How?
And dar'st thou venture here when all,
Fly, scared, and shocked—from Moscow's wall?”
Then glanced he at the stranger tall—
For through the dimness he could see
'Twas not her sire—not Vassilii!
A stately man it was, and old—
Of haughty mien, and lofty mould—
A cloak of ponderous draperies fell,
Thrown round a frame it shrouded well;—
He stood in silence—still—unmoved,—
De Courcy turned to the Beloved,—
“Thou speak'st not!—but that loveliest voice—
Which oft hath bid this heart rejoice—
Thy Voice is in my soul!—I hear
With my full heart—though not mine ear!
That heart—thy voice seems now to fill—
The accents, anticipating still,
To which so oft 'twas taught to thrill,
With Love's own more than magic skill!
Yet Oh!—one word—in mercy tell—
Dost thou in guarded safety dwell?

525

I tremble!”—Then the Maiden spoke—
Her voice through tears and tremours broke—
Which rose to suffocate and choke!

XXX.

To the aged man she pointed there—
Who stood with deep, abstracted air
As though dark thoughts, oppressed his heart
In grief and gloom—a space apart,
Then murmuring low—she said his home
Had sheltered them 'mid storm and gloom!
That he through Life, had long been proved,
Her father's firmest friend beloved!
That housed in secret—safely well,—
No dangers threaten, where they dwell!
That thousands lodge, like them concealed—
As, chance, ere long, might be revealed!
Then, faultering, said she,—she had come—
From out her subterraneous home—
To seek De Courcy—and to give
Hints—warnings—he must needs receive!
From secret source unknown, her Sire—
Had learned strange tidings, deep and dire—
(Himself, she said, much ill had borne—
By journeyings long, and griefs o'erworn—
And she had urged—and pressed—repose,—
Lest Life should with those labours close!
Else he, De Courcy's side, had sought
To shew his doubt, and speak his thought!—)
Those tidings were of solemn weight,—
Believed they both, 'twas stamped in Fate—

526

That Moscow, soon, the scene should be,
Of some most dread catastrophe!
Short space she paused—then faultering still—
Said—watchful care might ward the ill,—
That, even her Father wished to save,
Doomed thousands, from a timeless grave!
Perplexed—De Courcy asked—from whence,—
From whom,—should come the unknown offence?

XXXI.

Then faint she whispered, “Yesternight!”
While round she glanced in wild affright—
“Say!—yesternight did none suspect—
Rose not the Fire from lax neglect?
From reckless thoughtlessness of those—
Who deemed they reached their labour's close?
—Alas!”—De Courcy, wondering, prayed—
While still, to soothe her he essayed—
That farther she would yet explain—
Teach,—prove—and prompt,—but 'twas in vain!
Mysterious hints and dubious words—
Alone that quivering voice affords!
'Twas vain, more close details to crave—
These scattered hints, alone, she gave!

XXXII.

Then, calming down his labouring breast—
Her yielded hand he fondly pressed—
“And ere I go,—Beloved!”—he cried,
“To warn of woes that may betide—

527

Oh! tell me, in thy gentlest heart—
I yet have portion high, and part?
Tell me thou lov'st me still!—for Life,
If not—is all one hopeless strife!
One Agony of Thoughts—whose sting—
Shall long, with killing keenness, wring!
Then—struck by Death's deep, withering chill—
Those thoughts shall writhe in Anguish still!—
Still Reign—Immortal in their Ill!
Oh! say thou lovest me!”—And she said,—
“Shame on thine own dumb heart and dead!
Canst thou still love?—and dar'st thou dream—
Such Love can pass, like Meteored beam?
Such feelings, fade, like rainbowed gleam?”

XXXIII.

“My Xenia!—blessed be thy rebuke—
The indignant sweetness of that look;—
Chance what may chance—I now am blest—
My world is all within my breast!
For others, I may watchful prove—
For me—Life—Death—are lost in Love!
Since Life—since Death—for me shall be—
But that deep feeling—full and free,
That Love, my whole of Destiny!
Nay!—part not yet!—sweet Xenia!—think!—
We meet—we part—on Fate's stern brink;
Thou wilt not then!—or canst not stay?
Ah!—dearest!—deign for us to pray—

528

Lift thy pure voice in precious prayer—
And make our fates thy gentle care!
Then, listening Heaven will surely deign—
Avert our punishment and pain!
Pray for the Aggressors!—Pray for those—
Who rack thy Land from its repose!—
Who come, with brand and bolt, to smite—
Pray for the Dark Ones!—Soul of Light!”

XXXIV.

“For them!—For us!—For all who breathe—
All Pilgrims of this Earth beneath!
For all my prayers incessant soar—
I breathe out prayers at every pore!
Since I must pray for Friend—for Foe,—
Blent in mine Oraison's deep flow!
On pitying Heaven, must ceaseless call—
For Foes—for Friends—in risk,—or thrall!—
For those who foil,—for those who fall,
And thee—thee—thee—above them all!”
Nor further word the Damsel spoke,—
Abruptly from his hold she broke;—
And darting down the shadowy street—
With waving veil and winged feet—
Was lost at once to his strained sight—
Whose soul seemed following on her flight!

XXXV.

He turned to where the Stranger stood—
In solemn and abstracted mood!—

529

Propped 'gainst those columns tall, and fair,
The Stranger stood no longer there!
Nor more De Courcy loitered then—
But, swift, retraced his steps again;—
His Chiefs and high Superiors sought—
To tell those tidings he had brought;—
And well the immediate need pourtrayed,
That all, prepared, should stand, arrayed;
He deemed the Authorities and Powers,
Strict watch should set through those dark hours,
That 'gan to veil proud Moscow's towers;
While seemed impending dangers deep,
Round all—like Night's own shades to sweep!
(Even such, as might,—those shades beneath—
Change half an Empire's sleep—to death!)
But little seemed the tale believed—
Those tidings lightly were received!
And well his thought might blame the excess—
Of their contemptuous carelessness;
Indignant well, Eugene might be,
At their strange sluggish apathy!
And still he watched—while thousands round,
In slumber's deepest thrall were bound!

END OF CANTO XIII.

531

CANTO XIV.

I.

Deep from an hundred clock-towers broke—
The midnight hour's far-sounding stroke—
Which burst upon De Courcy's ear,
With ominous, dull sound and drear!
Rose gradually before his sight,
A dubious gleam of wavering light!
Till sudden,—kindling high and higher—
Flashed out long wreath, and pointed spire!
“Awake!—Ye slumberers!—Rouse ye!—Fire!”—
Full soon was given the wild alarm,—
Prophetic of portentous harm;—
Roused multitudes from sleep now driven
Gazed on flushed Earth and reddening Heaven!
Gazed on the strange and awful sight,
In startled wonder and affright!
Appalled the astonished thousands stood—
A chained and breathless multitude!

532

The illuminated Earth and Sky,
Bewildered—dazzled—every eye!
Proud Palaces—which seemed that day,
To meet Heaven's sunny beams half-way,
And cast them on the Earth as though
'Twas their own splendour's native glow—
Now reeled and rocked—then sank consumed—
In their own ruins fast entombed!
Fair Fanes—that had for centuries long,
'Gainst Weather—War—and Time—stood strong—
For some brief space all feebly braved,
That Element which round them raved!
Then fell—like Veterans on a field
Where they no powerful arms might wield!

II.

The fierce flames, mount on every side—
As threatening Heaven with impious pride!
Loud echo, falling piles that round
Heap ashy mountains on the ground,
That ground—which seems to start and shake—
Where they, brief earthquake, rushing make!
Seem sights and sounds in mockery's mirth—
Thunders and Lightnings of the Earth!
'Twas from the North, on that fell night,
The strong wind, swept in deadly might!
And drove the flames—and fiercely rolled—
Right towards the Kremlin's Sacred Hold!

533

Within whose circuit dwelt thy Boast—
Oh! France!—and Flower of thy dread Host!
Showered sparks, and kindling fragments fly,
Thick, o'er its roofs of Royalty!

III.

But sudden changed the shifting wind—
As in capricious transport blind!—
From North to West with favouring haste—
Changed hurryingly the inconstant blast;
Seemed thus o'erpast that danger dire!
The Kremlin shall be spared from fire!
But yet—not so!—they wondering saw—
With deepening dread—and wakening awe—
From new directions wildly burst,
The flames fresh-kindling as at first!
And threatening still, with fearful stride,
The glorious Kremlin's place of pride!
Still pointing thus—still pressing there,
As though they would not save and spare!
Three times the Power that none may bind,—
Three times—the furious-rushing wind,
Changed, in that wild tremendous night,
Of blank dismay, and mad affright!
And three times did those hostile fires,
With all their coils,—and crests,—and spires,—
Dart forth—as with determined aim—
The Kremlin's towering pride to tame;
And those now sheltered by its wall,
To whelm in its o'erwhelming fall!—

534

Howe'er the wind might change—the Flame
From some fresh dangerous quarter came;
Howe'er might shift the inconstant blast,
The answering fires, too, shifted fast!
The varying Conflagration dread,
Thus, still the varying gales, obeyed;
And well might strong suspicion seize
Their minds—who mark such signs as these—
And well might they these horrors deem—
Born of some dark and desperate scheme!—

IV.

Moscow!—their Conquest and their Spoil—
Wert thou to burn,—their Funeral Pile?—
Shall Moscow perish from the earth
With those who razed her pride and worth?—
This dreadful Patriotism stung,
To pitch of hideous phrenzy—flung
Betwixt Great Russia and Her Foe—
(Threatening the hostile threateners so!—)
This Chaos—desolate and wild—
This Chaos—from Her Ruins piled!
This wreck and fragment of a World,
From pinnacle of Glory hurled!—
They struggled to subdue in vain
Those flames—which seemed to grow and gain;—
'Gainst which they strained their fruitless strength,
Till all was wild despair at length!
Report on dark report was spread,—
Gloomed each, more sinister and dread;

535

Through all those hours of drear suspense—
Unsoothed,—and breathlessly intense!
Among these vague but dire reports,
Rose one, that the ancient Kremlin's courts
A Powder-Magazine contained,
Unknown to those who there remained—
(Though scarce this tale was ascertained!)
Withal 'twas said, that there had been,
Beneath the Emperor's casement e'en,
Drawn up on that ill-omened night
Of wild disaster—wreck and blight—
As though no fair escape might chance,
To save the unconquered Lord of France,
A Park of dread Artillery,—(placed
Where well that warlike scene, it graced;)
With the ammunition this required,—
Was courted ruin then desired?—
Seemed the act by prompting fiends inspired!—
Such reckless negligence it shewed—
Such murderous harm 'twould seem to bode!—
If they—the French, had placed it there,
In absence strange, of watchful care—
Or if their Foes—with matchless art,
Had stealthwise, played that treacherous part;—
While posted carelessly, and chained,
By slumberous thrall, the Guards remained;
Too blind to threatening dangers, round—
O'erpowered, by wearying toils, profound!

536

V.

Eternal Powers!—each burning brand—
Obedient to the gale's command—
Each shooting sparkle,—glittering there,
An Empire's,—Emperor's Fate might bear!—
Thus,—France!—may end in one wild hour
Thy Might—Pre-eminence—and Power!—
With Him who built thee to a Throne—
And bade all realms thy mastery own!—
The Wind's fierce rage rose more and more,
The flames with desolating roar,
From every quarter rushed amain,
The Kremlin's Kingly heights to gain!
The Wind rose more and more, and sped
Fresh devastation still to spread—
Attracted and increased it seemed,
(While free the fiery banners streamed,)
By that combustion, huge and high,
Till boundless raged its revelry!
All efforts seem exhausted now—
The awe-stricken crowds despairing bow!
They struggle,—but to yield and fail—
Their might proves here of no avail!
This giant champion of their foe,
Dread Fire!—they feel shall yet o'erthrow!
It glares like Sword of Cherub, waved
Before the Patriot's Eden—saved!

537

VI.

Nay!—rouse ye!—nerve ye yet again—
Yet try what seemeth void and vain!
Shall his triumphant star not shine,
To bid these lurid lights decline?
Think on Napoleon's glorious star—
And wage once more the unequal War!—
'Tis hopeless all!—in savage ire
Spreads the ocean of devouring fire—
The work of thousands still it mocked,
The City's fountains, too, were blocked;
That all might be accomplished well,
Were these made inaccessible!
The numerous water-pipes were all
Found cut,—with care methodical;
The engines that had been employed
With power effective, were destroyed;
Lest, mighty agents,—these should prove—
And danger's deadliest chance, remove;
While the Element—which strengthened rose—
Still laughed at all that would oppose!—
That glorious Element and dire,—
The raging and resistless fire!

VII.

Fast thickening, rose reports confused—
Now thousands, shuddered, disabused,

538

No chance—no accident was here—
'Twas deep design, and purpose drear!
'Twas whispered,—on that first stern night,
When Moscow, bowed to foreign might—
On Prince Trubetskoi's palace proud,
Was seen—though then 'twas scarce avowed,—
Attached and fixed—a fire balloon
That kindled—caught—consumed it soon!
This seemed the signal!—flames at once
Rushed from the Exchange, in fierce response—
Stray Russian soldiers of police,
(Left free, by passive armistice,)
Of desperate and ferocious mien,
Loose scattered, here and there were seen,
Up-stirring still with lances tarred—
The flames, they watched to spread and guard,
Lest these be spent!—and Moscow spared!
Strange that ere this—each thought, each sense—
Seemed fallen on fatal negligence!
That none even chanced to tell or shew—
All they had seen presaging woe!—

VIII.

Fire-balls had been discovered hid,
Deserted domes and halls, amid;—
Dread howitzer-shells in many a stove—
(Round which glad groupes did thoughtless move,—
So well their deadly web they wove,
Who 'gainst their foes unflinching strove!)

539

Had late discharged themselves—and round
Had spread sharp death, or ghastly wound,—
Maiming and mutilating those,
Who there claimed refuge and repose!
While through that dreadful night of woe—
Still glided figures to and fro—
Wild—spectre-like—whose very look
Was like malignant Planet's stroke!
In hideousness these glanced and glared,
Fierce-eyed, and swarth, and shaggy-haired,
With tattered garbs and phrenzied air—
They sped—the message of despair;
Some, mad with drunkenness, aloud,
Went shouting high—elate and proud—
And grasping in their desperate hands,
Huge torches bright—and burning brands;
Staggering, in their ferocious joy,
And boastful of their dire employ,
They hurrying, took their fatal way,
Still aiding deep Destruction's sway—
Wide brandishing, in reckless wrath,
Those torches—flashing o'er their path
And spreading—with assiduous care—
The gathering Conflagration there!—

IX.

'Mongst these, weird women met the eye,
That played their part, right horribly,

540

Like snake-haired furies—these appeared
Foul apparitions—shunned and feared!
Nor sought those wretches, shroud, nor shade,
But passed in triumph of parade,
Throughout those blazing streets—where they
Gave aid to the elements' fierce sway—
Armed with their brandished torches thus,
Were caught these fiends iniquitous!
So reckless they, and madly bold,
That ere their hands relaxed their hold,
The French were forced to strike them down—
With the unsheathed sabres in their own!—
'Twas said this horde of bandits wild—
The obscene, and desperate, and defiled,
This crew of haggard furies foul—
That onwards swept with shriek and howl;
These dregs of dungeons—were unpent,
And loosed in wide enfranchisement—
For this fell purpose—deep and dire—
Sowers and gatherers-in of fire!—
This action—all of Worst and Best,
Could Patriot-love, alone, suggest,
Aye!—nought but Patriotism plan,
Point out—and prompt, to mortal man,
And while even that watched pale and mute—
Guilt—Guilt—alone could execute!—

X.

'Twas straight ordained, that on the spot
The accursed Incendiaries be shot!

541

The army was on foot—the Old Guard
Stood under arms, and well prepared,
Throughout that awful night of woe
To march—should Fate command it so!—
Masters of Moscow!—must ye then
Track through the wilds your paths again?—
Or bivouacked, watch, without Her Gates—
Where ambushed, chance, the Avenger waits,
Deprived of sustenance and hope,
Shade, rest, and peace—must ye thus droop?—
Masters of Moscow!—shall ye find
Your Conquest,—the ashes on the wind?—
Thus only claimed, to be resigned?—
At length the ghast and dreary day,
That could not dawn with the opening grey,
Of welcomed Morn's first trembling ray—
(For scarce 'twas seen till rose the sun—)
Shone mournfully these scenes upon;—
That Day seemed like that Night's pale ghost—
The dread still there—the splendour lost!—

XI.

Now sought the Kremlin's battled walls,
Chieftains,—who staggering, crossed its halls
Where many a one, exhausted, falls!
Mortier himself o'ercome—o'erworn—
With all he had essayed and borne,
Dropped, swooning, at the threshold there—
Weighed down by faintness and despair!—

542

That day passed o'er in hideous gloom,
Earth seemed to grow one ardent tomb!
Another night came on at last—
Worse than that Night of Torments past!—
Seemed Heaven—and Earth—deep mingling there,
In one vast universal glare,
All changed to flame—all wildly blent—
Strange Chaos of One Element!—
As though all ruin to rehearse—
A Second Chaos—and a worse!
This seemed to feel, in conscious ire—
There Fire seemed something worse than Fire!—
Wave!—Russia!—wond'rous Russia!—wave
Thy boundless banners, broad and brave—
Thy meteor standards past all pride—
Lightnings of lustres far and wide—
Beyond all glory—boast—and fame,
Uplift the earth-dazzling oriflamme!
Advance thy flags of Fire,—so bright,
With torrid glare—and bloody light!
Shake out those banner-folds—and turn
Rallying once more—thou strong and stern!—
Abroad let these terrific burn!
Glares thy crowned pyramid of pyres,
A thousand lights,—and thousand fires!
As though to drive the spheres on high,
Yet farther,—up the affrighted sky;
And, say!—doth flushed and crimsoned Earth
Thus burst and bound to haughtier birth?—

543

Doth Earth exhale Herself above—
And Upwards—Heavenwards—Onwards—move!—
In that vast star-y-pointing blaze,
Startling all Nature with amaze,
As though she rose a thousand ways;
Aye!—rose on rushing wings of Flame—
With soaring strife—and awful aim!
Say! doth she mount and mount—and make
Progress—with which all space must shake?—
All worlds and systems thrill, if so,
She breaks her bounds—and freed, doth go—
Unchecked—unchained—and flashing far—
A wandering, fresh erratic star!—
Changed to one Comet-world of dread,
Through boundless space, thus urged and sped!
Changed to one Comet-world of wrath,
Shot maddening through its crackling path;
Shot far along its sounding way—
Magnificently dread display!
So seems that festival of flame—
Which none may check—and nought may tame;
That crowning Conflagration dire,
No less—than such a world on fire!

XII.

Lo! men go mad with shocked surprise—
With deafened ears—with dazzled eyes—
'Twas made a torture but to see,
That red and racking revelry!

544

Seems now the scene—with haughtier glare—
As though the Sun himself was there!
The great Sun, lashed to billows high,
Like the mad Sea's storm-agony!—
Such waves of flame and light, toss free—
As though the Sun were made a Sea!—
Rose the equinoctial gales of might,
Still high and higher on that dread night,
While roared that surging Sea—and rocked—
(Till storm was as a vain thing mocked!)
Whirlwinds with whirlwinds clashed and shocked—
Mad Tempests raged 'gainst Tempests fierce—
Might such unbuild the universe!—
De Courcy braved the unbounded ire
Of storm and night—of wind and fire—
And through that blazing tempest moved,
O'erwhelmed with fears for her he loved!
Still tortured by those racking fears,
For one—each hour—each thought endears;
Not long had he, with bending form,
Staggered through that chaotic storm,
Ere he hath met with her he sought—
She, too, with that fierce storm hath fought!—

XIII.

Oh!—Woman!—flood—and field—and flame—
Have known thy soul-steeled—heart-nerved frame!—
Aye! There she stands before his eyes,
Strained from their sockets with surprise,

545

With anguished eagerness and fear—
For, Oh!—dread Powers!—what doth she here?—
Surrounded by ferocious men,
Heavens!—must he see Her thus again!
The broad illuminating glare,
Too faithfully discovered there,
That scene, which racked with new despair!
'Tis Xenia!—paler than when first
He saw her 'midst a throng accursed!
Yet lovely, past what words may tell,
Bright angel in that fiercer Hell!—

XIV.

'Tis Her!—'tis Her!—Oh! could it seem
But some unearthly baseless dream;—
When did he think on her to gaze,
The star, whose soul-light sunned his days!
And wish, with longings uncontrouled,
That severing worlds between them rolled;—
'Twas Her—and by her side appeared
That Father—with the snow-white beard!—
Burst on his shocked and shuddering sight,
With agonized amaze to smite,
The old Priest's proud form—tall, gaunt and spare,—
And Oh!—wild fullness of Despair!—
That daughter's mild, angelic air,—
In mortal dread, yet heavenly fair;
And must it be their doom to die?—
His soul asks there in agony;

546

For maddened savages around
Have darkly circled them, and bound;
One victim fallen, already lies—
Hoarse, gasping out Life's latest sighs—
Even now o'er Xenia's head, high raised,
The threatening sabre bickering blazed,
Even now the sheathless dagger keen,
Aimed 'gainst the Father's breast was seen—
De Courcy,—like the impetuous levin,
Through splintered barriers, conquering driven,
With supernatural strength hath sprung,
That wild infuriate groupe, among;—
Hath dashed to earth the murderous brand
From out the maddening monster's hand
Himself hath reeling, staggering sent,
In ghastly fear and wonderment!
His comrades, too, blenched—scattered wide
While plunged he on with sweeping stride!—

XV.

His arms abroad he fiercely flung—
With giant strength seemed these new strung!
These seemed with hundred strengths new-nerved,—
The yelling miscreants shrank and swerved!
So through the parted waters driven,
Might glance the armed thunderbolts of Heaven!—
Back, like the loose spray of the sea,
He drove that savage soldiery!
In white-lipped awe, they thus gave back—
Along their blood-stained, slippery track!

547

The old venerable Priest, he strives
To bear away, if yet he lives,
But gore is gushing fast—too fast—
From wounds Eugene now marks aghast;—
And, Xenia, loveliest, most distressed?—
Ah!—scarless still her beauteous breast!
She bends in anguish o'er her Sire,—
“Oh!—Father!—Father!”—words expire!—
Sighs die upon her lips—her hands
She wrings—and there half-lifeless, stands!
But now with vengeance-flashing glance,
That scared—that 'wildered—troop advance;
(Though they would cloak their rage awhile,—
Would shroud beneath a specious guile;
And hide their dogged hate and dire,
And disappointment's maddening ire!)
And now, with prompt excuse, they strive
Fair motives, for their deeds to give;
To skreen their guilt—to shake off blame—
Since fain would they make clear their fame;
Nay,—more!—would commendations claim!
Their tongue's harsh strain—their breath's hot reek—
Their injured innocence, would speak!—
And prove their right, unquestioned, still
To crush—to torture—and to kill!
They fain would 'gainst the Youth retort,
Grave charges stern of dangerous sort;
They 'plained them, of the officious part
He played—their rightful course to thwart;

548

Still muttering,—“'Twas our Chief's commands
That those who torches bore, and brands—
Should die the death beneath our hands!”—

XVI.

But here, the Priest's deep voice was heard,
Seemed truth impressed on each clear word,—
“I sought with him who murdered lies—
His generous ardour's sacrifice—
To wrest from those who strove, indeed,
The flames to kindle and to spread;—
The torches that they waved on high,
For this were we condemned to die!—
And well the truth yon wretches knew—
But—mad for massacre—they slew!—
And bared 'gainst blameless breasts, their blade,
So help me Heaven with grace and aid!”—
But murmured oaths are gathering thick,—
“What!—faints the youth so tender-sick!—
For sake of this old patterer's child?
('Twere pity such young fame were soiled!—)
Nay, none shall deem our steel defiled;
Let him who stamps brave men and true
As murderers—pause lest he should rue!—
Lest murderers he should make them be—
To venge such foul indignity!”—
And while they speak they wax more wroth—
Murmur meets murmur—oath drowns oath—
Threats rise on threats—till fiercely turned
De Courcy—and with mockery spurned!—

549

XVII.

“Back!—bloodhounds!—want ye victims yet?—
Some orphaned babe may ye beset—
Some old bedridden hag, who crawls
Abroad—all scared by shattered walls!”—
Ere yet the words were spoken through,
Enraged they then their strife renew,
Gnashing their fangs, like brutes of prey,
They drive along their dangerous way—
They swarm—they close—they strive to bear
The wounded from his guardian there!
Fresh wild confusion, gathereth round,
Hoarse shouts, and volleyed threats resound,
Fierce thrusts are given—repelled—returned—
'Mid Fires, that Fiery conflict burned!
And had those flames enwrapped them all,
And circled close, with scorching thrall,
By one, at least, unfelt had been—
Their torturing terrors, quick and keen!
So in De Courcy's breast the flame
Burned high—the Sun's own heat to shame,—
An hundred hearts of hate and scorn,—
That, high and higher,—throbbed, stung and torn,
An hundred hearts appeared to fire
That frame, which quaked with deadliest ire!—
An hundred warriors' strength to be,
In that arm's matchless potency;—
He hurled them fiercely from his path—
Scattered and shattered them in wrath—

550

Not thus mad lashing bulls at bay,
Toss the gored ban-dogs from their way,—
Not thus the eagle strikes his prey;
At length—unshaken and untired—
With ever growing fury fired—
A wound is dealt him by some hand,
'Mid that infuriate, desperate band!
Still had they sought to bend—not crush,—
Not with his blood, their blades to flush,—
And now they marked the trickling gore,
They urged the unequal strife no more!
They wavered—paused—retreated—fled—
And left him with the faint, and dead!—

XVIII.

A moment staggering back he bent,
And 'gainst a pillar's prop he leant;
But quickly rallied from the shock;—
Sharp, but not dangerous, proved the stroke—
He hastened to the side of him,
Whose failing eye grew filmed and dim,
There white, with wordless, tearless, grief—
Knelt Xenia—ministering relief—
Such poor relief as she could give,
To him who wished for her to live;—
She chafed his hands with tenderest care—
Then wiped, with long unbanded hair,
From his changed brow, the death-damps there!—
Now move his ashen lips in prayer—
And hush!—his voice comes faint and mild—
Listens with aching love his child!

551

For Her he prays—with her dear name
Entwined,—a prayer for Russia came—
Then Heaven's great mercy he implored—
Even for her enemies abhorred!—

XIX.

“Oh, Father, live! and there shall be
No more of wars and enmity!—
Thy powerful prayers shall these remove,
And bring to Earth the banished Love!”—
Sudden, a thought more sharp than death,
Came drinking up his dying breath,—
“Oh, Heaven!—my Child!—Oh! ghastly thought!—
An hundred deaths by this are brought—
And must I leave thee in thy worth,
Thy loveliness,—alone on earth?
'Midst ruffians—revellers—murderers—here,—
Oh! weight!—Oh!—mountains of that Fear!—
Thou dead, too,—faithful friend—and tried;—
Michael!—stretched breathless by my side!
No friend—protector—guardian!—none;—
'Mid these wild wrecks and deserts, lone!
And wilder men—and wilder Fate—
Must—must I leave thee desolate?”
His soul—in maddening Anguish stern—
Seemed racked on these stern thoughts to burn!
Not Xenia's self could comfort give—
She could but hope to cease to live!—
But pray—to perish and expire
With her much-loved—her slaughtered Sire,

552

For Oh!—should she survive,—what dread,
What doom, frowns gathering o'er her head—
Still muttered he, with thrilling tone,—
“No guardian—friend—defender—none!”

XX.

Kneeled down De Courcy wildly there—
With suppliant and with reverent air,—
“Let me that Friend—that Guardian—prove;—
Oh!—trust this treasure to my love;
Let me that sworn Protector be,—
This instant wed thy child to me!”
He pointed where a Fane towered high
Before them,—“Lo! that Church hard by!—
But thither let me bear thy weight—
There seal our mournful nuptials straight!”
The torturing struggle you might trace,
Upon that dying sufferer's face!
He muttered,—“Must it then be so?
Sweet Saints!—the Frenchman and the Foe!
Oh! must it be?—I faint!—I bleed!—
Death nears!—it must!—Haste! speed!—Yes! speed!”
And with the exertion and despair—
The phrenzied Agitation there—
The black blood wells in swiftlier flow,
From each convulsive burst of woe!
Nor further word De Courcy spoke—
To Xenia threw one anguished look,—
Then raised within his arms that form,
Which yet with breathing life was warm!

553

For her—in fixed despair she bent—
Nor breathed denial, nor assent!
Her hands sustained that fainting head—
Herself with wonder—misery—dread,—
Aghast and pallid—seemed half-dead!
So entered they the Sacred Porch—
So passed through the aisles of that proud Church!

XXI.

Alas!—there flashed the splendours dire—
The fatal radiancies of Fire!
And all the glorious scene around—
With that terrific pomp was crowned!
And glorious was that scene in sooth—
No language could describe its truth!—
No language could its pride pourtray—
The enchantment of the effect convey!
Shone out each rich and jewelled shrine—
As though new-touched, with light divine!
Gleamed many a costly crucifix,
Of ivory and of sardonyx!—
And vessels bright—and treasures rare—
And crowded sculptures strangely fair!
Festooned and fringed around with fire—
That spreads yet wider—mounts yet higher!
In part already these are seen—
Smitten by those red kindlings keen!
The magic scene almost appears—
Such brightness marvellous, it wears—
(Till scarce its various parts can be
Viewed separate—unconfusedly!)

554

Like some vast cave where overhead,
Thick stalactites like stars are spread!
The mighty Altar splendid shines—
As with the hoards of hundred mines;
Deep crimsoning with the flames ablaze—
It seems to their uncertain gaze!
Such bright reflections there are shot,
Though yet those flames have touched it not;
The massive gilded pillars near—
Pillars of living fire appear!
Seems all the glorious canopy,
A meteored firmament to be!
The golden Dove—suspended there—
With glittering wings outstretched so fair—
Floats in an atmosphere too bright—
Painful and terrible with light!

XXII.

The brazen table's sacred pride—
With hues of burning depth is dyed!
Bathed in a flood of colourings deep—
Its cloth of gold doth downwards sweep!
Burthening the precious pavements old,
With its most splendent kingly fold!
Gold crosses rich, laid there outshine—
Spread on that hallowed slab divine!
And Gospel copies—fair and sheen—
There—clustered thick with gems are seen!
And all are sunned and flushed with rays
Of crimsoning Conflagration's blaze;—

555

But those who at that altar knelt—
They little saw—too much they felt!
Too much they felt while doubt and dread—
And pain and grief—weighed down each head!

XXIII.

The dying Priest with glazing eyes—
Pale—bleeding like a sacrifice—
All trembling joins their trembling hands—
And binds them in the holiest bands!
While hoarse, the faint-gasped accents came—
For agony possessed his frame!
And thickening, crept the murmuring Death,
Upon his shortened, fluttering breath!
And blindly groping, sought he now,
To touch and bless each drooping brow!
His quivering hands upon their heads—
Those cold, white, withered hands he spreads—
And faultering faint, the Blessing spoke—
Which from that labouring breast scarce broke!
Still faster—thicker—blacker—gushed,
The outpouring blood that reeking, rushed!
His priestly garments, dabbled o'er—
Where gapes the wound—stream, soaked in gore!—
But all this time, how sadly bright—
That groupe shone circled round with light!
Although to their distracted eye,
Dark—dark was made such dazzlery!
Full on the deep-haired Priest, whose breath
Was hurrying, gasp by gasp, to death;—

556

A flood of glorious hues was shed—
That showered strange pomp, around his head!
That rained strong radiance there,—which breaks
O'er weighed-down lids, and shrivelled cheeks;
In sooth, in midst of glory there,
He dwells—with Death and with Despair!—
Like Saints, that pictured round, appeared,
Flowed amber-coloured down, his beard;—
His furrowed forehead, sparkling gleamed—
As there a heavenly halo streamed!
The upturned, death-swimming, white-rolled eyes—
Were touched with dazzling brilliancies!

XXIV.

And Oh!—where beauteous Xenia knelt—
What splendours round her seemed to melt!
There glanced, and brightened more and more,
Far-flaming gules and flashing or;
And azure bright—and emerald shade—
And argent clear,—that varying played,
These made her garb one sumptuousness—
Till stars and rainbows seemed her dress!
(Roseate and golden, fold by fold,
It heaped the floors of marbles old!
With beauty—wond'rous to behold
Its wave-like draperies glistering rolled!—)
For lit by flames that fast advanced—
The deep-stained windows glowed and glanced;—
Flushed with hot dyes, where stood they placed—
'Mid grot-like arches interlaced—
With shapes, and signs, and shows o'ertraced!

557

(Like dazzling heavenly heraldries,—
The shields and 'scutcheons of the skies!)
Thick showered they round those royal hues;
Their pride to spread,—and to diffuse,
Till flushign dyes were poured around,
With depth of blaze etherial, crowned;
Till tints o'er aisles and shrines were strown—
Such as the tropic Morn pours down!—
Where forests fair, or blue, blue sea,
Burned up with brightness seem to be!
The emblazonings and traceries fair,
Gleamed trebly bright in that vast glare;—
While paintings hallowed and sublime—
Long mellowed by the touch of time,
That teach the heart on high to spring,
As though with strong, and dreadless wing,
Shone bright, like Visions new-vouchsafed,
To mortal souls, by misery chafed!

XXV.

There Angels and Archangels crowned,
Made solemn all the scene around—
Apostles, Saints, and Martyrs, stood—
Hallowing that air, dyed red as blood!
As red as their own blood whose flow,
Was blessed—and whose high fruits are so!
And Patriarchs high—Church-Fathers old—
Were made a glory to behold!
Girt round are these—and framed—and wrought—
Beyond the imagining of thought—

558

With precious jewelleries of cost—
Half in the enshrouding splendours lost!
Burthened and veiled with ornament—
Around them showered munificent!
And now the glare that hath no bound,
Doth even with tenfold pomp surround;
Great Prophets!—could your pictured lips—
So soon to fade in long eclipse—
Ere yet the fatal fire consumes,
Speak forth in tones to pierce the tombs—
And shew the Destiny of Ill,
That waits the Man of godless Will;
How wonder—deepening, into awe,
Should praise Heaven's vindicated law!

XXVI.

The Priest—the Father—faints!—he dies!
No!—roll once more his dull-filmed eyes!
Proffered the absolving cross, his child—
He gazed, with glance serene and mild,
Then clasped it with a death-smile faint,—
The death-smile of a parting Saint!
His limbs stretched fluttering there,—his head
Drooped on her shoulder!—Is he dead?
Aye!—on the wings of Faith and Love—
His soul hath sought their home above!
One shriek from her wrung bosom came
Loud o'er the roaring Voice of Flame—
Then sank she down his form beside—
Still—still—as though she too, had died!

559

De Courcy strove to rouse and raise—
More near—more near—wild threatening plays,
The Encroaching Fire—to shock his gaze!—
She clings with strange and frightful force—
To her loved Father's breathless corse!

XXVII.

“My Xenia!—Hence!—Oh! Hence!—behold—
More fast yon fiery waves are rolled!
Hence!—or we die!—thou shalt not stay!”
“First hack these faithful hands away!—
Since—Ah!—they are growing to his clay!”
Thus moaned she with such sigh as bears,
The hoarded agonies of years—
Hushed—faint—and low—but well he heard—
Through rush and roar each whispered word!
Hark!—hark!—what wonders fresh are here?—
Flung wide the portals huge appear!
And trampling through those portals rode,
A troop that wild disorder shewed!
A troop of dazzling horsemen led,
By haughty Chief, with high-plumed head;
Within this Church,—which they believed
Yet stood from fiery doom reprieved—
They sought Asylum —purposed there—
To fix awhile their quarters fair;
But erè they might their chargers check—
They marked those flames, that wreathe and deck!

560

Soon then, they wheeled their war steeds round—
That, floundering struck, that slippery ground;—
That smooth, broad pavement-floor,—which ne'er,—
Before such weight unblessed, might bear!
Which ne'er before might groan beneath
Such godless guests in haste and wrath!—

XXVIII.

Resounding long the hoof's sharp clang—
Even through the flames' fierce clamour rang!—
Whilst struggling wild and well each steed—
Spur-touched—bounds back, with headlong speed!
(Though some, with laboured effort sore,
Mad plunging, gained their feet once more,
Whose straggling step and faultering stride,
Had rued that polished pavement's pride;)
The Pavement's sounding stones they spurned—
The echoing vaults the clang returned!
Dashed back through those broad portals fast,
The armed horsemen like the furious blast!
The Wind through the opened portals rushed—
The Fires, far-spreading, ruddier blushed—
The passage of that hurrying Band
Their very motions, sure, have fanned
Those flames, to fiercer,—worse command;
They rose—they raged—with dreadful might,
And, fast, shook wide, their deadly light!
With loving violence and haste,
Eugene then clasped his Xenia's waist—
To snatch her, 'gainst her own sweet will,
From that dread scene,—though shrieked she still!—

561

She shrieked—and clung with wild dismay
To that beloved—but breathless clay,—
Which there did mute and passive lie,—
All—all of goodness that could die!
She struggled in distracted grief—
Till shook her form like fluttering leaf;
“Bear him, too, hence!”—rings loud that shriek—
But faint with loss of blood and weak,
He, heedless now, must hear her speak!
Her weight can he support alone—
'Tis well her darkened sense hath flown—
She swoons—she sinks—Oblivion's cloud,
Hath wrapped her round with pitying shroud;
Now, loaden with her worshipped charms—
His world within his circling arms—
Staggering—he hurries on to save,
That all he lives for—from the grave!
That rolling, roaring grave—which threats,—
Which gains on every step he sets!

XXIX.

How beautiful she looked—how bright,—
All deluged in that streaming light!
Her hair dishevelled—loosed from thralls—
Sweeps the lit pavement where it falls,—
Down undulating,—wave by wave—
As though with molten gold to pave—
That flame-illuminated nave!
Hark!—shield them!—save them!—every Power!—
Down thundering, falls the shattered Tower!

562

That lofty Tower which kissed the skies—
Which stood through rolling centuries!
Which seemed both Earth and Time to mock—
It shakes—it falls—with crashing shock!
The deafening din De Courcy hears—
And flies on wings of thousand fears;
For her—for her most cherished sake—
Alone he thus unmanned could shake!

XXX.

Passed were the portals—paused he not—
But half way down the street, he shot;—
With that death-pale,—deep-swooning bride—
Clasped to his panting, bleeding side!
Safe!—safe!—his Love!—his Bride!—his Own!—
To Heaven his grateful prayer hath flown—
Ere soft, he sets his burthen down!
Now after some brief moments' rest—
Shall she be borne to sheltered nest—
His Dove!—his own heart-wounded Dove,—
Of matchless tenderness and love!
What measured tread accosts his ear—
To bring strange feelings, touched with fear?—
Such dread for her hath thrilled his breast—
From every sound, he shrinks distressed!
A guard of soldiers, swift approached—
Fresh doubts on his firm soul encroached;
His senses reel—his breath comes thick—
With that most stern suspense and sick;
Not long it lasts—the truth shines clear—
Ah!—well, foreboded this, his fear!—

563

Their errand they may not defer—
Eugene is made their prisoner!
Attached and seized,—behold him there,
Pause, mute and wildered with despair!

XXXI.

Accused, he stands of having sought—
With guilty aim, and treacherous thought,—
To shield those miscreants, in whose hand—
Was waved the exterminating brand!
Incendiarism's tools—the Accursed—
Of vilest criminals the worst!
(Proscribed,—and doomed to instant death!—)
Who fanned the flames with fiend-like breath!
And hurrying on their baleful path—
Spread Conflagration's mustering wrath!
These slaves, he well had fenced,—and freed—
Had stood their friend in their sharp need,—
And, with encouragement and aid—
Had sped the atrocious part, they played;—
Obstructing in their duty those—
Who strove to crush these desperate foes!—
Dark lowered stern Indignation's scow!—
While heard Eugene the arraignment foul!
“So help me Heaven!—'tis false!”—he cried—
Then gazed distracted on his Bride!
Who opened slow, those soft blue eyes—
Affrayed with agonized surprise!
De Courcy spoke no further word—
But proudly rendered up his sword!

564

Then placed beneath befitting ward—
Followed the Captain of the Guard!

XXXII.

Yet one last look, on her he cast—
Who trembling stood, dismayed—aghast!
“Fear not, Beloved!—Oh!—never fear—
Mine outraged fame, shall yet be clear!
Oh! fear not then, my Life!—nor mourn—
Triumphant, yet, shall I return!”
She thought to speak—the imperfect sound—
By bars of brass and steel, seemed bound!
Through those harsh bars it strove to burst—
There come low, fluttering sighings first;
Then faint slight moans the ear did greet—
And then a wailing whisper sweet!
A broken and unearthly tone—
Not Life's—not Death's—was in that moan!
And he hath vanished from her sight—
Tarries the bolt that yet should smite!
Fast died upon her straining ear—
Their measured march—'mid the outcries drear
The Fiend of Fire makes far and near!
Her hand is to her forehead pressed—
Then wildly driven against her breast,—
As she would punish the o'erwrought heart—
For each deep wound—and torturing smart!
For all that helpless heart hath felt—
Each pang that ruthless Fate hath dealt!
Poor heart!—where every anguish dwelt—
Which still will heave—and still will melt!

565

XXXIII.

Sudden, it seemed, a happier thought,
Within her mind, awakening, wrought!
She tossed back from her forehead fair,
Those masses of dishevelled hair!—
Whose floating bands, unfettered, swept—
(Like willowy foliage long, they wept!)
Still wreathed 'midst these her bands remained—
As sense and nerve, were bound and chained,—
Transfixed, by thoughts, of weight and might—
While passed the world, from her deep sight!
She stood—as might some Seraph even—
Amazed, to light on Earth—from Heaven!
Relaxed by slow degrees—those hands
Dropped down, and loosened the uncoiled bands;
She stands 'twixt sleeping and awake!
Fresh thoughts came soon that trance to break—
Then falling on her knees, in prayer—
She breathes her sorrows and her care;
And when she riseth—calm and grave—
She moves composed, and meekly brave;
'Twas, surely, some inspiring thought,
Which thus a change, so sudden wrought!—

XXXIV.

Shift we the scene!—how passed those hours,
With Him—the Chief of Gallia's Powers?
The second wild and dreadful night,
Which hailed red Conflagration's light,

566

Beheld him, stretched in brief repose—
'Twas well, those weighed-down lids should close—
Wished none around that rest to break,
Too apt was he, to watch and wake,
Too oft his fevered front displayed
What need was there of slumber's aid!
Yet vexed and troubled, was that rest—
Did crowding, hurrying dreams molest?—
Haply his many-coloured Past
Came flooding, o'er his spirit fast!—

XXXV.

Ah! say did angry visions rise
Before those sleep-entrammelled eyes?
Did Apparitions stern—distress
His soul's dark aching consciousness?—
Did D'Enghien's bloody spectre start
Before the unsealed eyes of the heart?—
Young gallant D'Enghien!—foully slain—
A deed to cloud a Cæsar's reign!
A crime of more than murder's stain!
The augustly born—whose parting breath
Shewed yet more royalty in death!—
Princely in Life's young flushing flower,
More princely in that Death's deep hour
Wert thou!—with whom—waned—drooped—and died,—
The lilies of the Bourbon's pride!
The stainless Bourbon Lilies,—laid,
Beneath that dreadful Eagle's shade;
(Strange contrast still these symbols shew,
The sunbird fierce—the flowers of snow!)

567

Say!—did that shade—a Night in Night,
Rise to thy troubled thought aright?
Thy seas of soul to sweep and cloud,
And gloom, as with the Tempest's shroud?

XXXVI.

Did martyred Hofer's threatening shade
Frown to those dreaming eyes displayed?—
And Jaffa's slaughtered sufferers break
Death's bonds—and 'midst thy slumbers wake?
To bid chilled conscience shrink and creep,
Till madness tempested thy sleep,
Did dusk Domingo's tortured sons
Shriek at thy soul,—the ill-fated ones?
By thee still—mocked—destroyed—aggrieved—
Scorned—scourged—racked—maddened—and deceived!—
And he their noblest—He the King
(August in hope and suffering!—)
Of those, who nobly mourned and pined—
The loftiest Freemen—of The mind!—
The King of those who strove and wrought,
Though chained,—in Liberty of thought,—
Of half the world, in Slavery's state,
That yet would prove the Free and Great!
Aye!—King of all the Chained—the Oppressed—
Who yet might boast the enfranchised breast—
Who dug dark Slavery's grave—though through
Their own pierced bosoms tried and true;—
Toussaint!—triumphant in the tomb!—
Whose star yet lights his Hayti's gloom—
Did He, athwart thy slumbers throw
The Terrors, of remorseless woe?

568

XXXVII.

Great Toussaint L'Ouverture!—didst thou
Make captive him, who bade thee bow?—
Thy Conqueror and thy Captor!—he
Who with thy chains bound Liberty?
Who would have bound her—had thy soul
Not left behind its bright controul!—
Did Pichegru—Palm—and Wright—rise pale
O'er those racked slumbers to prevail?—
And thousands, thousands, yet beside,
Those thousands, scattered far and wide,
Who bled and struggled—fought and died,—
To build His mountain-throne of pride?—
What woke him from those dreams of Death,
Which scathed the Soul,—through the untouched Sheath?
Even as the armed lightnings melt the blade,
Within such shielding covering laid;
As they, the sword destroying melt,
Doom, by that scatheless sheath unfelt;
What wakeneth him from dreams so dire?—
The day-surpassing dawn of Fire?
Which wilder still, and fiercelier grew,
Still fanned to strength, and triumphs new!
Welcome—though anguish to his thought—
It scared worse terrors, than it brought!—

XXXVIII.

But soon his restless spirit rose,
Aroused with wild and varying woes,

569

Awhile in fierce, indignant mood—
In haughty trance of thought he stood—
As though he would have uttered “Peace!”—
And bade that Conflagration cease!
Commanding the Element to yield,
And leave him Master of the Field!—
In such an hour his fiery soul,
Would rise to all its old controul,—
Would fain those mighty times recall,
When all seemed taught to brook his thrall!
When he hath tossed the obedient war,
From side to side, a-near or far,
Tossed here and there, from side to side,
The impatient Battle's sounding pride!
Anon he woke,—as wakes the storm,—
Seemed thousand souls in that One Form!
Mandates on mandates issuing fast—
He towered back to himself at last!

XXXIX.

But Lo!—he threw a lightning glance,
The lattice, as he passed by chance,
And marked the hideous scene around,
Where Ruin revelled without bound!
Then, changed once more his mood and mien,
He gazed abstracted on that scene!
'Gainst the opened casement leaned he long,
While grief grew yet more deep and strong;
He seemed to some strange suffering doomed—
By those far-circling fires consumed!—

570

As though they scorched his very heart—
Sense—mind—and thoughts—through every part;
But starting suddenly, he turned,
As though that blighting grief he spurned;
Or sought to master and controul
The growing anguish of his soul!
Now through the sounding halls he strode—
Perplexed distress his aspect shewed—
Now paused he, in his hurried walk,
And muttering, with himself would talk;
Then stopped abrupt,—on seat hard by,
Down flung himself, with groaning sigh!—
With wandering glance, or death-like stare—
Or frown, that blackened to despair;
Stern thought still veiled his features proud,
He seemed with mighty misery bowed!
He crossed his arms—he clenched his hands—
His nostrils angry Pride expands!
And now he earthwards fixed his eyes—
Now glared reproaches at the skies!
Then turned to that dread scene again,
As though to feast on Wrath and Pain—
There turned he!—and with shuddering thrill,
He met that maddening Vision still;
Then, burying in his hands his face,
Paused,—fixed and speechless, for a space;
At length he sought to soothe his mind—
To occupations grave resigned,—
He plunged into a labyrinth large
Of business deep—of weightiest charge;—

571

To matters of momentous kind,
He strove to bend that troubled mind!
Nought—nought—could fix his wandering thought,
Though urgent these—with interest fraught!—

XL.

With words of wonder on his tongue,
Each instant from his seat he sprung,
To gaze from the opened windows wide—
And see himself at last—defied!
At last defied—mocked—disobeyed—
He who had Power herself, o'erswayed!
The ejaculations, short and slight,
That broke forth ever at that sight;
Too faithfully and well expressed
The tossing trouble of his breast!—
“Gods!—what a spectacle of awe!—
The world ne'er yet such vision saw!—
And 'tis their deed—their work!—their own!—
They doomed their Capital—o'erthrown!—
'Tis their stupendous scheme alone!—
Such Fanes!—such Palaces!—such Pride!—
A City built for Kings!”—he cried;—
Then muttered low, in tones less free,
“What Men!—what Magnanimity!—
What stern resolve!—and carried through
With what sublime decision, too!—
With what terrific Triumph's might,
Their souls have soared a dizzy height!”

572

Betwixt his haughty pride of place,
And the ondriven flames,—yet spread vast space,
And rolled the Moskowa's river fair—
Between him, and the growing glare,
Yet of his palace the iron roof—
(The strong, the proud, the tempest-proof)
Scarce, though with toil incessant swept,
Could clear from flakes of fire be kept!—

XLI.

A murmured rumour, deep and dull,
Came now of hideous terrors full,
'Twas whispered—words of awful kind!—
The Kremlin's self was undermined!—
Fear gasped in many a manly breast,
That ne'er before contained such guest;
That ne'er before confessed such mate,
'Midst terrors proud—'midst dangers great!—
But now too dreadful seemed the doom,
That came to snatch them to the tomb!
Too darkling frowned the appalling brink,
From which the staunchest well might shrink!
Too horrible the inglorious end—
That came from Victory's arms to rend—
That threatening lowered,—were this, in sooth,
The deadly and despairing truth!
How bore Napoleon in such hour
The announcement that might well o'erpower?—
As bears the rock the assault of spray,
Dashing it from its crest away!—

573

He answered, but with scornful smile,
Light, careless, and assured the while;
Whilst fast around—of doom and dread—
Industriously these tales were spread!
But still with deeply troubled air—
He gazed on gathering horrors there;—
He saw the encroaching, mastering fire,
Spread—sweep—increase—advance—aspire;—
Consuming, as with fiendish art,
His Sovereign Conquest—part by part,—
Now all the arched bridges this hath seized,
Still raging onwards,—right well pleased!
The Terror took its ghastly way,
With all its Powers in full array,
With hideous hissings, deep and dire,
It crowned the reddening stream with fire;
Through all the paths that point and climb,
Towards his embattailled hold sublime,
All paths of proud access to him,
It rushed—and rolled its smoke-wreaths grim!
Through all the avenues made speed,
That towards his towery fortress lead,
Enclosing him within its space—
Besieging him in that proud place!—

XLII.

Still 'mongst the neighbouring buildings fast,
It spreads and spreads—well aids the blast,—
And step by step—and stride by stride—
It nears the Kremlin's crests of pride,—

574

Its march of might no check may know,
While fierce those favouring night winds blow,
To narrower limits—narrower yet—
Reducing Him, with taunting threat!
Thus to the Kremlin's scite alone
'Twould chain him down,—the rest its own!—
Nor that, shall long, unscathed remain,
But marble seems his breast and brain;
And night—the gloomy night—draws near—
'Midst desolation worse than drear;—
Italia's Viceroy—Naples' King—
Themselves before the mightiest fling,—
Their hands in bitterest grief they wring,—
And round his haughty feet they cling;
Then trembling on their knees implore,
He yet would fly—ere hope was o'er,—
In vain!—their laurelled Prince of Wars—
Lord of that Palace of the Czars,—
All the elements even challenged there,
And scorned to yield a prize so fair!
But hark!—a dreadful phrenzied shout—
Piercing and terrible bursts out!
Hark!—“Fly!”—is now the fearful word—
“The Kremlin is on fire!” is heard!
The Emperor, instant, rushed to mark,
If sooth, the annunciation dark;
Twice had the flames his Palace gained—
And twice extinguished,—these had waned;—
But all yet bodes thick coming ill,
One bulwarked tower is burning still!
The flames still gird that cloud-capped tower,
Still rush to scathe and to devour;

575

And this adjoins the frowning wall,
Of Moscow's glorious Arsenal!
There, too, that fatal blaze begins,
And fast its way of fury wins!

XLIII.

The accursed Incendiary was found,
Within its massive, rugged mound,
Him shrewdly questioned o'er and o'er—
The Emperor—with inquisition sore!
At fixed, concerted signal, 'twas,
He sought to fire that mighty mass;
The Kremlin then—the Kremlin's self—
Was doomed to bleak Destruction's shelf—
The antique!—The sacred!—High and proud!—
That, too, must be despoiled and bowed!
Napoleon's gestures marked disdain—
Hate,—horror,—wonder,—rage, and pain;—
The indignant silence spoke his scorn,—
The wretch was from his presence borne!
But scarce had reached the first fair court,
Ere Life's doomed thread was well cut short;
The infuriate Grenadiers had learned
This slave the Arsenal had burned,—
They rushed—with volleyed oaths and threats—
And pierced him with their bayonets!—

Ségur says, that the cavalry made stables of the churches that were spared from the flames.

576

CANTO XV.

I.

The old Northern Staircase calmly now,
Descends the Chief with cloudless brow,
Those mighty Northern stairs,—of yore,
Bathed by the Strelitzes in gore;—
With troubled looks of doubt and pain,
Behind him crowd his anxious train!
Towards fair Petrowski they proceed,—
With dubious, and obstructed speed;—
To fair Petrowski would repair
That homeless, Mighty Wanderer there—
But still, swept round to bar his path,
A sea of flames in wildest wrath;
Blocked were the Citadel's huge gates,—
On every side the Assailant waits!—
His followers and attendants fain,
Some outlet, safe and sure, would gain;
At length a postern gate they found—

577

That led them to the path which wound
Down towards the stream—with rocks around,—
'Twas through that gate, escaped they then,
The Monarch, and his staunch-tried men—
But little seemed accomplished still,
Flames rage as from volcanic hill,
Fire wandereth at his own fierce will;
The billows of those Seas of Flame—
Curling on high around them came,—
Broad Seas of Flame!—that tossing far,
Pursued them, with their flying War!
How shall they force their passage through?
Lowers danger of the deadliest hue!
Struggling—but little way they win,—
Deafened by all the uproarious din—
And blinded by the ashes—tossed
On each hot gale—stunned—whelmed,—and lost!—

II.

All undistinguishably blent,
The streets one wild abyss present;
Yet, must they push their dangerous way—
More dangerous yet, should prove delay!
The boundless flames, each instant sweep
To heights more high—and depths more deep;—
More ominous, their bellowings grow,
On!—On!—or pause and perish so!—
The guide perplexed—and stunned—remained
Transfixed with dread—with doubt enchained;—

578

One narrow, tortuous, blazing street,
Alone their pained regards doth meet;
Yet seems it the entrance more, I ween,
Than the outlet of such awful scene—
Napoleon plunged, with fearless foot,
Through flames that threat, and sweep, and shoot—
On every side—at every turn—
Till scarce might he the path discern,—
Deep in that roaring gulph of doom—
That threatening and appalling tomb!

III.

Hark!—to the crackling flames around,
The gatherings of chaotic sound,—
The ear-splitting crash of shattered walls—
Some tower gives way—some bulwark falls!—
Some mighty Fane comes thundering down,
With all its domes and crests o'erthrown;
Or bends some light Pavilion nigh,
Some Pillar stoopeth from the sky!
While through that hideous hubbub dread,
Where ceaseless shock on shock is sped,
At times rose strange, fierce, wailing tones,
Mingling with louder, harsher groans,
Of bursting domes and rending stones;
Mad howlings these—from dogs, that chained,
Still near their masters' gates remained!

IV.

Here sinks some Palace-Hall of state—
With sculptured front, and brazen gate!

579

Some towery terrace, there, shrinks fast,
With all its glories, earthwards cast,
With trellised roof, and bowered arcade,
And gilded fence and balustrade!
Here red-hot iron roofs rush down—
There bounds some minaret spire, o'erthrown—
And massive timbers swift descend,
That roar, rebellowing, hath no end,—
While ruins still with ruins blend;
Napoleon, scarce, might force his way
Through all their wild and dark array—
They barred his progress evermore—
Yet moved he dauntless as before,—
Followed by those, whose every glance,
Strains after the Eagle-Chief of France!—
The flames—which with impetuous wrath
Consumed the piles, which lined their path—
Driven far beyond those walls, that shook,
Beneath their blasting lightning stroke,
Spread,—blown and hollowed, by the wind,—
Which seemed the Furies to unbind,—
To one proud mighty arch,—even spread,—
Wide, o'er the endangered Conqueror's head!—

V.

Fire is the ground—and Fire the sky—
'Tis flame beneath—and flame on high!
Between two walls of fire they strode,
Who there pursued their dangerous road;

580

Scorched seemed their eyes with heat intense,
Which, parching, pierced through every sense—
Yet keenly watchful, each must strive,
If they would pass unscathed—and live!
All ardent spread that atmosphere—
Winged flames, and drifting ashes there,
Did still, increasing thick appear!
Their throats were all on fire—their tongues
Cleaved to their palates—heaved their lungs;—
Their shortened respiration thick,
Came dry, and agonized, and quick;
The suffocating smoke's excess—
Encompassed them with worst distress!
Their hands were burned, upraised to guard
Their faces,—which scarce better fared;
Despite such frail, and helpless ward;
They sought, too, vainly, to repel,
Ten thousand sparks, that ceaseless fell—
Covering and penetrating fast
Their cloaks of war—close round them cast;—
Still dazzled by that deadly glare,
Faint staggering through that blasting air
Scorched—blinded—deafened—smothered—parched,—
They trod that path with flames o'erarched;—
Dizzied,—by driving gusts opposed,
While seemed their road with ruins closed,
They fought along their frightful way—
In plight no words might e'er convey!—

581

VI.

Just then, distracted, paused their guide,
And wildly glanced from side to side,
The way is lost—their hope is o'er—
'Twere vain to strive and struggle more!
Through happiest chance, to save them, came
Some pillagers, that braved the flame—
With hope of spoil and greedy aim;—
They marked, and knew the Imperial Chief,
And rushed to proffer prompt relief!
They recognised that Form adored,
And flew to save their Liege and Lord;
Well steered they—though their farthest glance
Scarce gained the length of Forayer's lance—
Amidst the whirling flames and smoke
And fragments, which their pathway block!—

VII.

Still, forward—still, they struggled on,
Till less terrific path was won;
Their steps were towards a quarter bent—
Since morn, that had been razed and rent;—
Still round them rolls, with howl and glare,
That fiery tempest of despair!
Behold!—what strange faint-visioned form,
Seems hanging, hovering, on that storm?
Wild as a winged thing of wrath,—
It darts and drives athwart the path;—

582

In rich yet tattered weeds arrayed,
Heavens!—'tis a young and beauteous maid!—
Her fluttering robes with furs are lined,
Rich jewels 'midst her hair are twined,
That hair,—which loose and long, waves free,
Uplifted by the winds that flee,
In their mad fiendish revelry!—
Sweeps o'er her shoulders many a curl—
Wreathed with half-loosened ropes of pearl—
And jewelled chains, whose loops hang down,
In scattered light disorder thrown;
Proud plumes, too, nod above her brow—
Defaced and stained, and darkened now!—
'Tis Phrenzy's deep and deadly might,
That fires her eye with searching Light!

VIII.

Yea!—'twas a Maniac, and a Maid,
Who, wild, in brain-sick wandering strayed!
She paused—and waved on high her hand
With haughty gesture of command,—
And now, above the storm of sound,
That swelled, and pealed, and gathered round
Her shrill, sharp voice is heard—whose tone
Once streamed, as soft as Music's own;—
“Emperor of France!—I know thee now—
I mark thy pale tremendous brow—
I know thy cruel lip of fate—
That speaks,—but to annihilate!

583

Emperor of France!—be welcomed here—
Master of Earth!—behold thy sphere!
Thy sphere—thy place—thy throne behold!
More fitting than thy World of Old!
Here shalt thou rest—here reign and dwell—
Hail!—know'st thou not that this is—Hell?
Reign here!—the Prince Infernal yields
To thee his fires—his fatal fields!—
Enter!—the Fiend forgiven hath been,
Since thou hast surpassed him on the scene!
Enter!—be Emperor here!—but they
Who worshipped him have fled away—
Nor with the Worse might dare to stay!—

IX.

“But I will stay—will stand by thee—
Through black Despair's eternity!
For I am sent to torture still,
Administering the Immortal Ill!
Emperor of France!—Hail!—Welcome!—Come!—
Monster of Earth!—receive thy doom!”
Then closed her speech with shriek and yell,
That on their ears tormented, fell—
Hurrying, they now increased their pace—
Stern scowl is on Napoleon's face—
But yet that haunting form pursued,
With supernatural strength endued;
Though slight—though frail,—appeared her frame,
All obstacles that strength o'ercame,—
Her voice rang wildly out once more,—
And pierced the bosom to the core!—

584

X.

“Whither away!—Hush!—Hark!—come back!—
Since ne'er must thou retrace thy track!
Know'st thou no Earth is left for thee,
Thy World hath fallen on vacancy!
Thou didst so scourge it—grind and wring—
It waned,—in deadliest withering—
Captain-Assassin!—Prince of Death!—
Thou left'st no Life beside!—no Breath!
Unpeopled, space was taught to be,
By thee!—Lord Chief of Massacre!
Throned Paramount of doom and crime!—
Thou'st banished Life—and murdered Time!
Thou'st slaughtered,—slaughtered,—far and wide,
Till the paled sun forgot his pride;
And, headlong, plunged from Heaven—and left
A boundless chasm—a deadly cleft!—
Then, dread Annihilation deigned
Usurp the Universe!—She reigned!
She reigns!—and the Angels are no more,—
And all with night is shadowed o'er!—

XI.

“But, Oh!—the words I say are wild,
My heart is darkened and defiled,
Despiteous,—desperate tyrant! See!
Thou'st made us mad with blasphemy—
We cursed thee!—till all words seemed stung
To endless curses on our tongue!—

585

We curse thee!—wilder yet, and worse—
Till Russia's language grows—a curse!—
Russia!—hear'st thou,—Oh! Man of Fate!
Her name, whom thou'st made desolate?—
Russia!—Our Joy and our Despair!—
Where is our glorious Russia!—Where?
Answer!—thou Chief of Host on Host!
Where is our Russia?—razed and lost!—
Thou stalk'dst along her sacred soil,
To blast, and blight, and scathe, and spoil;
But She,—then withering—changed—and waned—
She ceased to be—when thou hadst stained!—
Indignant, then, She stood—yet free—
When Thou would'st Bend—She ceased—to Be!

XII.

“But They, the Undaunted!—They, the Brave!
Who vainly strove—who died to save—
These, We require of thee again,
Hast, thou, their blessed spirits slain?
Give back our Fathers—Brothers—now;—
Then let our Land in ruin bow!
Let Russia be thy slave!—No! No!—
Let Russia still be Nothing!—so
She 'scapes defilement and the Foe!—
But give to hearts that burn and ache,
Our Loved—our own Beloved Ones back!
Say'st thou, foul scorner!—They are dead?
Their dust be mountains on thy head!”
Then fiercer rose her voice on high—
Gathering to one impassioned cry!

586

XIII.

“Where is our honoured Russia?—where?
Where hide our loved ones—blessed and fair?—
Destroyer!—taste of our despair!
Think o'er the ruin thou hast wrought—
Be thine Eternity!—that thought!
And what art thou—Dark Fiend of Fate?
Thy Might!—thy Pride!—thy Strength!—thy State,—
Thou equall'dst with the Heavens of late;—
Crowned King of Ashes!—art thou great?
Conqueror of Ruins!—Lo! thy Realm—
Some passing breath might shake and whelm!
But yet should'st thou claim mastery high,
Yet boast strange power, and Empiry;
Monarch of Shadows!—fear thou not!—
Thou hold'st unchanged thy glorious lot!
Those shadows still shall cloud and fold,
Wild mockeries of thy world of old;
And gibbering phantoms shall pursue,
And mouldering bones, thy pathway strew—
And worms and reptiles, round thee cling,
And slimy love, and homage bring!—
Here shalt thou dwell—and here shalt reign!”—
Abruptly ceased the Maniac's strain;
She darted—bounding from the path—
With one wild yell of hate and wrath,—
Full 'midst the flames that glared and tossed,
She vanished, and was darkly lost!

587

XIV.

They onwards passed—and met ere long,
With Eckmuhl's Prince—whose trembling tongue,
But ill those raptures strong expressed,
That crowded to his faithful breast—
While thus he found, unscathed and free—
The star of Gaul's idolatry!—
By deep devotion's zeal inspired—
The wounded Chieftain had desired—
Back to be borne through flames and wrath,
Along the already traversed path—
To seek—and save—his Prince, and Lord—
Or perish—with that Chief adored!
O'erjoyed to find him safe from harms,
He flung himself in the Emperor's arms—
And stammering out that deep delight—
Which shook his soul, with hurrying might,—
Seemed stunned—and 'wildered through excess
Of heart-o'erpowering joyfulness!
Napoleon kindly clasped him there—
But with composure's steadiest air;—
Which Danger ne'er saw checked, or changed—
Howe'er by other chance estranged!
Which pain—which peril, ne'er o'ercame,
Which nought should trouble—nought should tame,
But Failure—and the loss of Fame!—

588

XV.

One danger more in dreadful shape—
Frowned dark—ere yet they gained escape!—
For they must pass a convoy long,
Of powder—that defiled among,
The fires, that round thick-threatening sprung!
This safely passed, their strength they strained—
And soon Petrowski's towers were gained!
Shift we the scene!—Once more return
To Xenia—doomed to weep and mourn!
She, too, encountered the ill-starred maid—
On whom the cloud of madness weighed—
On whose wrecked brain, dark Phrenzy preyed!
She met her—knew her, too, for one—
Who once the Flower of Moscow shone!
Fair Alexandra!—she had been,
The Star and Light of each glad scene!
But now in ruins lay a mind—
Once calm and bright—and meek and kind!
And shadowed was that aspect fair,
By horror—madness—and despair!

XVI.

Her darksome fortune it had been,
To view a dread, and harrowing scene,
Before her, perished in the fire,
Her shrieking Sisters and her Sire!
Accused of kindling some doomed wall—
Whose tottering stones were nigh to fall,—

589

By savage monsters—fell and fierce,—
(Whose stony hearts no prayers might pierce!—)
A stern, and torturing fate they bore,
Of deadliest pangs—and sufferance sore—
Those monsters—bent on barbarous deed—
Their ruthless wrath and hate to feed,
Had seized their helpless prey, and flung,
The wild and whirling flames among;
Untouched by ruth—unchecked by shames—
They tossed them living in the flames!
Escaped this fair, grief-stricken thing—
But spared for heavier withering!
Even from that hour, her tortured brain,
Gave way beneath the Crush of Pain!
Her own affianced Lover true—
In battle lost—had perished too!
Approached her gently, Xenia now—
“Oh! Alexandra!—is't then thou?”
The Maniac-Maiden laughed aloud!
“Xenia!—thou walk'st as in a cloud!
Thine eyes look dim—and wildly sad—
Sweet Xenia!—much I fear thou'rt mad!
Oh! rave not!—shriek not!—Xenia dear!—
A shriek would kill my soul with fear!
My Father and my Sisters—nay!—
They shriek not now!—kneel!—kneel!—and pray!”

XVII.

Down on her knees she sank, and low—
Muttered some accents faint with woe!

590

Then upward sprang with joyous bound,—
“Oh!—Xenia!—look!—they come!—found!—found!—
With her thin finger—wan and white—
She pointed left—she pointed right!
Then sudden changed her shadowed mien—
“Know'st thou whom these poor eyes have seen?
The King of Murderers!—he who came,
To sear our Russia's heart with flame!
The King of Demons!—he, who still
Contrives some new surpassing ill,—
With mysteries of infernal skill;
I bade him stand!—I bade him stay!—
He mocked and spurned—and said me Nay!
To strong Petrowski's Walls of Pride—
He hurrieth now—even there to bide!
In the honoured Palace of our Czar—
While we must seek our graves afar!
They will not let us die—and rest—
Lest soothed—we sleep in Russia's breast;
They will not—will not let us die—
Lest in our Russia's breast we lie!
They hunt us on from place to place—
Art not awearied of their chase?”
Then in a wild and plaintive voice—
Whose tone once bade all hearts rejoice—
She poured—(till the echoes, answering, rang—)
Strains—wakening now, but sigh and pang.

591

XVIII. SONG.

1

“I had a Love!—a Love!—
But alack!—he fled away!
And I—I could not move—
For my limbs were changed to clay!

2

I had a Love!—a Love!—
And he called me still his own!
Had I thy wings, lost Dove—
Like thee might I have flown!

3

Nay!—call me not!—I pray—
With such long,—piteous cry;
They would not let thee stay—
But they will not let, me die!

4

I may not come!—Forgive!
Like thee—I shriek and sigh—
They would not let thee—live,—
But they will not let me—die!—

592

5

They sent thee hence!—I strove—
To follow and to fly!—
Despite their wrath—Oh! Love!—
I will be free—and die!”

XIX.

These last wild words did she repeat—
In mournful accents—thrilling sweet;—
Then seemed her heart's stretched chords to break—
They shrilled into a piercing shriek!
And ere the Echo faint expires—
She plunged her 'mong the savage fires—
One wave of that wild plume alone—
Far streaming from her head was shewn!
And she is in that Gulph of Death—
Deep hid the rolling flames beneath!
Deep—deep—where grief no more shall rave—
Peace finds her in that howling grave!
It is a sad and sombre morn—
Of day's young beams of Beauty shorn—
Pale Xenia to Petrowski hies—
With calm resolve in those mild eyes!
To dread Napoleon's presence fain—
Admittance would the Maiden gain!

593

She biddeth those who frame excuse,
Upon their peril to refuse!
For wond'rous truths hath she to shew—
Which much behoves it he should know!
Dark secrets of portentous weight,
Of import grave, and interest great!

XX.

And in that Presence now she stands—
And well, her anxious heart commands!
She stands with calm, serenest eye,
Before the Imperial Majesty!
Napoleon by the casement leant—
His teeth were set—his brow was bent;
His foot was planted firm, as though
It pressed the neck of some crushed Foe;
His arms, were firmly wreathed and crossed—
He gazed upon the World—half-lost!
He marked that Capital's blazed towers—
That mocked the Master and his Powers!
Low muttering to himself he spoke—
Through sighs the smothered accents broke;
Still gazed he where those Death-flames sweep—
“To us, this bodes misfortunes deep!”
His glance on her did sternly fall—
When she was ushered to that Hall!
He looked upon the Russian Maid—
His brow a sterner frown displayed;
His mien—the imperially inspired—
Then seemed with thousand passions fired!

594

He pointed with his finger there—
Where flashed the intolerable glare;
On the scorched pane he lightly pressed
His hand a moment—then addressed—
That Maid so grave, and self-possessed!

XXI.

“By Earth and Heaven!—but ye have made,
A fire—that had Hell's Fiends dismayed—
Had such been lit below;
Yet yours shall be that self-lit Hell—
I tell you true—I warn ye well—
'Twill burn, for Russia's woe!
It yet shall be her Funeral Pyre—
Her heart shall feel this scorching fire—
Till she be ashes all!
She turns her triumphs—to a tomb—
And this wild déed shall be her doom—
It should be—and it shall!
Now,—Daughter of this rugged Land!
What ask ye at Napoleon's hand?
Make here at once thy fair demand—
Which granted, straight shall be!
Granted—if not for favouring grace,
To any he, of Russian race—
For this, I tell thee to thy face—
Shall none of these, go free!”

XXII.

Low murmured then the saddening maid—
“Him for whose weal I might have prayed,

595

Heeds nought, of pitying grace and aid—
Of mortal mercy's ruth displayed,
Or mortal favour, now!
My Father!—done to death was he—
By ruffian hands, and dastardly;—
His fate now hangs not even on thee—
To whom the World must bow!”
Then firm—composed—and calm—though pale,—
The Maiden told her whole sad Tale,—
Nor failed to shew how wrong the blame—
Directed 'gainst De Courcy's name!
Enlarged she on the attempt he made—
Enlightened through her Father's aid—
To warn—as he was warned—even then,
His too-confiding countrymen!
Whose careless sloth—or reckless trust—
Had brought their triumphs down to dust;
Had caused the downfall and the doom
Of that proud City—made their tomb!—

XXIII.

Napoleon started—for he knew,
That what that Maiden said was true,
For since that time himself had heard,
How needful caution was deferred;—
And how one faithful tongue had brought,
Strange news, too lightly set at nought!
Still listened he with kindling eye,
To her sad, artless history;

596

With care and interest, deep and true,
He heard her tell that history through,
And failing firmness well restored,
From time to time, with cheering word;
That interest yet was raised—increased—
When spoke she, of Smolensko's Priest;—
Of fallen Smolensko's Priest she spoke,
Whose name a kind remembrance woke!
She told him, 'twas her Sire beloved—
Who then his mighty heart had moved!
Who, seeking aid for the Bereaved,
Prompt grace and favour had received;
Explained she, too, the generous part
He played, despite his Patriot heart;
When striving nobly still to check,
The reign of wrath—the march of wreck;
In hours but lately passed and fled—
Terrific hours—austere and dread!
Still striking down from desperate hands,
The faggots, and the deadly brands;
Still wrenching, fearlessly away,
These instruments of dire dismay;
The while, his honoured voice he raised,
To warn the slaves, who cowered amazed;—
Since he denounced as devilish crime,
The deeds they proudly thought sublime;
Stern, deep anathema spoke even,
'Gainst acts they deemed should win them Heaven!
Those brands they grasped, they onwards bore—
As 'midst our Scotia's hills of yore,

597

The fiery Cross was breathless sped,
To rouse her Warriors, stern and dread;
They bore them on with panting zeal,
As 'twere to stamp the world's fair weal,—
High brandished they their torches so,
With ardent hearts,—like them aglow,
As though on sacred mission sent,
Of charge august and eminent;
Devouring flames to drive o'er all,
Till sank their crumbling Capital!—
For Russia to prepare a pyre,
Of world-enlightening, dazzling fire!
Since this their mission—this their aim,—
Of dreadful weight, and awful fame!

XXIV.

And then she breathed in faultering strain,
De Courcy's much-loved name again;
Then prayed she for the Monarch's grace,
With streaming eyes,—and earnest face—
While—pale, and full of doubt, she stands—
With close-clasped, supplicating hands!
Death-pale, and fondly anxious still,
She paused for dread Napoleon's will,
To those who watch and wait around,
The Sovereign turns—her soul lies drowned
In seas of darkling doubt profound—
Comes forth his voice—loud—full—and clear—
Existence throbs within her ear!

598

XXV.

“De Courcy, sentence doth await—
In durance strict—release him straight!”—
Nor further word spoke he!
Into the Maiden's hands he tossed
A heap of rubles!—stunned—and lost,—
She scarce might hear—or see!
Floods—floods of joy her heart oppress—
Floods—floods—that flow in deep excess,
Loosed by that melting of distress—
Of the icy weight of mournfulness—
And Fear's cold fettering frost no less,
First feels she these alone!
Then starting—sought she to withstand,
Such offering of his liberal hand—
But the Emperor is gone!
In that young heart, long wrung by woes—
How gathering gratitude o'erflows,—
Her tears rolled thick and fast;
A thousand thoughts approving came—
She almost blessed Napoleon's name—
She pardoned him at last!

599

CANTO XVI.

I.

The Maiden's heart, now soothed and cheered,
No longer fainting, mourned and feared;
To Moscow back her steps she turned—
Once more she grieved—once more she mourned!—
Who met her on her hurrying way—
Bowed down—and changed to death-like clay?
One whom she had not looked on long—
Brave Vsevolod—the gay and young!
In other days his heart was given
To Xenia—fair as Light in Heaven!
Yet nought but Pity she bestowed—
On him whose soul with passion glowed!
She might not know him, till he spoke—
Then sad astonishment awoke!
Scared, gazed she—on that spectre pale,
Shivering and staggering 'gainst the gale—
And scarce believed that it could be
That gallant youth, so brave and free!

600

Scarred o'er, with countless wounds he bent,
In faint, war-broken languishment!
The blood seemed drained from out his veins—
No life-flush on his face remains!
And yet his heart, as dauntless bounds,
Though covered thus, with countless wounds,
He crawls from Battle's reeking grounds;)
As dauntless as when first it beat,
War's opening storm to share and greet!

II.

Enough!—his Country's battles bright
Had known his valour and his might!
Battles, that shall immortal be—
Even though they claimed not Victory!
He is content to die—and feel,
The Foe hath felt his trenchant steel!
Xenia, with quivering lip and pale,
Hath told him now, her whole dark tale!
Lo!—strange and wond'rous change was seen,
That rushed abruptly o'er his mien!
He started—as at clarion shrill—
Might dying charger rouse him still!
Swift, changed tempestuously his brow—
'Tis flashing living lightning now!
His eye glares, terrible as Death—
That dark and threatening brow beneath,—
His countenance is storm!—his cheek,
Stained deep with blood-red, burning streak;
Raised proudly, was that form so bowed—
His voice pealed forth like trumpet loud!—

601

III.

“And what!—dishonoured thing!”—he cried,
“Art thou then, made the Foeman's Bride?
The baleful beauty of thy face,
Seems blistered o'er with black disgrace!
Go!—hide thyself, where none may see!—
Scorn were too proud—too high—for thee!
'Midst Russia's Daughters Thou alone,
Art found a stained and fallen One!
Dare not to die upon her Earth!—
Go!—seek thy Bridegroom's Land of Birth!
Poison the accursed soil—far away—
With thy contaminating clay!
One comfort smiles—dark, scorpion thing!—
Be in his side the thorn and sting!
For whose vile sake thou hast defied—
(Thou—the lost Heretic's lost bride!)
All laws—or human or divine—
So let his anguish equal mine!
Nay!—clasp not thus thy hands!—their part,
Should be—Oh! perjured that thou art!—
To wring thy Country's wounded Heart!
Traitress and Parricide!—The blow,
That most should crush that heart with woe—
Can come not from the alien hand—
Howe'er 'tis armed with biting brand,
Such scourging blow—such stroke must come—
From Children's hands—these—these—strike home!—

602

IV.

“And I have loved thee!—Thou hast been
The Light and Life of every scene!
Thou shon'st the Star of Battle's storm—
Even Victory wore but thy dear Form!—
I spurn thee like a trampled worm!
Thou mak'st thy Father in his grave,
A branded and dishonoured Slave!
Down to the dust!—Be nothing!—Go!—
And make the last abyss more low!
I joy that I have met thee, too,
And heard the tale, so foully true!
Else had my soul gone home—(dark thought—
Strange sting of terror this hath brought!)
Stained with this loathed and deadly love—
Not thus might it have soared above!
Thee—whom I prayed yon Heaven to bless—
I scarce may curse for bitterness!—
Since Oh!—all eloquent excess
Of words might ne'er my thoughts express!
Those thoughts scarce reach even that dread height
Of execrations which should blight!
Yet—yet—I curse thee!—Now!—in death!—
Curse—curse thee,—with my latest breath!”
Blood gushed from nostril fast—and mouth,—
Sunk to the earth the expiring youth—
Fluttered his limbs—then fixed—grew still—
O'erpowered by Death's benumbing chill!

603

V.

Chained down in darkly-bulwarked towers—
De Courcy counted the anxious hours—
Awaiting for the day to come,
When fixed must be his sentenced doom!
Shall prompt court-martial soon decide—
(With joy he heard he should be tried!—)
If Faith or Falsehood were implied,
By acts whose treachery he denied!
But while on Expectation tossed—
By Fear and Hope alternate crossed—
Full, perfect pardon he received
By his sweet Xenia's aid atchieved!
Re-solemnized their nuptials were—
With public ceremonials fair—
According to those rites and signs
The awful Church of Rome enjoins—
That union had before been blessed,
In her own Mother Church's breast!—

VI.

Ebbed gradually from wastes of Death,
The Conflagration's tides of Wrath—
And Moscow—Moscow—was no more—
Cast, like a foundered wreck on shore!
Scarce a third part remained to tell
The Pride that she had worn so well!
To tower above her ashes pale—
Still smoking on the empoisoned gale;

604

To form—o'er prostrate temples rent—
Her own magnific monument!
And art thou fallen, indeed,—Oh! Queen!—
And mighty Mistress of the Scene?
Art thou obscured and darkened now—
Thy glory 'minished and brought low?
Is't crushed,—the august, Imperial pride,
Of sacred Moscow that defied
Imagination's powers o'er-tried,
To picture it unseen?
The Beautiful—the Adorable—
The hallowed, by a Heaven-breathed spell—
Honoured and cherished long and well—
Must Earth groan—“She hath been?”

VII.

Oh! Moscow!—Moscow!—sought—desired—
Moscow!—the Famous and the Admired!—
Moscow!—the Praised—the Proud!
And must thou vail thy matchless boast?—
And must thou be the Fallen!—the Lost—
The Blighted and the Bowed?
Hail to thy Fall!—Thou would'st not bear
The Invader's Triumph—thy Despair!—
Thou mock'st the Stern and Bold!
That glorious Prize—whose fall shall wreathe
No Victor brows with pride beneath—
Seized in that Eagle's grasp of Death—
Hath perished in his hold!

605

As nought of Russian might remain
Unwithered,—when defiled by stain—
Dishonoured and disgraced!
Foul touch was on her Palace bowers—
Seemed conscious all her shrinking Towers—
She vanished in those dreadful hours,—
The stain was well effaced!
Proud City!—No!—thou didst not fall—
By nobler name Mankind should call—
The Triumph of thy change!
Thine ashes bright, shall seem to form—
Through future times—through shine and storm—
A Phantom City, strange!

VIII.

Ne'er burned such fire—ne'er blazed such flame—
It flushed the firmament with fame—
Stupendous and sublime!
The North seemed made a torrid zone,
By that immortal Sun!—Her own!—
That scorched Her startled clime!
A Sun of Soul!—and matched by none—
An awful—and a mystic one—
Earth's holier, and yet heavenlier Sun—
Triumphant through all time!

IX.

The Northern Eagle, bold and proud,
Hath found a Sun without a cloud,
With boundless splendours crowned!

606

A nether dawn—an earthly light—
Of vast and widely-spreading might—
That sheds fresh Day around!
And there he claps his sounding wing—
And basks him like the plumèd King—
Resistless and renowned!
But Gaul's foiled Eagle darkly there,
Hath soared, to reach but crowned Despair—
That hath nor end, nor bound!
'Mid the ashes strewn along that air—
From that defying, deathly glare,
The ungenial heat that burns to scare,
Dire brand he wins, he yet must bear,
And Fear and Fate hath found!

X.

Sublimest of all Suns, that e'er
Shed round celestial lustres fair,
And lit the stars above!
Thy wond'rous glory ne'er shall set,
Till Time his stated rounds forget,
And fails all Faith and Love!
But one proud Star shall shrink and wane—
While spreads and grows its hallowed reign—
And withering change the while!
Thy Star—Oh, France!—that glorious one,—
Nay!—rather Thine, Napoleon!—
Which, in the rising of that Sun,
Fast sets,—o'erdazzled, and undone,—
No more to shine and smile!

607

XI.

Napoleon now returned again,
To Moscow—o'er her wrecks to reign!
In saddened, though determined mood—
Her Kremlin—and himself, yet stood!
(Her Kremlin still uplifted high,
Its brow of warlike sovereignty!
A brave Battalion of his Guard,
From doom, its Pride preserved—'twas spared!)
And he with his sublime renown—
That Waste would cheer—that Wreck would crown!
The Camps he traversed in his way—
Strange sights and wond'rous, shewed that day;
Conspicuously displayed around,
Wild Pageants glanced along the ground;
Deep in the fields 'midst clay and mire,
Bright flashed full many a furious fire—
On which was splendid fuel thrown—
That ever strangely-glittering shone!
Rich furniture of mighty cost,
Loose on each crackling heap was tossed;—
Broad shelves of rare mahogany,
Whose perfect polish glassed the sky;
Fair gilded doors of amplest size—
Huge painted skreens of thousand dyes,—
Rich cabinets of scented wood,
In forms of endless beauty hewed,
And carved and curious floors and frames,
Feed evermore the insatiate flames!

608

XII.

Grouped round those fires the Emperor saw—
Where littered the earth some foul, damp straw—
Soldiers and chiefs reclined—frail shade,
Some few loose boards, ill-sheltering made,—
O'er their bowed heads all-weary weighed!
They wore a strange and savage look—
Splashed o'er with mire—and smirched with smoke—
Bloodshot their eyes—their hair was singed,
While tattered shreds their garments fringed!
Some lounged on rich, luxurious chair—
Or couch with silken draperies rare;
With canopies, and curtains fair,
While round their feet were heaped or spread—
Deep-stained with purple tints and red—
Cashmerian shawls—of texture fine—
Elaborate in well-wrought design;
And rarest furs of worth untold—
From rude Siberia's climate cold;
And precious stuffs from Persia brought,
And plate fantastically wrought,—
Vessels of silver, wreathed and chased,
Before those shivering groupes were placed!
From their contents, the taste recoiled—
Huge lumps of sinewy horse-flesh broiled!—
Black dough too, on the ashes baked—
That little the appetite awaked!—

609

XIII.

It was a mixture strange, indeed,
Of want and splendour—waste and need;—
Of Luxury proud, and rich, and high,
And squalid, shivering beggary!
The City and the Camp Between—
Was spread a stirring busy scene—
There many a troop of soldiers came,
With booty rescued from the flame;
Who bent beneath their costly freight,
Though struggling stoutly 'gainst the weight!—
There, too, were Muscovites descried,
Far scattered o'er the champaign wide—
For the awful fire hath brought to light,
Full many late concealed from sight;
(Dense crowds, that had in stealth returned—
Whose hearts within them, pined and yearned—
To Moscow's walls so long beloved,
Whence bitter Fortune had removed;)
These, too, on their bowed shoulders bore,
Well-rescued wealth and treasured store;
While wandered sad and weary on—
Mother and Daughter—Sire and Son!

XIV.

By dire Necessity oppressed,
Weighed down, and chilled, and sore distressed,
And 'wildered, too, 'midst the altered scenes,
To which the heart, unaltering, leans,—

610

Some sought a refuge for awhile,
In spots their circling foes defile;—
Whose hostile fires they gathered round,
In sorrow and dismay profound!
Amongst those foes, they sadly mixed,
By weariness and woe, transfixed;
And with their enemies remained—
While tyrannous Want's sharp grasp enchained,—
Crushed down, and humbled to the earth,—
Though heaped with wealth,—in helpless dearth;
For gold and silver might not give
Food, warmth, or shade, to bid them live!—

XV.

Some scattered thousands, too, were there,
Bowed with a sullen, stern despair,
That yet a martial gait displayed—
And seemed in martial guise arrayed—
Of Russia's armies—stragglers these—
Whom yet the French forbore to seize!
They suffered them their fires to share—
Gave them of their own scanty fare,—
And let them pillage, far and free,
Ofttimes in their own company!
When orders were at length received
These stragglers to secure—(reprieved
So long—and pitied and relieved!)
The greater part 'twas found were gone!
A scanty few remained alone,

611

The rest, ere long, once more restored
To Russia's armies—waved the sword—
Against the Invader's ranks abhorred!—

XVI.

The mighty Desolator now,
Neared Moscow's walls—so changed and low!
No triumphs brightened round his way,
No homage cheered that gloomy day;
All silently, his kingly state,
Rolled slow through mournful Moscow's gate,—
The gloriously desolate!—
In drear annihilation,—great;—
It seemed as though Napoleon came,
Successor meet, to Waste and Flame!
To act their part—to take their place—
And win their wild, unfinished race;
And yet, in sooth, proved all for him,
Obscured, and cheerless,—lorn and dim,
An humbled thing, seemed laurelled Power,
While lowered that strange momentous hour,
Still Moscow raised her darkened brow—
The Fallen bade the Mighty bow!

XVII.

Some Palace-halls yet, here and there,
'Mid smoking ruins, wild and bare,
Remained to tell how fair had been,
The darkened and the discrowned Queen!

612

Here nodded, broken pillars left—
In solitary gloom bereft;—
There, fragments of huge walls appeared—
Defaced, and blackened,—smirched, and seared—
Or smouldering heaps, of ashes told,
Where mighty structures, stood of old!
It was a sad and wond'rous sight—
Too dreary for the day's proud light,—
There, crowds of houseless Russians roved,
'Midst the embers of the homes they loved.
Among the ruins flitted they—
Like spectres o'er the churchyard grey—
Adding despondence to decay!—

XVIII.

Some crouched beside the half-burned trees,
'Midst gardens of old palaces,
Where bowery walk, and high arcade,
Had offered once, enchanting shade!
Some scratched in th' earth—these sought for roots—
By famine, levelled with the brutes;
While some, by fiendish hunger taught—
With birds of the air for carrion fought!
They gnashed their teeth—their feet they stamped—
They struggling writhed—they foamed—they ramped—
With harsh and demoniac cries,
Thus fought they, for their loathsome prize;
There, some, yet farther on, were seen,
With wild Distraction in their mien,

613

Deep plunging in the Moskowa's stream—
Where sparkling shone, young Morning's beam—
To drag from thence with desperate hand,
The corn, thrown in, at stern command;
At stern command, there thrown, and cast,
In reckless choice, of wilful waste;
Ere yet Rostopchin hence made speed,
That none their fatal Foe might feed!—
This they devoured at once—nor stayed
For aught of Preparation's aid—
Soured—damaged—spoiled, as 'twas, they yet
This food with ravenous fury ate!—
And gorged their mouldy feast with rage,
Of hunger, this might scarce assuage!
While urged that brutish hunger still
To hideous shifts—'gainst choice and will!

XIX.

The Emperor, onwards still advanced,
In speechless thoughts absorbed and tranced;
Dispersed o'er that changed City vast,—
So high and glorious through the past,—
'Twould seem his whole proud Host he saw,
Unchecked by discipline and law!
Oft was he forced to pause the while,
When meeting with some long-drawn file;
Some troop of keen marauders—bowed
Beneath their spoils—full rich and proud!—
Assemblages of soldiers, too,
For ever met the wandering view,

614

Tumultuously, where grouped they, round
The entrance of cellars lately found,—
Or portals barred—or close-locked gate,—
Of mighty Palaces of State;
Or doors of Churches—which the Fire
Had seized not in its ravening ire;—
Fragments of furniture were strowed
On every side, to block the road,
And heaps of booty, rich and rare,
All recklessly were scattered there!—

XX.

Haply the plunderers much resigned,
With changeful and capricious mind,
For spoils of yet more tempting kind;
Embarrassed—even by the overflow
Of wealth—that tempts where'er they go—
Like children grasping,—seizing, still,
Intent, their greedy hands to fill;
With eager—yet unfixed desire—
To snatch—appropriate,—and acquire;
In loose and undecided state—
Upgathering this—resigning that—
They roamed along their devious way,
Still following on the scent of prey;
Longing on all to seize in vain,
Till even possession grows a pain;
So much is still by them ungrasped—
Seem nought the treasures clutched and clasped!—

615

And yet, even these, not long are held,
Since oft, by dire fatigues compelled,
The greater part, renounced, must lie
In scattered heaps thrown lightly by,
Flung down,—relinquished and resigned—
Till thick the roads with these were lined,
And left with vain regrets behind!
Abandoned—as with changeful thought—
Though with such breathless ardour sought!—

XXI.

On all sides Soldiers might be seen
Sore-wearied—after chase so keen,
On bales of costliest merchandize
Reclined—their conquest and their prize!—
Round these were heaped fair spoils and vain,
The produce of the sugar-cane!
The Arabian berry—gum and spice—
And endless luxuries, past all price—
With mantling blood of sun-scorched vines,
The richest, rarest, mightiest wines,
The which, they proffered eagerly,
To yield, in full exchange and free,
Even for some mouldy morsel scant
Of stale, coarse bread—so sore their want,—
Faint with long inanition, some
By sufferings and fatigues o'ercome—
Mad with intoxication reeled
Right 'mongst the flames—their doom was sealed—
Their sufferings—and for ever, healed!—

616

XXII.

'Midst such confusion—wreck—and waste—
Napoleon now his steps retraced,—
Re-entered the unscathed Kremlin's walls,
And traversed its resounding halls;
His spirit toiled with thoughts of weight—
Strict mandates must be issued straight!
This fierce disorder must be checked,
Or all shall be destroyed and wrecked!
Soon rapine's reign, spread far and wide,
Was checked and stayed, and set aside;
The Old Guard did stern commands receive—
Their quarters close, no more to leave—
Those Churches, which the 'monished Fire
Had left uninjured, and entire,
Were ordered to be straight restored,
Straight cleared—for worship of the Lord;
That less disturbed and outraged, so,
Might be the feelings of their Foe;
Since there, 'mid jewelled shrine and tomb,
And sacredness of shadowy gloom,
In sculptured porch—in pillared aisle,
Whose sacred grandeurs they defile,
The Cavalry profanely dared
To dwell—(by that dread gloom unscared!)
There stalls and lodgment they secured,
While yet the fiery storm endured;
(Horses and horsemen—crowding close—
There claimed fair shelter and repose!—)

617

But these restored at once shall be—
To their most hallowed destiny!—
This change,—and many a change declares—
The princely Leader's watchful cares.

XXIII.

Loose plunder's business, too, must be
Contrived with regularity;
More!—all the Russian peasants—they
Who hither, should supplies convey,—
Must be protected, shielded, spared,
Nor openly attacked, nor snared,—
Encouraged, these should be to bring,
Provisions to the famishing!
Nor to the ravenous rage of such—
And their most lawless gripe and clutch
Should these, unfenced, exposed remain—
Injurious outrage to sustain,
To suffer—helpless and subdued—
Strange depredations fierce and rude,
From that ungoverned multitude!—

XXIV.

Full wond'rous 'twas in sooth, and strange,
To mark the swift—the sudden change,—
At once the abrupt reform to trace,
The Order,—in Disorder's place;—
The perfect Harmony restored—
At one attempt—with one accord,—

618

Where wild Excesses reigned before—
Darkening, and deepening evermore;
But all too late, the change was made,—
Too long was that reform delayed!
The affrighted peasants, vanished all,
And nought might lure them—nor recall!—
It was a dark and desperate thing,
For famine scowled, to pinch and wring;
But bravely still, they struggled on—
And bright, their firm endurance shone!—
Though dismal thoughts at times would throw,
A deeper shade of heavier woe!

619

CANTO XVII.

I.

Meanwhile, on leaving Moscow's towers,
The Russian,—with his martial powers,—
The unshaken Empire's fence and stay,—
Had towards Kolomna bent his way;
Thither Murat, still panting wild
For Battle—Victory's own spoiled child!—
Was drawn, but to that point, where flowed
The Moskowa stream athwart his road;—
Since there, well sheltered by the night,
That skreened those mighty Hosts from sight,
Abruptly turned his Foes, to foil
His 'stablished plan, and mock his toil,
With rapid movement undiscerned,
Abruptly to the right, they turned,—
By their high-minded Chief led on—
Who calm, his cautious progress won!

620

II.

His Army's gathered force to throw,
'Twixt Moscow, and Kalouga now,
That Chief, with skill and art refined,
In his deep purposed thought, designed,
His Hosts would he withdraw, unseen,
And baulk his Princely Foeman, keen;
Thus stood his plan!—'twas well borne through,
By him and them—the staunch and true!
Their midnight march, is grave and stern—
That Army sees its Moscow burn!—
Begins the wild and furious Fire—
To spread its threatening lustres dire;—
It casts a swarthy glow around—
And reddens fast, the air and ground!—

III.

Solemn the march of Russia's powers,
Around their Moscow's blazing towers,
That shook, and rocked,—and crashing fell,
Their thunder-tale of doom to tell;
The loud—loud—mighty-rushing Wind,—
Which raged in fury—strong and blind—
The flames and ashes, wafted fast,
(While surged and swelled the infuriate blast,)
Where they in sombre silence passed!
Showered down upon them evermore,
To light, as on their hearts' deep core,

621

Those flames, and ashes, that proclaim—
Their Moscow but a dream!—a name!—
Right awful was that midnight march,—
The Sky spread,—all one blood-red arch—
And they were lighted on their way,
By many a dread and deadly ray,
That told of Ruin and Despair—
Blasting the blue and hallowed air—
Torch-bearers need they none,—far round,
Shines like Phosphoric Sea the ground!
And they were lit, through that wild night,
By Conflagration's Comet-Light—
The Conflagration that consumed
Their Moscow—torched them and illumed!—

IV.

The cradle of their Empire falls!
Now bend their fortressed—centuried walls—
Ne'er more may shine,—proud,—great,—and free,
Their high Religion's Sanctuary!
Fallen is their Russia's bulwarked boast,
The centre of their Commerce lost!
Well may their hearts, swell high with wrath—
In silence, trode they all, that path—
Deep, solemn, awful silence, 'twas,
Scarce seemed to breathe that moving mass,—
There rose no shout—there came no word—
Their measured footsteps, sole were heard,—
Monotonously dull, that sound
Even pierced through all the tumults round;

622

Through roarings of the flames afar,
Like the red riot of the War;—
And deafening howlings of the blast—
That fiercely swept those regions vast!—

V.

They view their Moscow's giant form—
Like some dread Bark amidst the storm;
Still battling 'gainst the dreadful ire—
Of towering and tempestuous Fire,—
Yes!—like some Princely Bark that rides
The angry and infuriate tides,
They see their glorious City now,
Uprear and droop Her stately brow,
With shrouds, and sails, and rigging rent—
And mighty masts all bowed and bent,—
For still her spires, like masts rose high,
For ever pointing at the sky—
Like masts arose her haughty spires—
To fall before the billowing fires!—
While laboured she with efforts sore,
Against that storm for evermore,
And now, within that roaring sea—
She seemeth swallowed drearily—
She plungeth down its crimson deep,
Where all its wildest surges sweep!
Yet said I not that fierce proud Fire,
Whose conquering wreaths rolled high and higher,
(Which,—while men nurse one bright desire,
Extinguished even, shall ne'er expire!—)

623

Shone forth a Sun of Glory dread,
All splendour round its place to shed!
Hence!—lesser Images and Dreams!
Such—such, in sooth, it proudly seems,
And all The North is burning now,
With that triumphant, tameless glow—
Shine! Royal Sun!—whose deathless rays
Are worthiest of all pride and praise;
Shine! Royal Sun of Russia!—Shew,
Her Strength, her Stature, to Her Foe!
Her bravery and her boast display,
By that broad blaze, of more than Day.
Thou makest, with thy transcendant birth,
An Empyrean, on the Earth;—
What spheres of thought, shall round thee roll,
What blazing systems of the soul!
How yet shalt thou illumine all,
Great Light!—of sway majestical;
Hail!—Hail!—thou Conflagration bright!
That mak'st clear noon of deepest night—
Crowned Constellation!—all of Suns!—
What orb a race so glorious runs?
For thy high course is still to check
Oppression,—on his march of wreck,—
To wither up his cruel veins,
And melt a world's unworthy chains;
Oh! well might seem that boundless Flame—
The glory of the Heaven of Fame!
Thou!—Patriot-Love!—the pure—the true—
Whose wing still fanned it, as it flew,—

624

Thou wert the source, whence this had birth,
None other, thus, might brighten Earth!
There thou shalt sit, 'midst triumphs won—
Uriel of that undying Sun!—

VI.

Still on, marched Russia's mighty powers,
Right round their Moscow's crashing towers;—
(Those crashing, blazing Towers, that fall
As stooped a world, with each proud wall!
Like steel on the anvil glowed afar
Their City—rapt in whirling war;—)
In sullen silence marched they on,
Seemed each, 'mid countless thousands—lone!
For each, in deep resentful mood,
Doth o'er his wrongs enormous, brood!—
While endless Indignation starts,
Even in their secret Heart of Hearts;
And still that dreary, awful light
Wild flashes, oft made strangely bright,
Then might the warrior's haughty mien
And looks of savage rage, be seen!
A tempest in the tempest drear—
That nought shall calm—that nought may clear!—
A Conflagration, keener far,
Than yon swart Conflagration's star!
The sombre threatenings of their glance,
Might scathe the heart of ruthless France!
This well betrayed the deep revenge,
That ne'er must know decline, or change—

625

Which rankled, in their hearts of hate—
Boundless, and dark, and full of fate!
That ne'er decline, or change, must know—
Till they have 'venged, their Country's woe!—
And well betrayed it too, that grief
Which spurned all other vain relief—
That giant anguish, which devoured
Their hearts, with rage and pain o'erpowered!—

VII.

Well through the whole vast Empire spread,
That thirst for vengeance,—deep and dread;
And thousand, thousand victims fell—
Its triumph and its truth to tell!
Right solemn was that Midnight March—
Beneath the sky's dark crimsoned arch—
And dreadful were the thoughts that rose,
To madden, o'er their wrongs and woes,
In those proud hearts of passion high—
That, shuddering, raged tempestuously!
On!—On!—brave Warriors!—Serve—defend,
Your menaced Country to the end!
Yet other Friends—Defenders—Powers—
Hath she through these o'ertroubled hours—
The firm-fixed Faith that will not quail—
The holy Hope that dares not fail—
The high unalterable Will,
That gathers—grows—and glories still—
The will that makes the weakest heart
A sovereign Citadel apart!—

626

VIII.

Thy Bulwark, Russia! stands confessed—
The Invulnerable Soul!—the best!—
In this shouldst thou untrembling place
The confidence, no dread may chase;—
Thy march is all thy People's mind,
In one proud Mountain-Strength combined!
A march,—as of the moving Seas—
Gathering their billowy energies—
That march is through the Heavens and Earth—
From world to world!—from worth to worth!
From strength to strength—and height to height—
Till nears it, the endless Throne of Light!
So doth each step advance—exalt—
Those who may die, but never halt;
Thine arms are sharpened on the sill
Of Sepulchres of Ages still,—
Still sharpened on the stones that heap—
The grave-grounds where the Silent sleep—
Then the strong heart makes strong each hand,
That, following Duty's deep command,
Best wheels and wields keen axe and brand—
For those whose Silence saith “Withstand!”—
Their Fathers—and their Fatherland!—
Lo!—even their slumbering Sires shall call,
And bid them shrink from yoke and thrall;
For shall the Invaders spurn and slay—
Aye, slay their high and honoured clay?—

627

With black Dishonour's last—worse Death,
Corruption teaching there, beneath;
Corruption—fouler, loathlier far,
Than aught the grave can bring to mar;
That shames the worm at her dim work,
Till grows the under-gloom more murk—
Yea!—shaming so the very worm
That thus ne'er wronged the mouldering form;
No!—No!—defiance to your doom!
If but for their sakes—in the tomb!—

IX.

Defiance to thy doom, proud Land!
Now mock at axe, and torch, and brand—
Defiance hurl 'gainst scythe and spear,
And high thy stainless banners rear!
Thine aids are Shrine—Grave—Hearth—and Fane—
(And ne'er can such proud aids be vain!)
Country, concentered and combined
In one invulnerable Mind!
Thy Patriots seem inspired to move,
With soaring steps, from Love to Love;
Their holy guerdons—Heaven and Home—
Shall well, make these, defy their doom;
Call to the self-destroyers,—“Come!”
Proud Patriots!—free from doubt or gloom;
Proffer them Peace—and perfect Rest!
Let every Grave receive its Guest!—

628

X.

Oh!—well may these Defenders stand,
Each, like the Saviour of his Land;
Fast round them Brother-Bosoms beat—
With answering zeal's exhaustless heat—
And hallowed ashes fire their feet!
Soul soars with soul—heart bounds to heart,
And nobly shall they act their part;
Where'er they look, they see their own!
In Russia's heart these trees are sown;—
Through Russia's air those stars smile down—
On Russia's blessed earth they tread,
And Russia's Heavens are o'er them spread;
Where'er they stand 'tis holy ground—
Her Quick and Dead are gathered round—
Where'er they look—'tis Love and Home—
From loftiest star, to lowliest tomb!
Their Country's soul breathes through the sod,
Theirs is their Clime—Land—King—and God!—
Fame—Patriotism—Religion, make
Themselves, thrice-blessed, for their high sake,
So gloriously their spirits spring,
Great Love!—on thy far-rushing wing!
Thou!—that art still a Heaven in Heaven,
To thrones, and dominations given;
Thou, that the Archangel's Angel, art—
Of deep divinity, a part!
Yes! such is Love—and still his reign
Shall stand—while worlds and systems wane,—

629

And still is he the First—the Best,—
The rapture of the heavenly rest;
The Archangel's Angel!—He that gives
The Life in which the Immortal lives!—
Brave Patriots!—with what bright controul,
He fires the fervour of your soul;
'Tis he that nerves and steels your hearts,
Till Hope returns, and Strife departs;
Those Lovers of their Country know,
The eternal feeling's loftiest glow!
Their hearts' dread will—unbowed—unbent—
Stands like Heaven's chrystal battlement—
And the Immemorial Ages rise—
Embattailled with their Energies!—

XI.

The fair-haired Daughter of the Czars,
The Imperial Anne assists the wars,—
The Queenly-souled and Patriot-maid—
She nobly grants her generous aid!
Crowned magnanimities of thought,
To that fresh maiden-mind are brought;
In sunrise-youth—in flush of power—
With every greatness for her dower!
Glory and Empire at her feet,
All earthly pomps round Her starred seat,
Contending Kings to claim her hand—
And catch the breath of her command,—
She turns from all, to think alone,
How best to serve that Land—Her Own!—

630

The Tamer of the World had bowed,
To proffer her, his homage proud—
And bade her rule, his wide-stretched zones,
And share with him, an hundred thrones,
Her lofty spirit might not bend—
With His—Her Destinies to blend;—
Greatness for Her exalted mind,
But shone with Goodness, too, combined;
From her angelic heights of thought—
Seemed mere Earth-Sovereignty as nought!
Thence gazed she down, with radiant smile,
That glorified, even that, the while;
She looked with calm, undazzled eye,
On his triumphant Destiny;
She—who while bright, and broad, was spread
His reign of conquest—proud and dread—
While blazed his Victory-flag unfurled—
Refused Napoleon—and a World!—

XII.

Profuse, her hand showers liberal gold,
Her gallant thousands armed, behold;
On their dear native soil they stand—
A valiant, and resistless band;
Prompt, there, to die all deaths—endure,
All wrongs—their Country's wounds to cure—
Prompt, even to Earth's last wilds to wander,
For Russia—Anne—and Alexander!
Imperial Anne! how proud wert thou—
No blood-bought crown oppressed thy brow!—

631

The Throne of Thunders foully stained,
Thy mounting spirit well disdained,
This thou would'st share not—nor claim part—
In the o'er-stained Thunder-splintered heart!
Oh!—Queenly Anne!—No loftier soul,
Through Russia, rose 'gainst dire controul—
No mightier mind upsprung elate,
Than thine, to stand 'gainst Fear and Fate,—
To smile at threats 'gainst honour hurled,
And bid defiance to a world,—
Thy Blood-Imperial blush, rose bright—
Like suns o'er snows, of purpled light!—

XIII.

That world, he summoned forth to aid,
It might not make thy heart afraid;
Though all Earth rose to speed his will,
Thy heart—thy soul—had scorned him still!
Greatest in conquering Gentleness—
That promised most, to shield and bless,—
To bring down Angels from above,
And strengthen all the Land with Love;—
Till grey-haired warriors, seamed with scars,
Blushed at the memories of their wars!
And sought to learn from thee how best—
To guard their honoured Land distressed!—

XIV.

Now high-souled Alexander learned,
His sacred Capital was burned,—

632

And manned his mind—and steeled his heart—
To act yet more than Warrior's part!
A more than Hero's part to play—
He strove on that unhappy day,
And more than conquered—more than reigned—
While fear and grief, his soul disdained;
With Empire, amplest in his Breast,
His sorrowing subjects he addressed!
With Victory, loftiest in his Thought,
High consolations, thus he brought:—
“No weak dejection!—no distrust!—
Defiance should be ours—and must!—
Defiance,—till we drop to dust!
Freedom and Victory, we must have,—
Freedom and Victory—or the Grave!
Annihilation!—or the acclaim
Of our own hearts—Earth's noblest Fame!
Let Russia's Name be mentioned still—
Through power and danger—good and ill,—
Through all her length of destined days,
With reverence,—homage,—pride, and praise;
Still pure from soil—still free from stain—
Or never be it breathed again!
Blot it from History and from Earth—
If aught should stain its snow of worth!

XV.

“Redoubled courage, fire your hearts—
Perish the Foe's infernal arts!

633

Now, in deserted Moscow's gloom,
He dwells as 'twere in some stern tomb;
No Strength,—Dominion,—Glory,—Power,—
Shall mark or magnify the hour!
No pride, no homage, and no sway,
To gild the cold and clouded day!
Scarce, 'midst its wild and ghastly scenes,
Discovereth he Life's common means!
Scarce food to cherish life he gleans!
The bubbles of his Hope have burst—
His Hundred Thousands, roam dispersed;
Desertion—Famine—and the Sword—
Have left him but of half—the Lord!
He dwells in Russia's royal seat,
With not a Russian at his feet!
In Russia's heart, abideth he—
Nor winneth One, through Treachery!
Lowers his horizon, drear and dim—
While we enclose—and 'compass him!
A mighty Population waits—
To crush him with o'er whelming hates!
Our gallant Armies gird him round—
And keep in check—and bar, and bound!
Full soon to 'scape from Famine's sway,
Through these, he yet must cut his way!
Who then shall shield him—what shall save—
From Ruin,—Failure,—and the Grave?

XVI.

“Shall we then pause?—shall we recede,—
When France is at her sorest need?

634

When Europe's eyes on us are bent,
With hope, and high encouragement!
Shake wide our Banners, all unfurled—
Set we, the example, to the World!
Let the flagitious heart be bowed—
Turn every Standard to a Shroud!
Each standard, that our Foes abhorred,
Dare wave on Russia's air adored!
That they in mad presumption dare—
To fling against our Russian air!—
Down with the Despot!—Down with all,
That seek their Brethren to enthrall!
Shake wide the banners of our boast,
And burst on that devoted Host!
Up with those banners, brave and bright,
And Lo!—'tis down with Gallia's might!
Up with those banners, broad and brave,
'Tis down with Tyrant—and with Slave!
The Fiend of France shall fail—shall fall—
With his weak slaves shall feel our thrall!
Aye, Slaves!—for Glory's self and Fame—
Leave those he rules, no nobler Name!—
And kiss we, reverently, even now,
(The while though raised on high we bow!)
The mighty hand that beckoneth us,
To such high doom and calling thus,—
To be of all the Nations first,
An impious Slavery's chains to burst!
Then rouse ye!—rouse ye!—dastard Fear,
Should be afraid to tremble here;

635

Redoubled courage fire your hearts—
Foul fall the Spoiler's fiendish arts!
Foul fall the treacherous arts accursed,
Of Wrong's own vilest sons,—and worst!”

XVII.

The march of Koutousoff, by night,
Had served his purpose bold, aright!
Murat, for three long days had lost
All trace of him, and of the Host;
The Russians thus, fair leisure found,
For studying o'er the chosen ground;
Meet time, they snatched, to watch and weigh,
Each vantage chance, for Conflict's day!
And build entrenchments strong and good,
By which their Foe should be withstood!

XVIII.

A mighty mansion—Luxury's dome—
Rostopchin's ancestorial home,—
With vast domains, far round it stretched,
The Advanced Guard, now, well-nigh had reached;
When hurrying spurred, before them fast,
That gallant Chief—as though a last,
Long look upon his home to cast!
And soon deep-rolling clouds of smoke,
Forth from that Princely Palace broke;
'Twas he, himself, the Dome had fired,—
By ardent scorn and hate inspired;
Prompt, he refused all proffered aid—
The stern resolve was deeply made!

636

And 'midst those flames, first sown and fanned,
By his own firm, determined hand—
They saw him dart with dreadful joy—
Eager and earnest to destroy!
He smiles at Desolation there—
The Invader shall not find it fair!
Then passed from thence the Russian force—
Like Cataract, foaming on its course!

XIX.

Ere long before their Foemen's eyes—
Astare with wildered, wild surprise—
Appears the inscription—proud and stern—
Which teaches much, they yet should learn!
Hard by that Mansion fallen—defaced—
This on the old iron gate was traced,—
(That to the neighbouring Church belonged,
Which fire and ruin scarce had wronged;—)
“Frenchmen!—for eight long happy years—
Unscathed by griefs—unscourged by cares—
It proved my pleasure and my pride,
To deck this spot,—than all beside
Far dearer—through Creation wide!
Here—'midst a Family beloved—
I dwelt from Life's vain toils removed!
And Here—I breathe my long Farewell,
To joys, that but with Freedom dwell!
The Inhabitants of this Estate,
Deign not your loathed approach to wait—

637

They flee!—as Pestilence and Death
Dwelt in your presence—on your breath!
Whilst I have given to flames the abode,
Where once mine hours' glad currents flowed!
That such loathed presence, foul and base,
May ne'er pollute the hallowed place!
Frenchmen!—in Moscow ye will find
Proud Palaces, for ye resigned!
Two princely Palaces of mine—
Where luxuries crowd—where splendours shine,
Still wait ye, if contented there,
Ye claim your harsh and hostile share,
Pass on!—in proud and reckless cheer—
Pass!—nought but ashes waits ye here!”

XX.

'Twas near this sad and solemn spot—
Murat with keen pursuit and hot—
O'ertook the Russian Chief—and soon,
Thick, sulphurous clouds, obscured the noon!
Towards Czerikowo growled the fray—
And sternly on a later day,
Vinnkowo shook, to Discord's sway!
There, Miloradowitch, in might,
Too closely pressed, made furious fight;—
And with twelve thousand horsemen turned—
(While boundlessly the conflict burned,—)
On the ardent French that knew no dread—
By brave Sébastiani led!

638

XXI.

Yet was the shock full fierce and rude—
And wild disorder had ensued;
But joined them, Poniatowski then,
With his fine, fearless Polish men!
Till nightfall murk, the combat raged—
While host with host was close engaged!
At length, repulsed on that red Field,
Brave Miloradowitch must yield!—
Meanwhile Napoleon still remained,
In Moscow's blackened wreck, and stained;
Six days of flame their worst had done,
A desert 'twas, he looked upon;
Yet there, even fixed as moveless Fate,
Would he for Reinforcements wait;
Convoys, supplies, and stragglers all,
That yet should hear, and heed his call;—
Rallied and gathered, all should be,
By thy bright name,—crowned Victory,—
By Booty's hope—by that proud sight,
Of Moscow, captive to his might—
And more than all—his Glory's light!
His Glory—that did streaming smile,
From that huge Ruin's Chaos-pile!
The gloom spread round, to gild and mock,
Like some fair Beacon, from a rock!

639

XXII.

Twice from Murat, despatches came,
Traced by his Warrior-hand of flame!
Announcing—with a proud delight—
A near approaching field of fight!
Twice, had Napoleon thought to pass,
From Moscow's wrecked, and wildering mass—
But twice, the orders given, were changed,
His purpose, was anew estranged!
The affairs, accumulating fast,
Of Empire, filled that mind so vast;
(Or if, perchance, they failed to fill,
They cheered—and they beguiled it still;)
Courier, and Post, and Estafette,
In Moscow's streets, fast-crowding, met;
The Expresses from his distant France,
Seemed thick, and thickening,—to advance;
Yet Genius!—thy quick power supreme,
Made business vanish like a dream!
His giant intellect would ask
Some mightier field—some loftier task!
His thoughts—his mind—still forward flew—
Till nought was left to dream and do!
Then languished the over-life within—
Scant occupation, this might win!
Yet still, in Moscow he delayed—
And lingered there, and dubious stayed!—

640

XXIII.

His Host, to Europe's self-crowned Lord,
But slight employment could afford;
'Twas organised, withal, so well—
On this his mind, scarce long, might dwell;
All echoed to his least command,—
He held the wires within his hand!
The Administration free and fair,
So well was concentrated there,
And such experience, clear and just,
Had those acquired, who shared his trust;
Eleven days even thus were spent—
No answer Alexander sent—
While Alexander's Mighty Foe,
Fixed in the heart of the Empire so—
Appeared resolved within its core,
To root himself for evermore!
Moscow in ashes—ruined—bowed—
Wrapped in Destruction's deadliest cloud,—
Waning beneath each glimmering moon,
Received a Chief Intendant soon;
And formed Municipalities,
As she should yet from ashes rise!
Commands were issued, far and wide,
In tones of high and stubborn pride,—
That she should be provisioned straight,
For Winter's months—months, full of fate!

641

XXIV.

'Midst fragments dim—dark mounds among—
A Theatre was built ere long;
And buskined artists from afar,
Were called—to while the thoughts of War—
Were bade to hasten there, and fling,—
(Where all seemed scathed and withering,—)
Light mimic scenes, of magic charm,
O'er scenes, of gloom and dire alarm!
Italia's warbling throats called forth,
The wondering echoes of the North;
The old Kremlin's stern, indignant air,
Those echoes bland, must waft and bear;
Music and Splendour rose to reign,
Where Pleasure's self looked pale as Pain!
October's mellowed month came on—
Was Alexander's answer—none;
He deigned not—stooped not to reply—
'Twas insult, and 'twas injury!

XXV.

Napoleon called his Mareschalls round—
His brow's pale hemisphere, profound,
O'ergloomed with lowering tempest, frowned,
He spoke like one disturbed—aggrieved!—
“Hear now the plan, I have conceived;—
Moscow's remains, we straight must burn—
Our steps, from her wide desert turn;
To Petersburgh by Twer, march on—
Would that great goal were reached and won!

642

Macdonald, there, shall join our war,
Davoust,—our Rear-guard—and Murat!”
He ceased—dull frigid faces met
His glances keen, and sparkling yet;
For as he spoke, his aspect glowed,
His countenance like lightning shewed—
Changed—cleared—and flushed with Triumph's hue,
His mighty forehead proudly grew;
Fast o'er his features, Victory flew!
Once more his clarion voice was heard,—
A Battle-burst seemed each proud word,—
“What!—doth this hope not rouse and warm?—
Doth this not fire your souls, and charm?
Shall this not quicken and inflame—
Can your high hearts be dead to fame?—
Ye,—who beside Napoleon stand,
And hear the voice of his command?—
Think of the pride, 'twill be to say,
When Victory gilds our glorious day—
With the whole startled World to cry—
‘Three months have scarce rolled hurrying by,
Since we, from Conquest evermore,
Flashing to Conquest as before,
Have all subdued—all forced to yield—
Victors of every purple field!’
While fall—as all before us falls—
The North's two sceptered capitals!”

XXVI.

But stern objections, soon, were raised,
He heard, half angered,—half amazed;

643

Strange, to his praise-accustomed ear,
Must Contradiction's voice appear!
Yet while he heard, deep pondering still,
He weighed the various Good and Ill!
Boots not to tell, each change—each turn—
The plans, his soul would seize, or spurn;
At length, his firm resolve was made,
To seek Negociation's aid,—
Then treat of terms of Peace at once
With him, who deigned him no response;
On this his mind, now fixed, was bent;
And Lauriston, straightforth, was sent,
To speed that scheme's accomplishment;
To Koutousoff, he first must go,
And claim safe conduct, from the Foe,
To Petersburgh, and Russia's Czar,
Then seek to close, this fatal war!
Napoleon urged him still to try,
To force, that Princely Foe, and high,
For Peace,—to sue and to apply!
Himself, the first fair steps to take—
The first free Overtures, to make;
Thus urged Napoleon, warmly still,
With ardour of an earnest will;
But his last words, pealed full and clear,—
“Remember!—Peace may cost me dear!—
But Peace I need!—We must have peace,—
Hostilities must surely cease!
Solely my kingly honour save!—
Remember!—Peace, We now must have!”

644

XXVII.

Set forth, at once, brave Lauriston,
His way to Russia's camp he won,
And the interview he claimed,—obtained;—
But no safe conduct might be gained!—
The Russian General, bade him know,
His powers thus far, must fail to go;
But offered he, at once, to send,
In hopes, these gloomy strifes to end,
Wollkonsky, with that letter bland—
To give unto his Sovereign's hand;—
Pacific protestations, too,
Were poured forth, through that interview,
Fair Armistice was offered then—
Till sped Wollkonsky back again;
These tidings to Napoleon sent—
Were hailed, with strong and deep content;—
He summoned all his Generals round,
Announced a speedy peace profound;
And told them,—pass one fortnight more—
The War should finished be—and o'er!—

XXVIII.

None but himself, he cried, well knew,
That character, his glance pierced through,
The Russian Character!—which they,
Misunderstanding—scarce could weigh!—
Soon as the Czar, his scroll received,
Full deeply, he, with joy, believed,

645

Proud Petersburgh, should shine aright,
With glad Illumination's light!
Well rivalling that dismal glow,
'Twas Moscow's hapless fate, to shew!
Still the Armistice dissatisfied,
His judgment—prudence—and his pride;—
He willed Murat, without delay—
Should break it off—but,—strange to say,
'Twas yet continued, day by day!

XXIX.

Full curious its conditions were,
Might these, unmeet constructions bear,
Three hours' fair notice should suffice—
At once to end this Armistice!
To either camp's broad front confined,
For hidden reasons unassigned,
Not to their flanks, might this extend—
But there, 'twas understood to end!
Or such the Russians, willed, should be,
The interpretation,—loose and free,—
Borne by that act of warranty;
Proved this, the interpretation shrewd,
'Twas feigned—they seized, and understood,
Of that fair compact, which released
From toil, and War's wild ills decreased;—
Yet, though at first, it promised this,
Such prosperous end, it seemed to miss!
For many a petty feud arose—
That closed, in bitterness and blows;—

646

Nor might the French, their convoys bring,
Nor send chance Bands, for foraging,
Without a struggle, and a fray,—
So dragged the war on,—day by day!
Save, where to thy proud arms,—fair France!—
Most welcome, this, had proved, perchance;
Most welcome, and most useful!—There,
'Twas checked, and stayed, with strenuous care!

XXX.

And yet, should this not prove a time,
Of startling weight, and sway sublime?
Should this not prove a conquering hour,
Of influence deep,—and thrilling power?
See!—Two vast Empires, proud and high,
Take counsel in their Sovereignty!
Each calleth to the Other now,
Each lifts its crowned and dazzling brow,
And gloriously the echoes sweep,
While loud they cry,—as Deep to Deep!
Crowned Majesty with Majesty
Shall commune loud,—as Sea with Sea,—
For Hark!—Napoleon's voice comes forth—
Napoleon calleth to the North!—
Napoleon's voice of thunder leads,
That voice of war and tempest pleads!
And Alexander hears and heeds;
Hark!—Hark!—Napoleon speaks to day!—
And Alexander answers!—Nay!

647

He answers not!—'Tis silence all!
Proud Russia spurns the Conqueror's call—
He answers not!—no breath—no word!—
No sound of fair reply is heard;—
And that Grand Silence seemed to be,
In its august austerity,
The Electrifying Eloquence
Of burning scorn, and hate intense!
More strong than thunders, thus it stirred
The heart that felt,—what was not heard!
Napoleon spoke!—and answer sought!—
But Alexander answereth not!—

XXXI.

Murat delighted, seemed, to shew
His dazzling presence to the Foe;—
And well the Russians did agree,
To soothe his princely vanity;—
To their videttes, his orders free,
He gave—obeyed obsequiously,—
As even, he gave them to his own,
Such deference to his will, was shewn;
And if to occupy some ground
They occupied,—while gazing round,—
Some freak—some fancy, seized his mind—
To him, straightforth, 'twas then resigned!—
Part of their Cossack chiefs, indeed,
(Each wilder than his own wild steed!)
That vanity to fan and feed,

648

Yet pleased, and won, and flattered more—
While feigned they,—wondering, to adore!
Believed he well, these ne'er would take
Fresh arms 'gainst France—for his proud sake;—
'Twas said, a dream he entertained—
Which soberer judgment, had disdained,
King of the Cossacks, to become,—
(Creation wild, of Fancy's loom!)
And stamp even thus, proud Russia's doom!—

XXXII.

Napoleon nought of this believed,
Napoleon, scarce might be deceived!
Soon he complained, in bitter tone—
Where deep, deep discontent, was shewn—
Of the endless warfare, he complained,
By hovering partizans maintained;
He knew and felt, his much-wronged Foe,
Still harassed and oppressed him so—
Despite all outward, peaceful show!
He knew and felt, that thus he bore,
Disastrous harm,—and injury sore;
Pacific demonstrations, vain,
Concealed of ills, a mighty train!
While countless Cossacks, did appear—
Still prowling on his flanks and rear,—
Even some Dragoons, of his Old Guard
Had been surprised—when unprepared,—
And chased by them—chased hot and hard!—

649

His veteran soldiers,—yet unbowed,—
Were challenged by that savage crowd,—
By those Barbarians, wild and rude,
In their audacious hardihood!
And this took place, but two brief days—
(Strange, wondering, varying doubts to raise;)
After that Armistice was signed,
Which little seemed, such hands to bind,
'Twas on Mojaisk's highroad beside—
(On his own line—extended wide,—
Of operations)—these defied,
His high puissance and his pride!—
That road, by which his hosts alone,
Carrying communications on,
With their fresh aids—their magazines—
Their reinforcements—men, and means,—
Could keep up th' intercourse, which still
Must stablish hope, and ward off ill;
That road by which himself, too, held,
Communion with broad Europe's Field!—

XXXIII.

His harassed troops,—still, day by day,—
Were forced to track, their wearying way,
To find provisions, for the need,
Of famished man, and starving steed,—
And ofttimes, from their painful quest,
Horsemen, and horses, sore distressed,
Came, sharply needing, ease and rest,

650

But little ease and rest, they found—
Soon doomed to tread, once more that ground;—
While some, returned not thence, at all,
In skirmish rude, condemned, to fall;
Since, still hard fight, must they maintain
For each scant treasure, they would gain;—
And still, each bushel-load of rye,
Must they dispute with the enemy;
For every truss of forage, fight,
Exhausting so, their o'ertasked might;—
And strive, with long and desperate strife,
For scantiest means to cherish life;
Whilst evermore the evil grew,
To wilder heights—with threatenings new!—
Surprise succeeded to surprise,
Skirmish from skirmish—seemed to rise,—
And struggle after struggle, shook
Their strength, whom failing hope forsook!—
The outwearied frame, o'ertaxed,—gave way,
Beneath the pressure of dismay,—
The energies but ill endured,
No brighter prospects reassured!—
While ceaseless watch all peace denied—
And Wrath scowled dark from every side!—

XXXIV.

The peasant-herds, with dogged hate,
In ambushment, would watch and wait,
And seize on stragglers, and destroy,
With fury of malignant joy;—

651

They punished, too, with death all those
Who proffered food, unto their foes—
Who sought for gain, their aid to give,
And helped those hated hordes, to live;
While some, their Villages burned down,—
Their Homes—their All,—they called their own,—
To drive those foragers from out
Their much-loved haunts—chase,—check and rout,
And yield them to the Cossacks wild,
Who pitilessly scathed, and spoiled,—
Who kept them in a state of siege,
And barred them every privilege;
Well played those patriot hordes their part,
With zeal's indomitable heart;
For aye, found watchful to annoy,
To scathe, to injure, and destroy;—
Seized Vérréia, too, these patriots good—
Fair town, in Moscow's neighbourhood!
A Priest assembled these—and armed;—
(Glad hundreds, round his banners swarmed,)
He led them on, and marshalled well,
They hailed the watchword, and the spell!
“Strike home!—for Russia!—Death to France!”
And loud they urged him, to advance;
Some few scant troops, he gained,—then spread,
Confusion round,—and doubt—and dread;
Ere Day, had chased Night's shadows black,
The signal of a false attack,
On one side, caused he, to be given,—
And when his artful plan, had thriven,—

652

Straight on the other furiously,
He made his bold assault and free,
Attacked—well covered by the shades,
The Foeman's warlike palisades,
Destroyed them—entered, swift, the town—
Where all, was in disorder thrown;
And well his way, triumphant, won,
Straight slaughtering Gaul's whole Garrison!

XXXV.

Thus the endless War frowned every where!—
'Twas on their Front!—Flanks!—in their Rear;
Their Flanks,—their Front,—their Rear must feel,
The sharpness good, of Russian steel;
As still, their Hosts more weak did grow,
More enterprising grew their Foe!
Murat himself,—that soul of flame!—
Staggered and vexed, at length became;
And he—even He,—in dubious mood,
Surprised by hesitation, stood!—
He saw with sorrow, day by day,
His 'minished numbers, melt away;
The Russians, at the advanced posts still,
Exaggerated even the ill!
When meeting there, with Chiefs of France,
They breathed but threatenings, and mischance;
They prophesied but coil and care,
And wrack, and ruin, and despair;—
They shewed them, countless savage steeds,
Of different climes,—of various breeds,—

653

Untamed—unbroken—wild and free,
As in their native forestry;
With streaming, long, tempestuous manes,
That swept to clouds of dust the Plains!—
Fast sweeping all the Plains around
To clouds of dust,—where'er they bound!

XXXVI.

The Russians pointed out with pride,
These coursers rude, and those who ride;—
“Behold!”—they cried, “from scenes afar,
What myriads come, to swell our war!
From our vast Empire's verge extreme,
They pour, in one unceasing stream!
From the old Caucasian Hills of pride—
From China's frontiers—far and wide,—
They crowd—they speed—they breathless come—
Like eager travellers, hurrying home;
For still their home is Russia's heart—
Still crowd they there, from every part,
To serve, deliver, and defend—
Or with her dust, their dust to blend!”
And true it was, that evermore,
Fresh myriads spread, their eyes before,—
From hills remote—from distant shore—
Fresh legions, did untiring pour!
Thousands on thousands, gathering fast,
Joined Russia's gallant hosts and vast!
Though long their journeyings—rough their way,—
True to the place,—the point,—were they!

654

Not one, neglected to appear—
Displaying high enthusiast cheer;
To join their Country's ranks, they rushed,
With fury fired—with ardour flushed!
The national appeal and call—
Heard—echoed—answered—blessed by all—
On no unkindled sense might fall!

XXXVII.

And loudly rang that proud appeal,
To wake a boundless burst of zeal,
They heard that mighty voice which cried,
“Up!—heart-leagued Nations! in your pride!—
Arm!—Russians!—'gainst the Invaders, stand!—
Arm!—Russia needs each red right hand!—
Arm!—ward away the hostile brand!—
Arm!—let the Leaguerers heap the Land,
With ruin's worst—as well they planned!—
With ruin's worst, shall this be strown,
But let it,—let it, be—their own!—
Mountains of Death, they yet shall rear,
Which, but our trophies shall appear;
The boastful Foe, who came to blast,
Shall kiss the dust, he stained, at last!
Thy dust, Oh! Russia!—which his tread
So stained—he shall but honour—dead!
Aye!—living seemed he, to debase,
But his pale Corse shall bless and grace!
The Conquered Conquerors fail!—They fall!—
They feel a new and crushing thrall;—

655

They near Destruction's deadly brink—
They yet shall faulter—yet shall sink!—
Then Forward!—To the Field!—Advance!—
Arm!—Arm!—and seal the Fate of France!

XXXVIII.

“March!—Muscovy the Mighty calls,
March!—many a much-loved brother falls;
March!—Chiefs are bearded in their halls—
March!—March!—'venge Moscow's smouldering walls!
Down with their hellish schemes to dust,—
Defy their power!—o'erthrow their trust—
Haste!—meet your Foes!—and meet them even—
As they met Hell,—who charged from Heaven!—
The living world, shall start and rock,
To that unearthly thunder-shock!
Then March!—and leave, where Vengeance glows,
But heaps of dust—for hosts of foes!
March!—let the Earth be glad and free;—
March!—March!—and Victory go with ye!
She sits upon your swords—and waves
Her banners o'er their opening graves!—
As burning Moscow reared on high
Her Solar Standards, to the sky,
Those Solar Standards, wild and free,
Of Fire's most regal revelry!
When throned on flames—she challenged all!—
Towering and glorying to—her Fall!”—

656

XXXIX.

All Russia rose!—majestic rose!—
To hurl defiance 'gainst her foes!
Each Russian mother, wept for joy,
O'er her beloved, and blooming boy,—
When heard she, with a brave delight,
That he was claimed—and called to fight;
That he, fair flower of all her Life,
Selected stood—for Storm and Strife!
She welcomed, even with joy intense,
That glorious, fair intelligence;
His parting steps, accompanied,
With mantling hope, and mounting pride;
And with him trembling, gladdening, went,
In triumph's pleased bewilderment,
To see him with the Cross divine,
Signed,—the Crusader's hallowed sign!
And hear him,—as he grasped his sword,
Shout forth,—“It is thy will!—Oh! Lord!”—

XL.

Then added they,—“A fresh ally,
Comes soon to join us!—Fly!—Oh!—Fly!
Behold!—we shew ye countless hordes,
Vast tribes, led on by warlike lords,
Hundreds of thousands,—hurrying here,
To nerve their Country's heart and cheer;
Yet soon shall come to work our will,
A more Tremendous Warrior still!

657

Soon, soon, shall come,—to aid our War,
A more resistless Chief by far,
Our Winter!—Warrior, dread and dire—
Whose frosts, shall rival Moscow's fire!—

XLI.

“Our mighty Winter comes to blast—
To blight you—and to crush at last!
Pass but one fortnight more,—and Lo!
Life in your veins, shall fail to glow!
Your nails, shall then drop off—your blood,
Stand still—a fettered frozen flood!
Your stiffening hair shall stand erect,
Your faultering footsteps shall be checked;
Half dead, shall ye in anguish bend,
Ere Death, come pitying to befriend!”

XLII.

The Cossack Chiefs, too, loudly cried,
With triumph stern, none sought to hide—
“What!—in your own neglected Land—
(Tell us!—that we may understand!—)
Had ye not corn enough?—declare!—
Enough of Earth—enough of Air;
Enough of Homes—Graves—Water—Sky,—
Even room enough, to live, and die?—
That thus ye speed, so far from home,
To seek but torture,—and the tomb?
To fatten thus—for all your toil—
With your shed blood, a foreign soil?

658

With your drained blood, and mouldering clay,
To feed the cold earth—far away?
The Stranger's Country so to bless,
With wealth of fertile store's excess!”—

XLIII.

Then added they, with smile of scorn,
“Ye rob the Land, where ye were born!
That should ye cultivate—defend,
Bless and embellish, to the end;
To that,—when Death must o'er ye sway,
Ye owe the tribute of your clay—
Its gifts of goodness, to repay!
From that,—your bodies, all were ta'en,
To that,—should these be given again!
It nourished them in life—then learn,
Dead,—they should nourish it in turn!”

659

CANTO XVIII.

I.

Napoleon—stern, and sadly grave,—
Ere long, his strict commandment gave,
To strip the Kremlin's churches fair,
Of all the treasures, glittering there,—
From vane to vault,—from crest to crypt,—
Those proud Cathedrals, shall be stripped;
For all, that might as trophies seem,
Should gild their Army's Victory-dream,—
And o'er their Host's large Triumph beam!
And thus, those sacred spoils, were torn
From their proud Domes,—defaced, and shorn;
Rich spoils! of pride and pomp untold,
Emblazed with gems—and rough with gold;
These he declared,—abandoned all,—
To him, by right, did surely fall;
The Conquerors, thus, had double right,
To seize upon those treasures bright!
First Victory's claim—and more than this,—
The abandonment, proclaimed them his!

660

Long efforts were required to move,
That mighty Cross, which towered above
The Steeple proud,—and fair, and fine,—
Of the great Ivan's Tower and Shrine!
The Russians deemed, were close attached,
Even to this Giant Cross, unmatched,
The Empire's salvation,—glory,—All;—
With this, they feared,—should Russia, fall!

II.

Napoleon was resolved to bear,
This sacred Trophy, proud and rare,
To shine, o'er some transcendant Dome,
Hard by his own Imperial Home!
While still, they strove, with toil profound,
In clouds, flapped Ravens,—fluttering round;—
With hoarse, harsh voices, croaking still,
As they would prophesy of Ill!

III.

Tormented with that wearying sound,
Which struck the ear, to pierce and wound,—
Sore chafed, by that distracting din,
And pained, by promptings dark within,—
Napoleon in impatient mood,
Exclaimed to those, who round him stood,—
“'Twould seem as though, these flocks obscene,
Of dark, ill-omened birds would mean,
To guard this cross, unawed and bold,
And snatch it, from the Conquerors' hold!”

661

Vague, superstitious thoughts, perchance,
Across his mind, might hurrying glance;
For still that mind, was ofttimes vexed,
By dreams, that darkened and perplexed!

IV.

A brilliant Sun, made glad and bright,
His daily paths, with roseate light;
He strove, in that auspicious blaze,
To recognize his Star's loved rays;
In that, to recognize elate,
The Angel-Guardian of his Fate!
For surely, 'midst those conscious beams,
Its smile of loving splendour streams!
To others, too, at times he sought,
To teach a like consoling thought!
But all was vain—a settled cloud,
Still round him, wrapped its gloomy shroud,
Drear Moscow's sullen silence deep,
The hush of Death's dull frozen sleep—
That silence, yet more stern and chill,
Preserved by Alexander still!—
(A threatening silence,—dread and dire,
Which well might thousand doubts inspire!)
Sore, on his sickening spirit weighed,
Deep, on his loaded bosom, preyed!

V.

'Twas not the faint and hollow sound,
Of steps, which woke dull echoes round—

662

His soldiers' steps, who wandered past,
'Midst that dim sepulchre and vast—
That now, could rouse him—soothe—or cheer,—
Past—Future—All,—seemed changed and drear!
He felt his conquest, was a name,
A breath—a shadow—and a dream,—
The plains, he left, behind him, stretched
No more were his,—than those unreached!

VI.

He was but master of the ground
On which he stood,—a narrow bound!—
Moscow, he felt, 'twere well to leave—
But where to turn?—what plans to weave?—
What next to compass, or to claim?—
And what to seek of power or fame?
From Moscow he must march!—but say!
What Hope,—what Promise,—lights his way?
Long time, 'twould need him, to prepare—
Could he desert his wounded there?
And let the armed Cossacks, howl their hate,
With triumph, o'er the desolate?
His sick,—his stragglers,—seize,—destroy,—
With drunkenness of desperate joy!
And with exultant mockery smite,
The reliques of the Conqueror's Might?

VII.

'Twould seem, in midst of victory,
He chose to fall,—and stooped to fly,

663

Aye!—deigned, abrupt, to fly the stage,
And blank, leave History's mightiest page!
All Europe would pronounce it thus,—
With judgment, harsh and rigorous;—
Europe! that envied him—that sought,
With zeal of dark indignant thought,
By deep oppression, urged and taught,—
To find some Rival of his Reign,
The while she gnawed, his festering chain!
Some Rival, under whom at last,
Rallying,—she might revenge the past;—
Europe!—that then, would doubtless deem,
This Rival—(the idol of her dream!—)
In Alexander's person rose,
To bid her Tyrant's triumphs close;
He felt, he ruled, as by a spell,
He must be thought, the Infallible!—
Should He then give that blow—the first!
Which straight, should bid the bubble burst?—
Which must, his moral death-blow prove,—
And fond Illusion's charm remove?
Thus leaving, Earth, amazed, to see—
How false, the Infallibility!—

VIII.

“No!—No!” he cried, “whate'er may chance—
Let me be true to Fame—and France!
Through me—in me—shall France ne'er fall,—
And mine shall be, no Fame—or all!—

664

Whate'er may chance,—whate'er may come,—
This heart shall bound, to meet its doom,—
Whate'er may come,—whate'er may chance,—
For Me—for Mine—for Earth—for France!—
I still will stand, unchanged, unchecked,
Though all beside, be lost and wrecked.
And shall I shrink?—and shall I yield?—
And flee, like cowards, from the Field!
No!—I will be,—come weal,—come woe,
Napoleon still,—or Nothing!—NO!”—

IX.

From one step backward in his fate,
What wars,—what woes,—what wrongs should date!—
And still alternately im pelled,—
Urged forward still—then backward held,—
By all that can dissuade—decide,—
Sore racked, 'twixt policy and pride,
And torturing hope—and wildering fear—
With nought to stablish—nought to cheer,—
On those chill ashes, he remained,
As by strong Destiny enchained!

X.

Men, well might such position call,
Beneath all aspects—critical!—
Close-judged, beneath a warlike view,
And weighed politically, too;
In every phase,—at every point,—
Their dread emprize seemed out of joint;

665

Both attitudes, appeared to be,
Constrained by iron Destiny!
So complicated, each with each,
Scarce Thought, their fearful depths, could reach;—
So complicated, seemed they, still—
To scan them, asked no common skill!
A dread position and a dire
Was his—who ceased not to aspire;—
None e'er existed yet—since Fate,
First Empires ruled,—first made them great,—
So delicately desperate!
And scarce might that high-soaring mind,
Which ne'er had yet, an aim resigned,
So glorious made, through all past time,
By swerveless constancy, sublime;—
Scarce now might that—so fixed—so firm—
To brunt all fortune to its term,—
Its unaccomplished, dear intent,
At once,—to thrust aside, consent;
Scarce,—scarce,—might he—so staunch,—so strong,—
Through good—through ill!—through right or wrong!—
Renounce at once his hope—his scheme,—
His proud design,—his cherished dream!—
That lure, which still, had drawn him on,
Since from Witepsk, his way he won!—

XI.

'Vails not to strive his doubts to tell,—
'Vails nought, on various plans to dwell,
Days rolled away!—The first snows fell!

666

From that stern moment, seemed to part,
The illusions, fluttering, round his heart,
Retreat!—Retreat!—thenceforward, filled,
His thoughts subdued, and checked, and stilled;—
Retreat!—nought else!—Retreat, alone,—
The doom's dread truth is stamped and shewn;
Ere long, his mind elastic rose,
With giant obstacles to close;
To staunch Daru he soon confessed,
Those crowding thoughts that shook his breast;—
The trials and the troubles sore,
That pierced his heart's impatient core;—
His Doubts—Hopes—Griefs—not Fears—for still,
Proud faith, he placed, in his proud will!

XII.

Now would he march, at once, he cried,
Since needful, seemed it to decide,
March,—march,—on Koutousoff!—in haste!—
And crush, or drive him back, at last;—
Then toward Smolensk, turn suddenly,—
(When thus, he made the Russian flee;—)
“Too late!”—Daru replied,—“too late!
Too flourishing, their army's state,
'Twould be to tempt the gloomiest fate!”—
And then, he strove to paint aright,
Their harrowing and disheartening plight;
And urged, the hope was desperate, so
To check, or to surprise, the Foe!

667

Their Powers were weakened—Russia's Host,
Strengthened—might force superior boast!—
Adduced he, further reasons, too,
And sought to change, the Emperor's view!—

XIII.

“Then—Say!—what must be dared and done?”—
Broke forth in haste, Napoleon!
The Monarch asked, with brow flushed high,
“What choice—what course were best?—Reply!
What must we do?—Remain! or—Fly!”—
“Remain!”—Daru this counsel gave,
“Remain—unmoved!—stay!—staunchly brave!
Of this huge Moscow, wide and drear,
With stout resolve, with solemn cheer,
Make one strong camp entrenched!—Stay here!—
Make this fallen Moscow—fallen in vain!—
One mighty camp entrenched!—Remain!
Here pass the winter!—Salt and bread,
Shall fail us not,—thus feel no dread!—
The rest, shall foraging supply,
Contrived, and ordered skilfully;
Such horses, as we scarce can feed—
Shall, salted down, well serve our need,—
For lodgings—houses are but few:—
And these are spoiled and injured too,
Scarce warranted, to stand secure;—
'Gainst wind and tempest,—little sure!

668

But where these fail and lack, indeed,
Shall cellars fairly serve instead;
Here—here, till Spring's commencement stay!—
Here let us dwell as best we may!—
Our reinforcements, then, shall fast,
Increase our strength—repair our waste;—
All Lithuania, then, in arms,
Shall rise to join, our mustered swarms;
Rise, to relieve, assist, and aid,
Complete, our conquest shall be made!
Our glorious work, shall shine complete—
And Russia,—fling her, at our feet!”

XIV.

Brief while, in silent, thoughtful mood,
The mighty Monarch,—pondering stood,
Then loud, burst forth his answer—“No!—
It cannot—must not—now, be so!
Yet, 'tis a Lion's counsel, this,
And noble, too, and fair it is!
A gallant counsel!—Bold and high!—
Which both can prize!—Both!—Thou and I!
But,—six long months, away from France;—
My presence, needful there, perchance;—
Austria and Prussia haply, too,
Both ripe to seize the advantage new,
It must not be!—my brave Daru!
This must not be!—I feel!—not so!—
A Lion's counsel 'tis!—yet—No!”—

669

But men and elements around,
To strife and tempests, gathering, frowned,
While still, he struggled to repress,
Vain signs of the inward restlessness!—

XV.

At times, he would, exulting, cry,
“Ere long, shall quail our enemy!
Millions,—through Fate's untoward commands,
'Tis true, have slipped through our baulked hands;
'Tis true,—this war hath Millions, cost,
Thousands of Millions He hath lost!—
Since Russia's commerce, is destroyed,—
Her efforts paralyzed—made void,—
Aye, for a Century yet to come,
'Tis She hath found, an adverse doom!—
One hundred years, at least, thrown back,
She treads a swift-declining track;
Results important, this must have,—
The Russians yet, for Peace shall crave,
When this first glow, they cease to feel,
Of popular, intemperate zeal;—
When all the enthusiastic burst,
So fervent, and so deep, at first,
Shall die—as o'erwrought feeling dies,—
These stern reflections, then shall rise!
With consternation, grave, to fill,
And all this soaring scorn to chill;
So violent a shock and change—
Abrupt and dangerous—dark and strange,—

670

So wond'rous a concussion,—still,
Beyond all grasp of reasoning skill,
Convulsing Alexander's Throne,
Shall leave him weak, and lorn, and lone,
Till driven to bid this warfare cease—
At last, himself, must sue for Peace!”—

XVI.

Bold Koutousoff, unceasing sought,
To cheer his hosts—neglecting nought,
That might inflame their patriot thought,—
The echoes of their camp rang loud,
With Salamanca's Victory proud!
“Russians!—Rejoice!”—he cried, “Rejoice!”
And Victory lent him all Her voice,
“The French are from Madrid expelled—
Success, is from their arms, withheld,—
Their hope is tamed,—their pride is quelled,—
The hand of Him, who reigns on high,
Leans on Napoleon heavily!
Full heavily, on him, it weighs,
Who vainly now, his might arrays;
As from Madrid,—from Moscow driven,
The French shall rue, the wrath of Heaven!
The wrath of Heaven and Earth, shall rue—
Crushed in free'd Spain—free Russia, too!
Or Moscow shall his dungeon prove,
Who fain the World would melt or move!—

671

His dungeon, and his grave—the tomb
Of all his Host—whose darkest doom,
Shall be to share his spirit's gloom;
To share his long remorse, and deep,
Ere yet they share his final sleep!—
Courage!—for Earth's and Heaven's high sake,
Soon France, shall We, in Russia, take!
Take France in Russia's heart!—and shew,
The world, the weakness of Its Foe!”

XVII.

Murat's illusive dream was o'er—
The charm dispelled—the hope no more;—
When, at the advanced posts he appeared,
Soon after these haught words were heard,
A Cossack Chief, with hate inspired,
At him,—the gallant Monarch!—fired;
Enraged, Murat pronounced, in haste,
That the Armistice, was o'er and past—
For aye, thus violated still,
On their side, as with hostile will,
No more should this exist—'twas done;—
Let each,—thenceforward,—guard his own!
Napoleon, through those darkening hours,
Stood, rallying, round him, fast, his powers;—
The glorious legions of his might,
He rallied round him, there, aright,
'Midst preparations, proud and high,
Those hours passed on, full hurryingly!

672

XVIII.

Accompanied in martial sort,
In the olden Kremlin's first great court,—
He stood attentive, to review,
Ney's brave divisions, tried and true!
Spread—circulated fast around,
Strange hints, that touched, with thrill profound;—
Quick ears had caught, the Cannons' sound!
'Twas towards Vinnkowo,—it seemed to be,
That sound, was pealing angrily;
Approaching now, the Sovereign Lord,
Duroc, straight whispered him, the word,—
He started—glared full sternly round;—
One moment clenched his hand, and frowned;
Then fixed in self-command, once more,
His task continued, as before!
Arrived young Beranger ere long,
With tales disastrous, on his tongue;
And this, the intelligence he brought—
A furious conflict, had been fought!
Murat's First Line, had been surprised—
So well, their Foe had enterprised—
With wary movements, well-advised;
And added he,—in faultering tone,
The staggered Troops, had been o'erthrown!

673

XIX.

His Left was turned by favour, too,
Of skreening woods hard by, that threw,
Their shades—impervious to the view;
His flank attacked—with furious force,
Nought checked, their Foes' resistless course!
And—while, raged far, that Combat's heat,
Cut,—sternly off,—was His Retreat;
Two Chieftains high,—of strength and state,—
On that red Field had found their fate;
Two Chieftains high had found their doom,
And sunk in Glory's weltering tomb!
Cannon were taken, too;—withal,—
Were thousands there, condemned to fall!
Vast stores of ammunition lost—
Impoverished, shrank, the Gallic Host;
And lastly, on that fatal ground,
The King, himself,—had borne a wound!
The Advanced Guard's relics faint, at last,
He rescued from destruction vast—
But through tremendous charges still—
Renewed, with stern and stubborn will,
'Gainst countless troops, that well defied,—
Which then the highroad occupied;—
(That highroad in his rear!—sole way,
For their Retreat, on that dire day!)

XX.

Yet, the French honour, well was saved—
The opponents they had stoutly braved;—

674

Some few leagues' distance, on the right,
Well, Poniatowski, fired the fight,—
A proud, and long resistance made,
And gallant force, and skill displayed!
With supernatural strength and zeal,
Murat's brave horsemen,—walls of steel,—
Had made the Russ their prowess feel!
And checked bold Bagawout—whose aim
(Which thus, 'twas their's, to turn and tame—
While, like a tempest, on he came!)—
Was still, to penetrate and pierce,
The French left flank, with onset fierce!
Maubourg and Claparéde, meanwhile,
Had cleared Spas-Kaaplia's strict defile,—
Two leagues, in rear of France's line,
Where hostile arms, were seen to shine,—
Since occupied by Platoff, 'twas;
This difficult and dangerous pass!
The Russians, too, dire loss sustained,
Even while the day, by them, was gained!
They, too, among their fallen, might count,
Brave Generals, known too Battle's front;
And crowds of wounded,—heaps of slain,—
On their side, crimsoned to the Plain;
But yet the attack's advantage all,—
The Victory to their lot did fall!

XXI.

Napoleon stood, indignant now,
A world of passions, fired his brow—

675

A thousand orders, full and clear,
Burst, on each wondering listener's ear!
Burst from his teeming, working brain,
Not one confused—not one in vain!
A thousand orders,—fair and free,—
Linked with surprising harmony;
Which no perplexity might mar—
Both general and particular!
As spheres, in separate orbits run,
To serve the same bright Sovereign Sun,
The clear Commandments, issuing came,
To wait on one transcendent aim!
Though differing all, in drift and kind,
So burst they, from that master-mind!
The Hosts were all, in motion seen,
Ere reigned the solemn night, serene;
For Worodownow, marched they on,
Their arms, through thickening twilight, shone!

XXII.

Broussier was towards Fomminskoë sent,
Straight there, his punctual steps, were bent;
Brave Poniatowski's troops, must win,
That road, which leadeth to Medyn;—
Before the dawn's enkindling hours,
Napoleon left, fallen Moscow's towers!
He turned him, from Her wrecks forlorn,
With something, of a joyous scorn;
“Straight on Kalouga, let us march!”
He cried,—clear spread his brow's proud arch;

676

“And Woe to those,—Woe!—Woe!—I say,—
Heaven dooms, to meet me, on my way!”
Announced he, his intention now,
Still, with the same clear, cloudless brow—
Where none, might doubt, or grief discern,
Towards Poland's frontiers to return;
And by Kalouga thus to pass—
Through Medyn lead his warlike mass,
Through Youknow,—Ellnia,—too, and then,
To halt at towered Smolensk again!

XXIII.

Behold that column vast and long,
One hundred, and some thousands, strong;
With fifty thousand steeds, that make,
The ground beneath them, groan and quake;
With near six hundred cannons, too,—
While countless banners, o'er them flew!
Two thousand waggons, might there be,
Withal, of dread artillery;—
A proud and overpowering show,
They still present sublimely, so!
Worthy of warriors, that had made,
The World their prize—in might arrayed!
But after these, what strikes the view?—
A shapeless crowd—a countless crew;—
Like some huge horde, of Tartars wild,
On whom, a rude success hath smiled!

677

From some invasion, fierce and stern,
Back pouring, in abrupt return!
Vast files, of endless length, appeared—
Their choaked-up course, with pain, they steered;—
Confused and heaped—and mixed—and blent,—
In boundless, strange bewilderment!

XXIV.

Cars—chariots—sledges—tumbrils—wains,—
Darkened and shook the far-stretched plains;
Some, loaded with adornments fair,
Looked strange, and little suited there!
These, had to owners, rich and great,
Belonged, ere Moscow's days of fate;
Here, dazzling trophies, were upreared,
Proud Persian standards, there appeared!—
And sumptuous Turkish banners old,
Stiffened with 'broideries thick, and gold!
Here Russian colours, gleamed displayed
(That in such hands, should pale and fade!)
And many a glorious prize and spoil,
Rich guerdon of the Victor's toil—
Then towered great Ivan's giant Cross,
To Moscow's endless loss—a loss!
And here, long-bearded Russians bowed,
'Midst that deep, dense, tumultuous crowd;
Their brows still scowled, with smothered ire,
And flashed their eyes,—dark funeral fire!
Prisoners ill-starred!—condemned were they,—
To bear their Conqueror's spoils away!—

678

Ah!—weighed those Conquerors the fatigues,
And sufferings of eight hundred leagues?—
Dreamed they that e'er, their France should see,
Those spoils of dubious Victory?

XXV.

Thousands of followers—throng on throng,—
Sped, hurrying in the rear along;
A mixed, and mighty multitude,
Their tedious, endless way pursued;
All tongues,—all nations,—gathered there—
Together blent,—vexed earth and air;—
Uncounted tribes, did onwards fare!
Myriads of followers—servants—slaves—
Swept on, in ever-lengthening waves;
Light cars—by pigmy horses dragged—
(That oft o'er-goaded, failing flagged;—)
Fast urged they, on their forward way,
For these, did stores, and food convey!
Women and children, too, were seen,
With anxious air, and pallid mien,
Pressed 'mongst the assemblage, deep and vast,
That there was gathered and amassed;
In sooth,—'twas like some thronging horde,
In strange disorder onwards poured,
It seemed some mighty caravan—
Some Nation, formed in one huge clan,—
Weighed down with wealth—o'erwhelmed with spoil,—
Whose every movement was a toil!

679

XXVI.

Napoleon scarce could passage gain,
Through this enormous throng and train,
Some hours, along the old road, he sped—
The old road, that towards Kalouga led;—
Then suddenly, at mid-day's hour—
Near Kraznoparchra's castled tower,—
He, with his army's mustered might,
Turned,—having halted,—to the right;
And then, with hurried marches three,
The new road gained, successfully.

XXVII.

Yet fell a heavy rain, the while,
The ill-formed and deep cross-roads to spoil—
This chance, constrained him there, to halt;—
Yet failed, to leave his plans at fault—
Though, sooth, the untoward delay,—but ill
Accorded with his need and will;—
The cannon, sunk in sloughs and mire,
Were slow withdrawn, with labours dire;
Yet thus, had masked Napoleon well—
His movement indiscernible!
By Ney's fair corps—the brave and free—
And wreck of Murat's cavalry!
(For this at Worodownow stayed,
And near the Motscha had delayed,)
The Russians,—foiled by such apt skill,—
Watched for the French Grand Army still,

680

On the Olden Road,—the while, the whole,
A frame, inspired by one great soul,
Thus, to the new one, was transferred,
By its Commander's lightning word!—
And had but One more step to take—
Had but One forward march to make,—
To pass them by,—placed well between
Their Armies—and Kalouga's scene!—

XXVIII.

The Emperor's quarters for the night,
Were at Borowsk,—he strained his sight
To mark that ground,—while waned the light,—
Which yet might prove, a Field of Fight!
Soon tidings came of happy chance,
Befallen, to flush the hopes of France;—
Delzons,—some four leagues in advance
Malo-Yaroszlawetz had found,
With its commanding woods around;
By their dread foes unoccupied,
Within his reach,—right strong beside,
And the only point, where Russia's force,
Could cut off Gaul's successful course!

XXIX.

Strange!—Russia had not 'stablished there
Her marshalled myriads, fresh and fair,
Since thus, 'twas the only point, where they,
Could thwart the French, upon their way—

681

Cut off the Imperial Armies all—
And hasten their defeat, and fall!
These tidings—fraught with hope and cheer—
Fell gladly on Napoleon's ear!—

XXX.

He turned him, from Borowsk, next day,
And onward took his martial way!—
His deepest soul, that stirred and wrought,
Seemed buried in profoundest thought;
What sounds surprised his startled ear?
Some growing battle doth he hear!
It is—'tis,—'tis,—the cannons' sound!—
With eager glance far gazed he round;
Then hastening sought an Eminence—
And listening stood, and looked from thence;—

XXXI.

What!—had indeed the watchful Foe
His aim anticipated so?
And thus his scheme, of craft and art—
Had Russia's generals, learned to thwart?—
Had he not used sufficient speed
To serve his purpose—hope, and need?
To pass the Foe's left flank—and still
O'erreach him by superior skill?—
His troops had been o'erladen, true,
With pillage and provision, too,
And marshy ground, had they passed through;

682

But 'twas a dark and fell delay,—
That yet might all his hopes betray!

XXXII.

He listened—No!—it had not ceased;—
Nay!—fast those awful sounds increased!—
“Is't then—A Battle?”—he exclaimed,
His mien was changed,—his brow inflamed,—
Davoust, he urged with word and glance,
Fiery and fervent, to advance;—
While fast he sped with anxious air—
He burns—he maddens—to be there!—

XXXIII.

In vain!—they reached the Battle-field
When that day's destiny, was sealed;—
They reached the stage of strife too late,
To influence, or to change its fate;
Napoleon saw that Battle's end—
Nor might his faithful troops befriend;—
And soon a messenger hath sought
The Sovereign's side—who tidings brought,
Of how the conflict, had been fought!—
Long time that Mighty Sovereign stood,
And hearkening, hailed the tale of blood;

XXXIV.

When Koutousoff the truth had learned,
'Gainst Gaul's dread Chief, his scheme he turned,

683

Kaefskoi and Doct'roff forth he sent,
Whose steps straightforth, were southward bent;—
These must outmarch the French,—must try,
Yaroszlawetz to occupy—
Or if already, this was ta'en,
They then must struggle to regain!
Stout desperate efforts, they must make,
That strong position to retake!
His camp at Taronntino then,
He straight broke up—and marched again;—
Marched,—with his whole vast army on,
By Lecctatzowow's road—and won
His way so rapidly—that he
Outstripped the Foeman gallantly!
And interposed himself once more,
As he had fairly done before—
Betwixt Kalouga and that Foe—
Whose movements seemed too slack and slow!—

XXXV.

Built on a bold and rugged steep,
Whose base, is washed by Louja deep,
(That murmureth in its liquid sleep,
While there its waves all sparkling sweep;—)
'Midst broken, pointed cliffs, the town
Doth, from rude seat, imposing frown;—
Upon the river's northern side—
A narrow plain, the eye descried,—
A Plain of strict and straightened bounds,
And 'twas along its measured grounds,

684

Where scattered huts, the sight attract,
That Delzons' troops, now bivouacked,
Were two battalions placed to guard
That town—and keep themselves prepared,—
(Watching the hostile movements still)
Lest dark mischance, should work them ill!
Their Sentinels, kept careless watch—
Well did the Foe, the occasion snatch!—
At earliest morn, when senseless sleep,
Wrapped all, in clouds of stillness deep,
The Russians burst into the place—
Scattering confusion round, apace!
With hideous outcries, fierce and long,
They flung themselves, the French among;—
Like Demons from the Darkness, they,
Rushed forth, and burst upon their prey;
With fierce tremendous shouts, of wrath—
They rushed upon their fearful path!
Drove the battalions from the town—
Pushed towards the cliffs,—and hurled them down!—

XXXIV.

Cannon the Russians there had brought,
And wildly, desperately, they fought,
The roar aroused the brave Eugene—
Instant, he hastened to the scene!—
As he approached, with hurrying tread,
An Amphitheatre seemed spread
Before him—terrible and dread;—

685

The Louja, glitters at its foot,
Thousands of troops, its banks dispute;—
Behind them—from the summits high
Of many a sharp declivity,—
The advanced guards of the Russians, still
Poured down their fire, with zeal and skill,
Poured down their close and raking fire,
With quick precision—dread and dire,
On Delzons' troops, those heights beneath,
Ill-fenced from shattering storms of death;
Beyond,—on the elevated ground,
Where hundreds gazed, with gloom profound,—
Beyond,—on the elevated plain,
See Koutousoff's whole army gain
Swift ground,—still struggling on amain!—
A countless and o'erwhelming force,—
Fast, fast, they speed along their course!—

XXXVII.

They come in long black columns twain,
All terrors thundering in their train,
By two broad separate roads, that lead
From Lecctatzowow—on they speed!
Soon they entrenched themselves in strength—
Along a line,—some half-league's length;—
Now Delzons' post was desperate found,
Upon the exposed low line of ground,
Poured ruin from these deadly slopes
On him—and his devoted troops;—

686

A prompt retreat must set him free,
Or bold attack—and instantly!
Eugene gave orders for the attack!
Now let them drive the assailants back;
When, by a narrow bridge, and slight,
Ye cross the Louja's currents bright,—
Kalouga's great highroad is seen—
Following the course of yon ravine,
Which towards Yaroszlawetz ascends—
Then with the town's close streets, it blends;
The Russians, occupied in mass—
This sunken way—this hollow pass;—

XXXVIII.

But Delzons, and his followers brave,
Rushed, like some furious, headlong wave,
Down on those Russian troops,—o'erthrown,—
While proved the triumph, all their own!
The Foe gave way—from each proud height—
The bayonets of France gleamed bright;—
Delzons conceived the victory won,
To storm the buildings, rushed he on—
His soldiers paused a moment brief,
Fatal that moment, to their Chief!
Struck,—lies he stretched upon the ground,
His Brother sprang, with desperate bound—
And clasped his bleeding body round!
He skreened—supported him—and strove
That senseless sufferer to remove,

687

To snatch him from the fire and fray—
But no!—himself was doomed!—that day!—
Himself a murderous ball doth slay!—
Honoured in life—in death admired—
The Brothers close-embraced expired!—

XXXIX.

Staunch Guilleminot succeeded then,
To Delzons (who thus lived again!—)
And roused the saddened, wavering men;
Boots not to tell how often still,
Plumed Victory, as with varying will,
Fluttering—her favours did divide—
And hovering, changed, from side to side—
Five times, the place was won and lost,
So keenly struggled either Host!

XL.

Now on the heights the combat raged—
Fresh Russians still that combat waged—
Fresh swarms of Russians!—pouring down—
From where their gathered armies frown!
At length the thinned ranks of the French—
Cut down—hemmed in—'gan slow to blench—
They pause—doubt—waver—turn—and bend—
Then, driven and urged amain,—descend!
Precipitately, now they press
Down the bold steep's stern ruggedness!—

688

XLI.

Meanwhile the shells—confusion dire!—
The town behind them,—set on fire;
The flames,—in this, their mortal need,
Obstructed still, and checked their speed;—
To pitch of phrenzied passion, wrought—
The Russians, fierce as maniacs, fought;—
Till roused once more, the French stood still,
To meet them, with unvanquished will;
Then, there they made their desperate stand,—
There fought they stoutly,—hand to hand,
Fought,—front to front—and foot to foot,—
That ground, by inches,—to dispute;
There savagely, they struggling stood,
Till Earth, grew slippery, with their blood;
The infuriate foes, there maddening met,
(As Fate on that one die was set—
As they would shake the huge World yet!—)
Like tigers glaring and enraged,
Together tortured, chained and caged,—
With thirst for vengeance, unassuaged,
They fought—as though to smite and kill,
Were deeds most worthy worship still;—
Fought, with hands, feet, and teeth,—locked straight,
In dark embrace of wrath and hate!—

689

XLII.

They grappled murderously—scarce breathed,—
Forth hissed their hatred fierce,—and writhed,
In their own boiling heart's blood, seethed,—
Till Victors rolled, with Vanquished down
Those steeps, into the blazing town!
Together locked, in close embrace
Of Hate—that knew not time, nor place,—
They rolled down precipices dread,
Blind, and unconscious as the dead!
In Wrath's terrific trance untold,
Not quitting once their rankling hold,
Right in the bellowing flames they rolled!
Nought loosened they their venomed grasp,
Their grinding clutch,—and strangling clasp;
They scarce might feel the torturing fire,
In such a wildering, phrenzying ire—
Their souls, scorched out,—there, racked expire!
Their blackened skeletons, ere long—
Scattered the smouldering heaps among,—
Displayed a strange and hideous sight,—
Full low was laid, the Warriors' might!

XLIII.

Now, proud Italia's sons rushed on—
Burned in their veins their own red sun!—
All danger armed, to meet and mock,
They flew to brave, the Battle's shock!

690

But still the Russians, sweep and swarm,
In endless, freshening ranks they form—
And all is agonized to storm;
Those freshening, thickening, strengthening ranks,
Roll on, like streams that break their banks;
Seems Nature wrung to throbbing life!—
And all is maddened into strife!—
Such horrors of austere dismay,
Tortured the time, on that stern day!

XLIV.

At length the Victory, on the side,
Of France, did finally abide;—
And nobly, had she fought that fight,
Outnumbered by the opposing might;—
O'ermatched by circumstance of chance,
Nobly thou fought'st that Field!—Oh!—France!
And well Italia's sons their aid,
Unshrinking gave, and undismayed!
And hailed they now—that Conflict won,—
Malo-Yaroszlawetz, their own!

XLV.

Near Ghorodinia's murmuring stream—
Sore-grieved by many a dubious dream,—
Gaul's mighty Emperor did remain,
With labouring heart, and fevered brain!
By Ghorodinia's glistening stream,
Napoleon weighed deep thought and scheme;

691

A crazy, mouldering hut hath he,
For seat of royal majesty!
A foul coarse shed—wherein to bide,
For Place of high Imperial pride!
Shorn of, their boughs—their huge trunks bared—
By serfs' rude hatchets, roughly squared,—
Some forest trees unite to give,
The shade, a Monarch must receive!
Dejected there, that Monarch bends,
Yet far his restless spirit sends;—
That lowliest shed, he may not scan,
The World rolls 'twixt it,—and the Man!
'Twixt every scene, his eyes behold,
And Him—its vanquisher of old!—
And what!—shall he then stoop at last—
So pinnacled on the arduous past?
Even Victory whispers of Defeat—
Success hath hinted but—Retreat!
Fixed in their strong position well—
Moveless and unassailable,—
The hostile Force doth safely dwell!
For those who watchful, near him stand,
A zealous and a faithful Band,
His Mareschalls, and his Counsellors all,
Pronounce this truth of fire and gall;
His Mareschalls brave,—and Counsellors there,
All—all—this maddening truth declare;
And round him thronged, their looks attest
The grief that thrills, each dauntless breast.

692

XLVI.

“Great Heavens!” he cried—“Is't thus, indeed?—
Mista'en—yet, 'chance, your doubts mislead!”
Answered Bessiéres,—No doubt might be,—
So fixed was the ill-starred certainty!
Napoleon's brow was Storm and Night,
While flashed his eye with dreadful light;
From that strange Council-chamber mean—
His warlike train dismissed he then!
And 'midst his Mountain-Thoughts he stood,
Tormented with their tempest-mood;
Yet ween I, ever and anon,
His eye, with hope undying, shone;
Burst to his burning lip the word,
“Death to the Land,—and to its Lord!”
And then again, while heaved his breath,
On fire with passion,—“Doom and Death!—
I cite and summon ye!—Come forth!—
Thou proud Napoleon of the North!
I dare ye here, to greet and meet,
With half a War-World at your feet!”

XLVII.

Night passed!—when Morning's earliest hour,
Gleamed down, on smouldering town and tower;
Spurred D'Aremberg, with news of fear,
For his unslumbering Master's ear!

693

“The Cossacks,”—thus the Prince declared—
Still prompt and watchful and prepared;
Favoured by Night, and woods profound,
And the ever-changed, unequal ground—
Had 'twixt the advanced posts, and his place,
Contrived to slip,—they filled the space!
But slighted he, the untoward report,
And cut the strange, grave tidings short!

XLVIII.

At sunrise, mounting on his horse,
He, fearless, took his onward course;
Along Kalouga's road, he went—
His thoughts, on various themes, were bent!
Across the Plain, had he to pass—
One league, in length and breadth, it was:
Some few attendants, followed near—
No word—no whisper—met his ear!

XLIX.

The squadrons of his Escort fair,
Unsummoned, had not joined him there;
Yet following, spurred they, in his wake,
The dauntless Monarch to o'ertake;
Loud outcries on the sudden broke
That stillness—and of terror spoke!—
Wild groupes disordered,—routed,—scared,—
In flight, on every side appeared;—
Women, and followers of the Host,
In mad Dismay's pale panic, lost,

694

Rushed,—driven, in scattered herds along,
While fear, still grew, more keen and strong;
Hundreds of vehicles, that round
Thronged close—thick covering all the ground,—
Were stopped, in strange, uncertain doubt—
While the uproar grew, one hideous rout!
Their startled steeds, then forward dashed,
Till wain and chariot, thundering, clashed;
Jostling and jammed, together close,
These seemed all movement's power, to lose;
(While thus, yet worse confusion rose!)
Entangled and upset, they strewed,
That ground, in dark disorder rude!

L.

With scornful, misbelieving smile,
The Emperor gazed around, the while;—
“They deem the Cossacks scour the ground!”—
By fierce Hourrahs his words were drowned!
They came!—a storm seemed every steed!—
So flashing-furious was their speed!
They burst like Ocean, at its flood—
Yet firm, unmoved, Napoleon stood!

LI.

There stood he,—in his might and pride;—
Rapp spurred up hotly, to his side;
His brow, with withering anguish black,—
While thousand fears, and horrors rack;—
“It is the Cossacks!—Back!—Turn back!”—

695

Firm stood the Emperor!—moveless there,—
Fixed in proud valour, high and fair!—
His faithful Follower, snatched the reins—
(No nice respect, his arm restrains;)—
The affrighted, plunging steed he turned,
Sharp round—his aid, Napoleon spurned!
Faced to the Foe,—fierce Battle's Lord!
Then straightway drew his dreadful sword,
And braved the approach of that wild horde!
War blazed and threatened in his eye,
As each fired look was—Victory!

LII.

Then Neufchatel, his good blade drew,—
Waved his, the Grand Equerry too;—
So placed, left side the road, they stayed,
To meet the shock not long delayed,—
A fiery rush the Cossacks made!
They swept in clouds—they poured in waves—
To hollow half the ground to graves;—
Scarce, forty paces, distant then,
Soon reached the groupe, these savage men;
With hideous howlings fierce they came,
Their steps all hurricane and flame;
With war-whoops wild—and bellowings loud—
Flashed,—swift as light—that thundering crowd;
Rapp, scarce had wheeled, his charger round,
Ere they, close—close—in front were found!—
The foremost, in his fierce advance,
Thrust in the charger's chest his lance,

696

So furiously,—the horse o'erthrown,
Lay panting with his Lord, flung down!

LIII.

Just then, a portion of the Guard,
Dashed, hurrying up,—though ill prepared;
But prompt, they rushed to extricate,
And save the Chieftain fallen, from fate;—
Le-Coulteux's bravery, and the zeal,
Of some score chasseurs—men of steel,—
And more than all, that thirst for spoil—
Which even in midst of Battle-broil,
Still lured these sons of strife and toil,—
Still urged these Children of the Waste,—
Even while War's fiery front they faced,
Preserved Napoleon from the Fate
Which seemed to threaten and await;
Saved him—in such dread danger placed,—
Even him—who had half Earth abased!
The Cossacks knew him not, and passed,
Unheeding by—careering fast;—
Even within lances' length passed by,
Proud Gaul's stern warrior-majesty!
Passed thee,—within brief length of lance,
Dread Sovereign Majesty of France!

LIV.

The War—the World—was in their hands!—
Unknown to these Barbarian Bands!
But on they sped—on—on they flew—
Their way, all barriers tearing through!

697

And left the inestimable prey,
That Fate had thrown thus, in their way;—
While ne'er, their dire mistake they learned,—
Wains—horses—men—they fast o'erturned;
On all sides, mixed, were these discerned,
By those wild riders strewn, and spurned!
Some wounding—slaughtering some—they flew—
Till deepened, Battle's blood-red hue!
Half-tired with their wild feats at length,—
Hundreds they bore, with savage strength,—
Deep, in the enshrouding woods away—
To strip and scourge,—and spoil and slay!
The horses, harnessed to the guns—
(While still, the appalling outcry stuns!)
They loosed—then rushed the Unconquered Ones!—
Fast as the flashing wildfire runs!
Right 'cross the country, swift they ride,
And bear along, each prize in pride!

LV.

Their hour of Victory, seems but brief—
Comes rescue quickly, and relief;
For now advancing fast, they see,
The Guard's resistless cavalry!
They left their prey at once, and fled,
Scarce seemed their steeds, the earth to tread!
Yet some in haughtier mood, remained—
As though the Avengers they disdained;
Then, with audacious scorn inspired,
They slowly, sternly, thence retired,

698

They crossed those intervals, between
The hostile, threatening squadrons seen;
There halting still,—'twixt those proud lines,
To load,—while the eye unquailing shines,
Their pistols and their carabines!

LVI.

With savage wrath, and hate intense,
Was joined a fearless confidence,
For well they knew, their coursers free—
If it should suit their need, to flee;—
Could challenge—nerved like mountain roe,—
The exhausted war-steeds of their Foe!
Burthened full heavily were these,
And checked by the inequalities,
Of ground those Scythians, scoured with ease!

LVII.

Without disorder, thus aright,
Effected they, their fearless flight!
Oft facing round, with bravery high,
'Gainst following foes, triumphantly;
Then, howling back their barbarous ire,
Far swept they from the reach of fire;
Enticing their pursuers on,
Till shrub-o'ergrown ravines, they won!
While planted well, in order fair,
Their cannon did await them there;
To check the advance of those that strove,
Their chastening vanquishers, to prove!—

699

LVIII.

Napoleon sought the Battle-Field,
Where ghastly terrors, spread revealed;—
That Field now heaped, with human clay,
Which lived and breathed, but yesterday!
Terrific had the Conflict been—
Sickening and hideous, was the scene!
Too eloquent, was the o'er-stained ground,
That spoke with still, small voice profound!
Half-bathed in blood, smoked ruins round!

LIX.

The long train of the Dead, alone,
Distinguished streets,—thus darkly shown!
The long, long train of ghastly Dead,
Distinguished these!—far stretched and spread;
Appalling track!—and harrowing trace!—
Which Mercy's wish would fain efface!
Forms crushed—from human semblance now,
By those rude cannons' ruthless plough,
That in their dread and dark array,
Were driven, upon their desperate way;
(Driven furiously and fast along,
Hundreds of wretches fallen, among!—
Right 'midst the closely-gathered throng;)
Crushed Forms—distorted all in death—
Heaped hideously, that fearful path!
Even darkening all that dreadful way—
Words fail!—let those who saw it say!

700

LX.

Issuing from out the ruins there,
Crawled forth, with deep-singed garb and hair,—
Sufferers—to pangs and anguish doomed—
Their black limbs, trailing,—half-consumed!
Slow trailing on, with efforts dire,
Their scorched, black limbs,—yet half on fire!—
Convulsed with sufferings, sharp and sore,
While torture's last, worst throes they bore;
And uttering wild, heart-piercing cries—
Martyred with hundred agonies!
Napoleon turned him from the sight—
Then fain would he have thence, ta'en flight!
He spoke,—the emotions deep to hide—
That shook his inmost bosom's pride;
“The glory of the day and scene,
Rests all with thee,—brave Prince Eugene!”
Glory!—the Dead and Dying round,
Seemed shrinking, from the mocking sound!

LXI.

Now, near that long-contested Field,
The Sovereign Chief, a Council held;
In the Artizan's low, mouldering cot,
'Tis question now of Empire's lot!
The Monarch's Monarch, there remains,
A prey to deep, soul-rankling pains!
(Ah!—doubt ye not, that the Artizan,
Were of these twain the happier man!—)

701

Two Kings besides, with Chieftains proud,
Did in that lowly dwelling crowd,
Whose walls were rent—whose roof embowed!—

LXII.

The fate of Europe's Empires fair,
Must be, perchance, decided there!
The doom of armies, vast and dread,
Shall there, perchance, be stamped and said;
A Voice there speaks, that through the past,
All powerful seemed to bless or blast!—
Now crowding fast, reports arrived—
That shocked and startled—pained and grieved;—
All felt dejection and dismay,
And Hope resigned Her short-lived sway:
For all things, darkly seemed combined,
To hint of heavier chance, behind,
Seemed all things, gathering fast to shew,
The advent of a world of Woe;
And hearts—like rocks,—were changed and bowed,
And speechless stood the Brave and Proud!
In that low Council-chamber, broke
Their Chief, the silence soon, and spoke,
“Depart from me awhile!”—he cried,—
“Depart from me!—I will decide!”

LXIII.

And he decided!—and the doom,
Closed round him, like a living tomb!
His thoughts swelled on,—like wave on wave,—
The last closed round him, like the grave;

702

Awaited anxiously his train,
The fiat of his working brain;
His kingly counsellors, of pride,
Paused trembling,—till he deigned decide!
Recalled to his dread Presence, then,
Bent breathlessly those mighty men,
His audience proud,—strange sounds must greet—
Strange word for Him and Them—“Retreat!”—

703

CANTO XIX.

I.

Mortier had left pale Moscow's walls,
Had left the old battled Kremlin's halls,
And marched with martial circumstance
On Vërreia,—there must he advance—
To form the rear-guard might of France!
But not, ere he had well obeyed,
The austere commands, upon him laid;—
And unto Ruin's worst consigned,
That stronghold proud, he left behind!
And undermined, that Kremlin now,
Was doomed—a blackened wreck to bow!—

II.

From Kraznoparchra's castle came,
The last words to this Chief of Fame;—
The last words,—from that Master dread,
Who shaped the course, that all should tread;
And well were they, observed by him,
Whose loyalty, no stain might dim;
First, to defend that Citadel—
He stood, enjoined,—obeyed he well!

704

Then to destroy and blast!—and still,
Strictly did he such 'hest fulfil;—
When poured from Moscow's gates the Host,—
Late Russia's scourge,—and France's boast,
Fast o'er the suburbs' mournful tracks,
Rushed in, vast swarms of wild Cossacks;
Scouts of great Russia's powerful band—
Given to Winzingerode's command!—

III.

This foreign Chief with hate inflamed,
'Gainst Earth's great Conqueror,—wreathed and famed!—
With proud Atchievement's hope inspired,
With thousand glowing passions fired,
With wild Expectancy ablaze,
Set foot in Moscow's frowning maze;
He sped before his warriors then,
He far outraced his legioned men!
Rushed on before his men apace—
Adventuring in that dangerous place!—
The Georgian colony in haste,
And Chinese town, he traversed fast,
And onwards journeyed,—hurrying past;
But near the endangered Kremlin met
With French advanced posts,—dubious yet,
Did he mistake them, till beset!
Fallen on an hostile ambuscade,—
Their prisoner, was the General made!
Then changed he, suddenly his part,
With subterfuge of cautious art,

705

With prompt device of cunning skill,
That waited on his ready will,
And hastened loudly to declare,—
A flag of truce, 'twas his, to bear!—

IV.

Conducted to Treviso straight,
Complained he of unworthy fate,—
Forbore he not his wrongs to state;
“The Law of Nations,”—loud he cried,
“Hath in my person been defied!”—
Mortier replied, with phrases brief,
“When thus a General-in-Chief,
Doth strangely condescend to come,—
(Though sorrowing,—I pronounce such doom
And fain, would favouring grace accord,)
He must resign, at once, his Sword!”
Obeyed the Chieftain at the word.

V.

And now,—four days' resistance past,
The French left Moscow's walls at last!—
Too long, in sooth, they there remained—
As though all dangers they disdained;—
On that volcano, dread and drear,
Pregnant with awful fate, and fear—
Might this have e'en exploded well,
'Neath some chance, Russian howitzer-shell!—

VI.

Deep in the palace vaults was stored,
The ruthless powder's deadly hoard

706

To this, when marched the Invaders forth—
(From that fallen Empress of the North)
Their Engineers attached with care
Slow-matches long—which yet shall bear
Their maddening message of despair!
This well atchieved, then forth they fare;—
When the French columns' rear marched out,
With gallant semblance, strong and stout,
These lighted they!—then left, ere long,
Those fatal hidden mines among!
Lighted—then left them, there to do
Their work—too fairly carried through;—
Yet fast, the Russian troops poured in,
When ceased that wild, soul-deadening din!—
Well they, that fateful time employed—
And the unexploded mines destroyed!
Destroyed those unexploded mines,
And saved an hundred threatened shrines;
Extinguishing those fires withal—
That preyed on tower, and palaced hall!—

VII.

The French, on that wild awful day,
Not far had marched upon their way,
Ere Heaven above them seemed to crack—
And all around reeled blind and black;—
With such tremendous crash of sound,
Shook all the air—the sky—the ground!
'Twas then,—an Empire's Boast and Pride,
Was shivered, rent, and scattered wide;

707

'Twas then,—where Moscow's Fortress towered,
That all was wrecked,—and all o'erpowered;
Hundreds and hundreds, then were hurled,
As though from the entrails of the world,
Far through the shaken, ghastly space—
Where scarce seemed left, a path or place!
There fluttered myriad shadows strange;—
Came o'er Creation's face, dark change,—
Was't Nature's anguished voice that spoke?
Hark!—to the deafening Chaos-stroke,
That fierce annihilating voice—
Bids Ruin rouse her, to rejoice!—

VIII.

Soon as the French, had left behind,
The Kremlin,—doomed and undermined,
Poured in, full many a Cossack troop,
On booty bent, with eager hope!
Vast crowds of yelling Russians, too,
Half-wild for spoil—a squalid crew,—
Rushed hurrying, struggling, to the spot—
Foreboding not the approaching lot!
Strove they, on all they saw to seize,
The Population's dregs were these!—
They, shouting, climbed that Fortress fair,
Their hands outstretched, for plunder there;
When all grew vacancy and void—
Their prize—their place—themselves destroyed;—
Crushed—shattered—wrenched,—from human form,
Far were they flung in that huge storm!

708

With tower and vault, and roof and wall,
And Nothing,—was the Name of all!—

IX.

By Thousands,—stands of arms had there,
Been left in careful order fair;
Thousands of piled-up arms were stored,
Within those holds—a mighty hoard;—
These, with all wealth—all spoils yet left,—
(Nor by the unpitying conquerors reft!)
Were straight, to wond'rous distance thrown,
And o'er expanse enormous strown!—

X.

Crashed down, as to Earth's centre sent,
From Heaven,—full many a monument!
Buttress and bulwark—spire and shrine—
In dark destruction all combine!
All rose!—all fell!—in that stern hour—
An earth-spout, and a meteor shower!—
With thundering roar—all rose!—all fell;—
One moment,—and far Space was Hell!
Earth shook—its depths seemed tempest-tost,—
Beneath proud Gaul's retreating Host!
And ten leagues off, the sound of fear
Thrilled sternly on Napoleon's ear!
Next day, to all Earth of the event—
He made express advertisement;—
Glorying in proclamations proud—
O'er Russia's pride, despoiled and bowed!—

709

Like thunder, his Announcement came,
Like thunder,—and the burst of flame!

XI.

“The old Kremlin's fort!—The Arsenal,
Their magazines and treasures all,
Have sunk in ignominious fall!
That ancient Citadel of Fame—
To Russia, made a sacred name,—
Which raised its towery front o'er earth—
With her fair monarchy's first birth;
That palace of the Czars of yore,
Mixed with the dust—exists no more!—
Moscow is but a mouldering heap,
Which scarce a name may claim to keep,—
Which shame from Earth should blushing sweep!—
Abandoned are her Wrecks and Graves,
To plunderers,—beggars,—and to slaves!—
Meantime, the glorious powers of France,—
'Gainst Russia's Force,—with haste, advance,
To spread dismay amidst their ranks,
Then straight, to seek fair Dwina's banks;
There, fixed in quiet, to remain—
Through Winter's dark and frowning reign!”—

XII.

Then added he, triumphantly,
Wilna and Petersburgh, would be,
Within some four-score leagues—when there,—
He paused,—to plan, and to prepare;

710

Advantage twofold!—proud and fair,—
Even thus, shall fall unto his share!—
And, sooth, full twenty marches clear,
Should he be thus, well placed, more near
His object, and resources, too,
This truth right well, the Conqueror knew!
And by these words, he thought beside,
('Twas soothing to his wounded pride,—)
To throw o'er his retreat an air,
Of haughty hope—and not despair!—
To make his flight, appear to be,
As an offensive March—and free!
At Vérreïa,—Mortier joined again
The Emperor, with his martial train,
With him, Winzingerode he brought,—
'Gainst whom Napoleon, harsh and haught,
Raged with distempered word and thought!—

XIII.

“Who art thou?”—fiercely loud he cried,
In tones of savage wrath and pride,
“A man without a Country!—One,
Whom all who love their Land, should shun;—
Mine Enemy thou'st ever been!”—
Lowered more his brow,—and frowned his mien,
“When 'gainst the Austrians, war I made—
There did thine arm bestow its aid!
When Austria, mine Ally became,
Then straight, as with inveterate aim,
Thou sought'st a Russian post and name!—

711

Yet thou'rt my subject!—then!—and now;—
Of Rhine's proud states, a native thou!
Thou art no fair and common foe,
A Rebel!—as the World shall know;—
To judgment, right have I to bring,
The traitor to his clime and king;
Full powers to charge, arraign, and try,
One,—black with such disloyalty;—
Guards!—Seize this man!”—he paused!—glanced round,—
Then other signal gave—and frowned!—

XIV.

Resumed he then—“Dost mark this Land,
Sore spoiled by wasting fire and brand?—
See'st thou these desolated fields—
Where War, his deadliest truncheon wields?—
These myriad villages in flames?
Light on thy head ten thousand shames,—
'Tis thou, and such as thou, that cause
Strange breach of human, heavenly laws;—
Adventurers!—with nor name nor place,
A shameful—yet a shameless race;—
Who, fee'd by sordid states, are fain,
To call up War's worst, evil train!
The weight of such dire War shall fall
On these—on the Instigators all!
(Who thus from depths of Peace would bring!
And speed, on Discord's ravening wing!)

712

Some six months hence—I swear to thee,
As yet, all Earth shall know, and see,—
Ourself at Petersburgh will be;
As surely, as yon Sun doth shine,
Shall Petersburgh greet me, and mine!
Then look to it!—let all beware,
Who boast in this foul scheme, their share;—
For, called to dread account, they yet
Shall bear the doom—and pay the debt!”—

XV.

Though loud, in furious strain he spoke,
His wrath was marked but thus, by look,
And word, like shattering thunderstroke!
No act of further harshness shewed,
His hate or scorn, to Winzingerode!
At length, in Lithuania's Land,
This Chief was freed from Foeman's hand,
By the efforts of a Cossack band;
Now, towards Mojaisk did straight advance,
Unchecked, the haughty Force of France!
The Town, they thus beheld again,
Was peopled with their wounded men!

XVI.

Soon marching from Mojaisk, the Host,
Kalouga's murmuring river crossed;

713

Shallow and narrow, on it flowed,
And little checked, their forward road;
Some planks, and props, and trees secured,
With ease, their passage well ensured;
Straight on they passed,—each breast seemed fraught,
With hidden mines, of darkling thought!

XVII.

Still silent moved they, in their strength,—
Mark!—some have raised their eyes at length!
Fell on their souls a deadening chill,
Their frames, confessed a shuddering thrill!
They muttered low, with smothered breath,—
“'Tis the Great Battle's Field of Death!”
Then gloomily they gazed around,
On that appalling waste of ground;
Not far, huge, craggy hills arose,
The hideous scenery to enclose;—
With deep-trenched sides, and crests of gloom,
Each towered, like some fallen giant's tomb!
The loftiest,—most misshapen, frowned,
(As scathed by Lightning's shafts profound,)
And flung the heaviest shadows round;
O'er that dark, monumental ground!
All gaspingly, they round them gazed,
As though, with wildering awe, amazed!

XVIII.

Lay like a ruffled sea, the Plain,
Where Desolation joyed to reign;

714

Despoiled and trampled,—bleak and bare,—
It seemed to frown, 'gainst sky and air!
Cut down by hundreds, were the trees,
That once played there, with sun and breeze!
And mouldering ruins—changed—defaced,—
Afar and near—were sadly traced;
And crumbling wrecks, lay scattered wide,
Of fosse and fort,—on every side;
But there were heavier sights and shows,
Than these, to blight the mind's repose;
Thousands of shroudless corses strewed,
That bleak, sepulchral Solitude;
Stripped—stained with gore—and half-devoured,-
The Bravest shrank,—a Moment's coward!—
From sights that torturingly o'erpowered!
Yet, while they scarce that scene, might brook,
Once more, they manned themselves, to look!
Seemed this all changed, and racked, and shorn,
As mountains, from their roots uptorn,
Had left it, desolately lorn;
So wild—so bare—so strange it spread,—
Peopled with Nations of the Dead!

XIX.

Or like some old Volcano drear,
Destroyed—extinguished—might appear,
That place of death, and fate, and fear!
As if a Deluge-sweeping tide,
Had crushed out all its fiery pride;

715

The Earth was heaped and covered o'er,
With shattered fragments, steeped in gore;—
Like wreck-spoils on a rocky shore!

XX.

Tatters and shreds of garbs were seen,
With helmets plumed, and swords between!
There, broken drums, and breastplates soiled,
There, standards rent, with blood defiled!
That dark, ensanguined trace so deep,
Recolouring, these did tinge and steep,—
While weather-stains effaced their pride,
Till wore those shreds no hues beside;—
Those shreds might keep no other dyes,
Save that dread stain, that drear disguise;
Yet even that foul and fatal hue,
Was faded, and was clouded, too;
The bloody Roses of that field,
Their fresh, warm blushes, withering yield;
And part of their deep, deadly bloom—
Hath darkened to a shadowy gloom!—
The blood-bright Roses of the Sword,
In wild luxuriance shed abroad,
Flushed Roses of the Sword and Death,
With the cold grave-scent on their breath,
They, too, have lost their crimsoned light,
And suffered an eclipsing blight;
Even they have shed their richest leaves—
And drooped above, ten thousand graves,—
Even they have paled, their purple pride
O'er those bleak gardens, scattered wide!

716

XXI.

Fair France!—on these broad fields of gloom—
These grave-grounds—yet without a tomb;—
What tribes of thy brave sons repose—
Thy distant breast, to wring with woes!
What widow-wailings of despair,
Must rise, to thrill thy sunny air!
What orphan agonies of grief,
Burst forth, to mock at vain relief!
There, Friends and Foes, together blent,
Form their own mouldering monument!
And Thirty Thousand ghastly dead,
With hideousness, the scene o'erspread!

XXII.

On yonder Hill's bleak crest of pride,
Full well, from the outstretched Plain descried,—
Vast crowds of skeletons appear—
As though they held dominion drear,
O'er that broad scene, of ghastly fear!
O'erlooking thus—spread round them far,
The region of the dead-cold War!
There, Death had fixed his Empire stern—
All eyes did there, deep-saddening turn!
For 'twas that dread Redoubt, which cost,
So dear, to Gaul's victorious Host!
'Twas the great Conquest, and the Grave,
Of laurelled Caulaincourt, the brave!

717

Chivalrous Caulaincourt!—who died,
On that red Battle-Throne of Pride!

XXIII.

And still was heard, that smothered cry,
Deep-drawn, as groans of agony!
Suiting that scene so desolate,—
“'Tis the great Battle's Field of Fate!”
Napoleon,—hurrying, passed along;—
None paused of that assembled throng;—
Cold,—Hunger,—the Enemy,—Distress,—
All bade them, onwards still, to press!
All urged them, on their gloomy way,—
Ah!—happier those doomed there to stay!

XXIV.

Had They—so vainly hastening on—
Their future doom of misery known,—
How had they envied those that slept,
Though, where no watchful mourners wept!
They turned their faces, as they past,
To take one sorrowing look,—the last,—
At that pale Funeral Field, and vast;
Where lay, in dark and loathsome swarms,
Their loved companions brave in arms!

XXV.

On that most sad and solemn Field,—
So sternly, to their eyes revealed,—

718

The Sword had written dreadful things;—
There Time in vain, shall spread his wings!
In history still, a blood-stained page,
'Twill claim and keep—age after age!
While thus in haste, they crossed the Plain,
A wretch crawled forth, from heaps of slain;—
As 'twere—forgotten there by Death,—
Still breathed he, agonizing breath!
With Horror's sickening pang, they saw,—
They marked his desperate plight, with awe;—
Then shuddering, heard his hideous tale,
Which well might make the stoutest quail!
A horse's carcase—where it fell,—
Hollowed by ruin-scattering shell,—
'Midst all this heart-appalling scene,
Had long, his foul asylum been!
His drink,—the near ravine supplied,—
Where scant, flowed down a muddy tide;
For food—the unhappiest wretch had grown,
'Gainst Nature's will, and 'gainst his own,—
In dire Necessity's harsh thrall,
A foul, self-loathing cannibal!

XXVI.

Groaning, his shattered limbs he trailed,
Strange pity pierced through breasts, thrice-mailed;
'Tis said, they snatched him from the tomb—
Safe, bore him from that place of doom!

719

And well assuaging grief and pain,
Thus, welcomed back to life again;
Thus welcomed back to that wild world
Of Life, whence he had far been hurled;
But Hush!—what dreadful cries arise—
Startling and thrilling to the skies?—
By old Kolotskoi's Abbey-wall,
Now passed those martial myriads all;
Thence issued maddening clamours loud—
For there was thronged, a suffering crowd;
Vast swarms of wounded wretches, there,
Were howling out their blind despair!

XXVII.

If Borodino's fatal Plain,
In the awe-struck soul bid terror reign,—
Here, creeping Horror's wildest mood,
Fevered or froze, the blasted blood;—
There, Agony in sooth had been,
But Quiet, had usurped her scene!
Here, Agony was all in all,
Since Life confessed her withering thrall;
And but her thrall, tormenting, knew,
While pang by pang, too slowly slew!
Still seemed the Battle, raging loud,
'Midst that disordered Maniac crowd;
And when they saw Gaul's Host pass by,
Straight rose one fierce, heart-breaking cry!

720

XXVIII.

Must they be left behind, indeed—
In their worst woe, and bitterest need?
From the door's threshold, crawled and crept,
Whoe'er could summon strength,—and wept;—
The least infirm—least maimed—appeared;
Their bloodless, ghost-like, frames they reared,—
(For Ah!—even those, who suffered least,
Might wake keen pangs in pity's breast;)
The while, they trembling, lined the way,
And groaned the prayers, they could not say!
Outstretching piteously, their hands,
To those—their well-known brethren-bands!

XXIX.

Napoleon gives forth mandates straight—
That car and wain—whate'er their freight,—
Should each, one helpless sufferer bear—
Delivering thus, from blank despair!
Then halted he, awhile to see,
These mandates followed rigidly!
Forsaken waggons formed, meanwhile,
Well-kindled now a blazing pile;
(Blown up,—they found their fragments strowed,
Confusedly scattered,—o'er the road;)

XXX.

The mighty Emperor,—shivering near,
Was fain to seek, the warmth's glad cheer!—

721

Even since the earliest Morning flamed,
Explosions loud, had oft proclaimed,
Such numerous sacrifices made,
In hopes, their onward route to aid;
At length, they forward fared once more,—
In Gloom and Silence as before!

See Ségur.

722

CANTO XX.

I.

Xenia!—ill-fated, hapless Bride!—
Art still at thy De Courcy's side?
Ah!—what is every woe and ill
If he is safe, and near thee still?
Harm—hazards—hardships—all, were dear,—
If thou could'st still soothe his, and cheer;
And carefully, she sought to shroud,
Each doubt—each fear—that thrilled, or bowed;
A steadfast smoothness, still possessed,
Her lessoned cheek, and conquered breast;
And is that fair, forlorn, young bride,
Yet blushing at her lover's side?
Xenia!—thy doom was dark, indeed,—
Thou frail, but tempest-battling reed!
For thence, by hands unpitying torn,
Wert thou, in trance unconscious, borne!
'Twas later in the ill-omened Flight,
That fell this chance, to blast and blight;
Full furious, was the abrupt attack,
Made by the barbarous, fierce, Cossack!

723

Where sunk in deep, dark, miry slough—
Did wearied thousands, faultering bow!
And in that choaking rush and press—
In that huge, living wilderness,—
The ill-fated Xenia shuddering fell,
In ice-cold swoon—insensible!

II.

A Cossack Chief, spurred fast among,
The scattered stragglers of the throng;
And, while he bore them, struggling, down,
Confused, and 'wildered, and o'erthrown,—
Abruptly on the Lady seized—
Then, with his swooning prize well-pleased,
Dashed off, at furious, headlong rate—
His steed seemed driven by Death or Fate!
(Scarce taxed the more, by her slight weight!)
O'er moor, and mount—field—marsh—morass,—
They passed,—as might a meteor pass!
Like wind—like light, his courser flew;
The motion, and the air renew
Lapsed consciousness, and breath, and hue;
With maddening shock of strange surprise,
She, opening strained her long-sealed eyes;
Suspended Life, flushed back to be,
One throb of deadly agony!

III.

Nor strove she, her despair to hide—
Aloud, in thrilling tones she cried,—

724

“My Husband!—Oh! my Husband!—save,—
Or snatch me with thee, to the grave!”
Surprised, the savage Chieftain heard,
The accents known in each wild word;
Those Russian accents, thrilling deep—
That seemed, from the anguished soul to sweep,—
Burthened with agony and fear,
Yet burst they keenly on the ear;
Implored she now, in fervent strain,
Heart-piercing with pathetic pain,
That spoke the very soul of grief—
The mercy of that rugged Chief!
She prayed—she urged, urged—prayed again,
On fire, was throbbing pulse and brain,—
All winged with woe, and doubt, and dread,
The while her soul within her bled,—
Those words flew forth—till seemed each sound,
Wrung from her being's depths profound!—

IV.

Yet vainly thus, she still implored,
In vain those supplications poured,
That rugged rover's heart unmoved—
No mercy owned—no pity proved;
Then woman's wit, arose to aid,
One effort more, she struggling, made,—
And spoke in haughty tone, and high,
Above the Mounting Misery—

725

Aye!—spoke in bold and lofty strain,
That crushed the crushing might of Pain;
Demanded she, in tones of pride,
And firmness that all fears defied,—
To be straight borne, to Platoff's side;
Important tidings to his ear—
Could she deliver full and clear;—
Tidings, herself alone could give,
And none but that dread Chief receive!—
So well she urged her plea—so well,
She urged persuasions forcible,—
That slow consent, her strenuous tongue—
At length, from her rough captor wrung!—

V.

Onward they glanced—away!—away!—
Like scudding cloud, on stormy day;—
They paused at last, where clustering round,
Nations of Cossacks trod the ground!
She gazed—with panic-pallid mien—
Upon the wild and wond'rous scene;—
Her breath came thick, her heart beat fast,
While 'mongst some rude thronged tents, they past;
And many a startling sight and strange,
Before her, spread with ceaseless change!—
What dreadful Form, in wild array,
Starts forth, as though to bar her way?
All demon-like and strange it glared—
And shocked her senses, unprepared;

726

In sooth, such dark and dreadful Form,
Might ride and rule, the midnight storm;
Stand o'er the burning mountain's crest,
The spirit of the spot confessed;—
Or where the eddying whirlpools dash,
With thundering roar, and dazzling flash,
Or earthquakes, shattering, rend their road—
Scowl forth—their Genius—and their God!—
But when 'midst mortal men, thus seen—
Too hideous lowered its mould and mien!—

VI.

Affrighted, trembling with surprise,
She, shuddering, turned away her eyes;
But yet, once more, her glance she bent
On this—in wildered wonderment;—
A wizard habit, quaint, it wore,
With shapes and signs thick covered o'er;—
Stuffed serpents—eagle's claws—rings,—bells,—
Strange Forms grotesque—dark scrolls—and spells,
And flag-like streamers,—loops and strings,
Loose fluttering round, like fluttering wings,
Adornment, rude, and horrid lent,
To this most rough habiliment;
A drum was in the monster's hand—
'Twas waved with air of fierce command!—
Inscribed with mixed device it seemed,
Where thousand glittering colours beamed;—
While bright along its surface shone
All the ordered stars—the sun and moon,—

727

With monstrous aspects, wildly blent,—
In crowded, close entanglement!
With reindeer,—serpents,—beast and bird—
And many a cabalistic word!
All objects, most opposed,—there joined,
In strange fantastic sort, combined;
While round festooned, hung fringes thin,—
Cast slough of snakes, or dead man's skin!

VII.

It bounded past—the drum it strook;—
The serpent's withered streamers, shook;—
Fast fluttering round that fluttering form,—
Like myriad meteors of the storm!
From rude Tungusia's savage Land—
Formed,—stamped,—by Superstition's hand,—
Well dowered, too, with the Enchanter's name—
The Shaman, and the Sorcerer came!
And he, the trusting Cossacks thought,
Could charm the hour, with dangers fraught;—
Could check the weapon on its way,
When bared to strike, and raised to slay!
The whistling balls and bullets turn,
On their swift passage, dire and stern;
And give,—with spells, and signs, and charms,
The Victory, to their dauntless arms!

VIII.

At Platoff's feet did Xenia bend—
Platoff!—her Father's early friend!

728

For so it chanced—and thus did he,
Hang watchful on her history!
Nought—nought from him, her tongue concealed,—
Her Heart,—Fate,—Grief,—were all revealed!
He listened, patient, to the whole,—
Learned the endless sorrows of her soul;
For he had bent in Sorrow, too,—
In heart-deep suffering, keenly true;
All lately, had his soul been torn,
By anguish—more than may be borne;
His Son,—his own—his cherished boy,—
The darling of his age—his joy!—
His warlike Nation's hope and pride—
Had fallen—had perished—at his side!
Platoff and Poniatowski, late,
Had met, where mutual wrath and hate,
Seemed Pole and Russ to animate!
They fought with fury's wildest rage,
And still returned, that strife to wage;
Again, and yet again, forth burst,
That combat,—furious as at first;
Reddened and reeked the smoking Plain,
With mountains of the noble slain!

IX.

Near Vërréia 'twas, that chanced the strife,
Which cost full many a gallant life;
Returning from the Battle's heat—
The Attack preparing to repeat,—
Disdaining failure and defeat,—

729

The youthful Warrior fell beneath,
The ruthless stroke of rapid Death!
A Hulan Pole, with fatal hand,
Smote the fair sapling of the Land;
With murderous wrath, and furious hate,
Crushed down, the promise of the State!
And dealt the deep and mortal wound,
That stretched young Platoff on the ground!
His Sire, his snow-white charger saw—
Oh!—sight of agony and awe!—
Rush riderless, and bloodied past,
In masterless career, and fast;
That battle-horse of the Ukraine breed,—
His son's well-known and favourite steed,—
He marked, in maddened course, rush by,—
That Son can but have fallen,—to die!

X.

Then flew the old Chief, with phrenzied mind,—
His doomed,—his dying child to find!
He found!—and one brief moment pressed,
A living son to that fond breast;
But ere was loosed the sad embrace,
The grave rushed darkening o'er that face;—
The soul had reached its own bright place!
And his dead boy did sweetly sleep,
In full repose, and quiet, deep;—
In perfect-painless rest serene,
'Midst all that wild and warlike scene!
Couched on his Father's breaking heart,
That felt 'twas worse than death, to part!

730

Far worse than death to see him die—
Who ne'er before had caused a sigh,—
Who made all, sunshine to his eye!

XI.

But ties must burst, and hearts must break,
And hopes must sleep, and tortures wake!
That son had just in earth been laid,
And funeral honours had been paid,
By all his Father's hosts of pride—
To him,—who thus too early died!—
To all, he gave delight beneath,
And disappointed,—but with death!

XII.

First stretched on costly furs, and fair,
Those Hosts beheld their nation's Heir,
His bear-skin mantle, round him spread,
Seemed worthy shroud, for warrior dread;
Then came the old chiefs of high command—
Who stooped to kiss that cold white hand;—
Old-bearded chiefs, who slow advanced,
To greet the dead—in grief entranced;—
Soon, at that Ceremonial's close,
Deep prayers, they breathed for his repose;
Then bore the silent and the still—
To yon fair cypress-covered hill!

XIII.

All, ranged in Battle-order there,
In silence, shrouded their despair;

731

While slow, was lowered into the grave—
The young—the beautiful—the brave;—
Those marshalled thousands, sad and still,
Seemed touched by Sorrow's keenest thrill;
Then o'er that grave,—round which stood bowed,
In reverence deep, that martial crowd—
They fired a mighty volley loud!
And when these rites, were meetly done,
Still mourning for their Chieftain's son,
They led their pawing chargers round,
That narrow spot of hallowed ground;—
In hushed, profound, and solemn gloom,
Defiled they round, the new-made tomb!
With down-drooped looks—that saddening fall,—
While earthwards point, their lances all,—
Slow round his tomb, they thus defiled,
Their rugged aspects, changed and mild!

XIV.

His Battle-Charger, too, was led,
Round that long, last home of the dead,
And seemed that startled steed to know—
Some trembling touch of human woe,
So mournful looked his wild, wide eyes,
Dark sorrowing,—as with strange surprise,
So gently paced he round the place—
Where slept that form, of strength and grace;—
And this deep scene had lately wrung,
With grief, untold, by mortal tongue,
That Father's fond and yearning breast—
Which still a softening mood confessed!—

732

XV.

He marked sad Xenia's streaming tears,
Her cheek,—death-pale with woes and fears,
His mighty sorrows, freshly flowed,
More deeply pressed Grief's heaviest load!
The kindliest feelings seemed to rise—
And in his aspect, speak—and eyes;
Emotions gentlest, tenderest, best,
Thrilled through that princely warrior's breast;—
So well, with strange, unrecked-of art,
Those tamers of the human heart,
Affection and Affliction,—strong,
To drive the o'ermastered soul along,—
Can bend, and tame, and trample still,
The haughtiest spirit to their will;

XVI.

And these had conquered—these had taught—
Mild weakness to his War of thought!
Had, with their heart-upturning plough,
Loosened all the iron nature now,
And deeply furrowing, through the soil,
Laid its fine fibres bare the while,
Prompt to receive, thus touched and freed,
Chance Sympathy's wide scattered seed;

XVII.

He raised the suppliant from the ground,—
And gazed, with pity's gaze profound!

733

Marked that changed cheek—that pallid brow—
So dimmed with clouds of suffering now,—
So beauteous once, with gladness fair,
So beauteous now,—in worst despair!
Till deep compassion, struggled through,
His own self-grief,—yet stirred it, too;
All the aching anguish of his soul—
Confessed strong sympathy's controul!—

XVIII.

He spoke in gently soothing tone,
To hush her sorrow, and his own;
He bade her calm her rushing woe—
The while, his own did freelier flow;
He bade her be of better cheer—
He blamed her grief—and chid her fear;—
He bade her cease, from sufferings sore,
While grew his own,—still more and more;
With each consoling, chiding word,
Which in the mourner's ear, he poured,
Seemed mounting, more and more, the grief—
That wrung the old, proud, and stormy Chief;—

XIX.

That mourner, too, so young and fair,
That supplicates and sorrows there;
Reminds him of his own bright child—
The fair-haired Cossack beauty mild!
For dear resemblance,—sweet, though slight,
There wins upon his softened sight;

734

And could he, for one moment bear,
To think of her, in such despair?
No!—No!—the very image seems,
Distraction to his torturing dreams!—
He reassured that weeper faint,
Who still, sighed forth, low prayers and plaint,
He bade her arm her drooping heart,
And cried, “Ere long, shalt thou depart,
When thine exhausted strength renewed,
May serve to bear long journeyings rude;
When, cherished here, and soothed awhile,
Thy fainting frame, may brook the toil,
Shalt thou go forth, with escort train,
To seek thy husband's side again!
A grey-haired Chief, a long-known friend,
On whose tried truth I may depend,
Shall guide your steps—your way protect—
And aid your quest with fair respect;—
To his good guardianship, and kind,
Shalt thou be fearlessly consigned!”—

XX.

“At once!—Brave, generous Chief!”—she cried,
“At once!—Oh, let me seek his side,
Haste!—not one instant let me stay,—
For Fear and Fate are in the day!—
For Life or Death is on my way!—
De Courcy!—Heavens!—What,—what—must be,
Thy doubt—thy dread—thine agony?—

735

At once!—at once!—great, generous Chief;
Oh!—hear my heart!—Grant hope to grief!”

XXI.

“Nay! some few hours must thou repose,
Or Death, indeed, will end thy woes,
And not thy Husband's sufferings close!
So weary worn art thou, poor child!”
Answered the Chief in accents mild,
“So languishing, appears the life—
Checked in thy veins—through dread and strife,—
Rest, rest, awhile—and know no fear;—
But be of high and dauntless cheer!
Safe yet, thou'lt pass from hence removed,
Thou shalt rejoin thy soul's beloved!”
He spoke,—and strode away, she wept—
Till, drowned in ceaseless tears, she slept!—

736

CANTO XXI.

I.

It is the Morning's wakening time,
The bounding, breathing hour of prime;
It is the Morning's wakening hour,
The old Hettman seeks that stern rude bower,
Where folded, lies Earth's loveliest flower;
Fit lodging this, for warrior bold,
Scarce meet for one, so soft of mould;—
Yet recked she nought of that! Ah!—No!—
Worse lodging is the Heart of Woe!—
There is the rude and rigorous home,
Which girds her round, with fatal gloom!
To this,—fair lodging were The Tomb!

II.

Consigned to the old brave warrior's care,
Doth she for lengthened course prepare;

737

She heard, with deeply gladdened mind,
Great Platoff—pitiful and kind,—
Give countless charges to his friend,—
To aid—cheer—guard her—and defend!—

III.

Away they dashed—on, on, they passed—
In fearless fleet career, and fast;—
Each savage, rugged, shaggy steed,
Doth well the thong's least movement heed;
The rein-tied thong,—that stings to speed!
Swift—swift, each panting courser flies—
While Xenia strains her eager eyes;—
Yet slow the pace, and dull the race,
To her winged thought, that shot o'er space;
Seemed weak the horse,—seemed tame the course,
To her on-rushing heart's wild force!
Oh!—cold and creeping was their flight,
To that far-rushing heart's quick might!

IV.

Each courser darts and dashes free;
On—on, they gallop gloriously,
Each well puts forth his gallant strength—
And scorns the journey's wearying length!
Their paces scarce are smoothed to bear,
Such burthen delicate and fair;—
The untrained,—the untutored paces wild,
Of the great Forest's fiery child,—

738

The desert's ship, and winged car—
The embodied wind of flying war,—
Scarce well may suit such lovely freight,
So fragile, faint, and delicate;
But heeds she nought, the rough, rude steed,
Oh!—for the Tempest's wilder speed;
Oh!—for the Cataract's rushing force,
Though she were shivered in its course!

V.

Those Centaurs, that the ancients dreamed,
The masters and their coursers seemed!
They well, to mind, such fiction bring,
One monstrous, self-same, savage thing;
For rugged as their steeds are they,
Who urge and guide them, on their way;—
Their fierce hourrahs, the horses join,
With shrilling neigh, or whinnying whine,
Obstreperous still, as on they fare,—
All seemed one restless mood to share;—
But soon command was given to cease,
They check their shouts—their Chief cried, “Peace!”—
Then pointing, shewed, where far were seen—
Some scattered groupes, with space between;—
More cautiously, they onwards moved,
While Xenia sought the Form, beloved;
As if at such wide distance, yet,—
Their eyes—hearts—feelings—must have met!—

739

VI.

More stealthfully, they moved along—
Hope in her heart was swelling strong!—
But Lo!—what dreadful sights appear,
To blight her very soul with fear?
On either side, their snowy way,
Stern sights to sadden and dismay,—
Lay Russian prisoners bathed in gore,
Fresh slaughtered,—some brief hours before;
Their shattered skulls—their brains blown out—
Loose scattered, hideously about,—
Revealed the murderer's desperate deed,—
Their guards had thus,—dismissed and freed!
Furious—the indignant Cossacks saw,
This sight of horror and of awe;
And scarce their Leader could restrain,
The rage that stormed through each hot vein!
They flung their arms abroad, and loud,
Fierce vengeance on the murderers vowed!
Hark!—wild their stern “Hourrahs!” rang out—
A thrilling and a deafening shout!

VII.

'Twas heard from far, by those who fled—
Away!—away!—they wildly sped!
Then straight, the signal swift was made,
Which well, those warriors rude obeyed!

740

The Cossacks checked their clattering steeds,
A whistle—mark!—each courser heeds!
Like statues there, at once they stand,
Obedient to their lords' command!
These, on their shining stirrups rise,
And glare, far round with piercing eyes;
Directions then, their Leader gives,
Which each, with earnest heed, receives!
'Twould seem, he thinks it well to press,
Their course, through that white wilderness;
Sharp speed, with sudden rush to make,
And those who fly at once o'ertake!
For mark!—at hurried word they go,
Like arrow launched from sounding bow!

VIII.

Loud bursting in one wild Hourrah,
They plunged away more fiercely far;—
They waved their dreadful hands on high—
They gain on those that breathless fly!
Down shoot their hands,—up start their spears;—
Their foaming coursers prick their ears;—
Remembering then, their mission mild,
Straight checked themselves, those Warriors wild!
They checked themselves—but muttering low,
Showered deadlier curses on their foe!

IX.

But now with desperate force amain,
Their strength, the flying Foemen strain!

741

“They fly!—They fly!—Oh! lost!—undone!”—
Cried Xenia, in despairing tone;
The while her eyes—that seemed to start,
From out their sockets,—forced apart,
Seemed dazzlingly, to flash and dart;
Their keen looks, following her fast heart!—
“He flies!—he flies!—Great Heaven!—he flies!—
Outbreathed—o'ertasked—o'erworn—he dies!”
Yes!—yes!—most surely will he fall—
And perish if ye press!—Stand all!
Stop!—stand!—Oh!—turn your steeds!—cease!—cease!—
This race shall but his ills increase!”

X.

And still she deems she sees him there—
Deems she can recognise his air,—
His form—his step—though wildly far,
From those they chase, the chasers are!
For now, they stop at her command,
And all irresolutely stand;
She sees the French still forward rush—
Still onward, wildly press and push;
They mark not that their Foes remain,
Breathing their steeds, with tightened rein!
They heed not, that the hostile Band,
Of their abhorred Pursuers stand!

XI.

Even thus, will he o'erstrain his strength,
Or thus may he escape at length!

742

And be for ever—ever lost—
When sought—blessed—cherished—loved the most;
“On!—On!”—with frantic tone she cried—
“On!—On!—Oh! like the storm-fiend ride!
And end at once this dread suspense—
For anguish grows too fierce—intense!”

XII.

And on they ride at rapid rate—
While fly those hunted men—Oh! Fate!
From her he flies, whose outstretched arms,
Dishevelled and disordered charms,
And eyes, that madly strained appear,
Like lightnings of some wilder sphere—
Lit with a fatal light, and drear,—
Now make her seem some bright, dread thing,
That bears Destruction on her wing!

XIII.

From her he flies,—who prays,—implores,—
And even to agony, adores!
Now loosens she her long, long hair,
And flings it, fluttering, on the air,—
In hopes, perchance, 'twill catch his eyes,
Who thus, in dark misdoubting flies!
Driven—driven—before her,—Saints of Heaven!—
Even to the Death,—it may be,—driven!

XIV.

Those locks, a golden banner shine,
May he but mark their streaming sign!

743

Fair floats it—far upon the wind,—
He darts not one brief glance behind!
Fast clattering on, their coursers go—
Free to the winds, those tresses flow,—
In straightened streamers,—brightening there,
Back floating from her forehead bare;—
Which like the snow-drift that they meet,
Gleams white, though thousand fevers beat,
In those swollen veins, that throb with heat;—
With heat—even painful and intense,
The burning of the fierce suspense,
'Midst all that deadly, mortal cold,
Which shroudlike, doth her form enfold!—
Wild fluttering from her pallid brow,
Back stream those wreaths of beauty now;
And now, by some wild gust fierce blown,
Upwards they scattered point,—or strown,
O'er her veiled shoulders, sweep adown!

XV.

Hark!—Hark!—what sound now strikes the ear?
The cannon's mighty voice of fear;
Loud thundering—thundering—thundering,—roared
That voice, which thousand echoes poured,—
Dread sounds!—by warlike ears adored—
Hear them!—ye Children of the Sword!
Still thundering—thundering—thundering,—rolled
That voice,—which cheered the Brave and Bold!

744

XVI.

Those wild-eyed Rovers heard that sound—
Beat their strong hearts with rapturous bound!—
How often have their thoughts of flame,
Leaped at its deafening call—to Fame!
They dashed the rowels in their steeds,
Now honour light, on him who leads!
Glows in each vein redoubled life—
They pant and hunger for the strife!
But soon in distance died away
Those sounds, that breathed of discord's sway;
'Twas some chance conflict—sharp, though slight,
That checked the Foes upon their flight!

XVII.

Still on they press,—dim Evening comes,
With all her shadows deep, and glooms!
They paused awhile—their gray-haired Chief,
Quick issued forth, his mandates, brief;
Hard by, a lodging rough and rude,
Was glimpsed, 'midst that bleak solitude;
And there, was Xenia, straight conveyed,
And bade to rest her in its shade;
While gently did that ancient Chief,
Essay to soothe her phrenzied grief;—
“Rest!—rest!—of rest hast thou sore need,—
To-morrow we shall yet succeed!
To-morrow, doubt not, to thy Lord,
Thou yet shalt safely be restored!”

745

XVIII.

Morn shines upon the World of Snow,
Once more in rushing haste they go;
And long and hard, they ride in vain,
Seemed Madness seizing Xenia's brain;
She marked, with anguish and affright,
Thousands of snow-piled hillocks slight,—
Whence gleamed, at times, half-buried arms,
There lay the stiffening Dead in swarms!
Specked with those undulations sad,
Was all that ground, in whiteness clad;
And still on those drear heaps she gazed,
At her own horrid thoughts amazed;—
“Ah!—should De Courcy lie beneath,
Yon dazzling shroud,—yon funeral wreath,—
But snatch me to him,—sweet,—sweet Death!”

XIX.

And still they onwards—onwards—passed,
Swift as the winged and whirling blast;
Once more pale Evening's shades descend,
Will this long anguish find no end?
Athwart the gloom was flung strong light,—
'Tis Conflagration, wild and bright!
Where Doukhowt-chtchina's turrets rise,—
It flares and streams against the skies;
A wild and awful scene they mark—
That dazzles back the evening dark!

746

Thick round, from those fast blazing walls,
A shower of sparks and splendours falls;
The trees, enrobed in ice and snow,
Like prisms, ten thousand colours shew—
The wavering flames, bend to and fro;
Seems it from her lit brows, Earth shakes,
The lustres of those lightning flakes;—
Those living, leaping flakes of fire,
A splendour proud—but dread and dire!

XX.

The wind rose strong—all stirred,—all shook,—
The eye might scarce the brightness brook!—
It rose, these billowy flames to spread,
In boundless, bannered Triumph dread!
Even that chill climate to supply,
With splendours of a Tropic Sky,—
And match its meteored canopy!
The sparks still thick, and thickening there,
Fall fast,—in wild profusion fair;
Still fall these sparks—still, showers on showers,
Like leaves, from Flame's loose, o'erblown flowers!—
But 'tis by myriads that they fall,—
Covering the ground—trees—pathways—all!—
A wond'rous—wizard—wildering sight,—
That made a Fairy Land of Night!—
And thus, girt round with proud array,
Fair Doukhowt-chtchina shrank away;
Revealed by that far-spreading blaze,
A groupe attracts pale Xenia's gaze!

747

XXI.

Sweet Saints!—she surely marks from far,
De Courcy's gallant garb of war?
A steel-clad Cuirassier she views,
Quick hope, her fluttering light renews,
She dreams that worshipped form she sees,
Her heart flies winged with agonies!—
With agonies—and loves—and fears,—
For half her thoughts, seemed turned to tears!
'Tis him!—'tis him!—his stature—mould,—
His garb—'tis him her eyes, behold!
She urged—all wild with hurrying hope—
The Cossacks, towards the hostile groupe;
Already they are near—are close;—
Great Powers!—how endless are her woes!—
When breathless-faint—she reached the place,
She looked not on De Courcy's face!
A comrade,—garbed like him, indeed,—
She saw,—afresh her heart must bleed!—

XXII.

And horrors round, are gathering fast,—
Each hour seems heavier than the last;
That groupe, close huddled round the fire,—
Those men, no hopes may more inspire,—
Were slumbering through their hardships dire!—
Roused from their statued sleep, they start,
The life-blood thaws in every heart!

748

Their deadly-hating Foes they see,
They front their fiercest enemy!
And deem these warriors can but come,
To end their lives, and seal their doom!

XXIII.

Their Leader,—strong and stout of frame,—
Plucked fiercely from the neighbouring flame,
A huge, black, knotted, half-burned brand,
Dire weapon in that powerful hand!—
And with a savage strength he dealt,
A blow, that well his Victim felt!
That Victim—hurried to the grave,—
Was Xenia's gray-haired guardian brave!

XXIV.

He had dismounted there, with speed,
And lifted Xenia from her steed,
When suddenly, this furious blow,
Came down from the mistaken Foe;
The outbursting blood—the spattering brain—
Hissed on the hot wood's edge amain;
And with foul sprinkling of their rain—
Then hideously did quench and stain!
The fluttering lids,—the white drawn lips,—
Announced the coming deep eclipse;
The quivering limbs—the rattling breath—
Declared the near approach of death!

749

One short, low groan, and all was still,—
Sense—breath—had passed,—and thought—and will!

XXV.

The infuriate Cossacks—mad to find,
Thus ill-repaid, their purpose kind—
With Evil met, their Good designed,—
Yelled forth their battle-cry, and beat,
The ground, with thickly-trampling feet!
“Revenge!—Revenge!”—they howled—“Strike!—Slay!”—
While fast they hacked their hideous way!
They rushed on the unarmed foemen straight,
With deadly savageness of hate,—
They stab—they slay—they strike—they pierce—
'Tis all confusion, strange and fierce!
While Xenia, driven to maniac mood,
Flies from this scene of wrath and blood!
Her voice, through all that tumult rose,
That din of groans, and shrieks, and blows!
Rose clear and sweet, as Seraph's song—
Wild screams, of tortured souls, among!

XXVI.

“Eugene!—Eugene!—Where art thou,—Where?—
Though dead—yet hear my soul's despair!
How dared I think that thou would'st flee?—
Thou!—in thy dauntless bravery!”
But other Cossacks swarmed up fast,
They scent the fray's hot, hateful blast!

750

Yon wild young Chief, on snow-white steed,
His hurrying troop, doth, shouting, lead!
Hah!—lovely Xenia's flying form,
Was glimpsed,—through that thick-gathering storm!
He marked that fair, slight form of grace,
The death-touched beauty of that face:
He scorned the unweaponed foes who shrank,
Beneath his followers' hatred rank;
Sharp round, he wheeled his steed of pride,
And darted swift, to Xenia's side;
Like flash of sudden lightning seen,
He dashed him 'cross the space between,
Then seized her, as the ruthless kite,
Might seize the dove, with fierce delight!
He snatched her from the ground, and placed
Beside him,—and away they raced!—
Fast—fast—he grasped his helpless prey—
And swift they rushed,—away—away!

XXVII.

But deadly-aching agonies,
Make all her soul, to courage rise;
The maddening anguish seemed at length,
To lend her, supernatural strength!
She swooned not—sank not—in despair,—
But shrieked her agonizing prayer!
Still strenuously and long implored,
A world of soul in every word!

751

XXVIII.

Such supplications, wild and deep,
Might make stern rocks, with pity weep;
But human hearts, are harder far,
Than steel, and flints, and ice-rocks are!—
When strange caprice, or passion rude,
Hath warped them to a ruthless mood!
Still on he sped, with desperate haste,
Across that white, bewildering waste;
His pathway well he chose, where round,
Loose fragments cumbered all the ground;
Well steering still, his skilful course,
Through these, he urged his docile horse!

XXIX.

Huge powder-waggons, here were given,
To dark destruction—rent and riven;
Their reliques, heaped the barriered pass,
Where frowned, full many a shattered mass;
With the outworn, wretched horses, too,
That dragged them slow—sore labouring drew;—
Blown up, their wrecks the causeway strew!
(Together these, blown up had been,
When threatening doom obscured the scene!)
While cannons spiked,—forsaken there,
Their powder scattered in despair,
By those who found 'twas worse than vain
To seek, to urge them, and retain,—
Choked up the drear and gloomy path,
With threatening shows, and signs of wrath;

752

To ruin, cautiously consigned,
The artillerymen left these behind;—
Through harsh necessity constrained,
To plant them, where they thus remained!

XXX.

All hopeless grown, and wild with woe,
Did Xenia brave her barbarous foe;
She snatched the poignard, from his vest,
And turned it, 'gainst her own soft breast!
Uttering one wild heart-rending cry,
“Eugene!—Eugene!—for thee I die!”
Roused—scared—and startled at the word,
Thrilled the rough wielder of the sword,
Shocked—shocked—seemed then, that youthful Chief,
Surprised at her o'erpowering grief!
The dagger, strained within her clasp,
Scarce wrenched he, from that desperate grasp!
So firm 'twas held—so true 'twas aimed,—
'Gainst that wrung heart, so nobly framed!
He wrenched it, from her small white hand,
Tossed it o'er half a league of land,
Then spoke with voice of proud command,—
“Be happy!—Beauteous Maid!”—he cried—
“Worthy to be a Warrior's bride!
Be happy!—Bright and gallant maid!
I hail the courage thou hast displayed,
Aye!—formed to be a Warrior's bride
Art thou!—that bravely wouldst have died!—

753

Be mine!—and send me forth to fight,
Inspired by thee, with treble might!”

XXXI.

Remembered she, in her despair,
Great Platoff's father-seeming care,
New hope hath made her heart rejoice,
She cried in firm, unquailing voice,
“Beware thy Sovereign's vengeance—know
Who wrongeth me, is Platoff's Foe!”—
“What mean'st? wild maid!”—exclaimed the youth,
“How shew'st thou, these strange words for truth?”
“Fair truth it is!” she answered straight—
“His word is pledged to guard my fate!
On thy life's peril it shall be,
If chance injurious, light on me!

XXXII.

“With me, he sent his dearest friend,
To succour, shield me, and defend,
With me, despatched his followers true—
To guard me well, my journeyings through;
And on their lives he bade them swear,
To watch me, with unceasing care;
Still charged them,—still, to fence me round,
With jealous heed,—and zeal profound.
Who braves his word,—who injureth me,—
Is princely Platoff's enemy!
Do thou obey that honoured word,
And bear me to my Gallic Lord!

754

For in the sight of Earth and Heaven—
To Gallic Lord, my faith was given!”—
Half dubious—yet half trusting too—
Her accents spoke a heart so true;
And touched at last, with pity's thrill—
Vanquished the Chief his stubborn will!—

XXXIII.

“In vain shalt thou no longer pray,
I will that honoured word obey!
Thou shalt rejoin thy Lord Beloved!
A Warrior's worthy bride thou'st proved!”
He dashed the rowels in his steed,
Away they dart at headlong speed;
Ha!—near at hand a groupe she sees—
Beneath yon clump of giant trees,—
Stretched round a fire, which to and fro,
The unsteady gusty wind doth blow;
What Form conspicuously is laid
Beneath that mightiest fir-tree's shade?
'Tis his!—Her Soul hath forward flown—
She sees,—knows,—feels,—'tis him—her Own!

XXXIV.

Oh!—but Love's presence hath a power,
That cannot be of Time's dull hour!
Since then,—'tis the profoundest heart,
That proves the most uncovered part!

755

To each Impression's least, light touch,
Answering, too deeply, and too much;
Then,—then,—'tis all the life of thought,
That seems, as to the surface brought!
The intensest soul, seems then made bare—
Even to each breath of common air;—

XXXV.

At once that trembling, death-pale bride,
Is kneeling by De Courcy's side;
Great Powers of Heaven!—how altered now,
That chiselled face—that glorious brow;—
Fatigue—Grief—Watching—Famine—Cold,—
Have griped him, with a fatal hold;—
Outstretched, in sad and piteous state,
He seemed Death's kind release, to wait;
Beside him lies his faithful horse,
Montjoye!—thou'st run thy latest course!

XXXVI.

Montjoye had Xenia's shelter been,
Through many a wild, bleak, bitter scene;
When placed, the docile steed beside,
His warmth for her, slight cheer supplied;—
Where now his beaming front and eye,
That seemed ablaze with victory?—
Where,—where, his buoyancy, and might,
Scarce shines that eye's large globe of light!

756

So quick in zeal,—so wild in ire,
Where is the strength that could not tire?
The generous heart—the tameless pride?—
With such submissiveness allied!
Though rising high and higher!
Where is the storm-life in his veins?—
The rage, that swallowed all the plains?
With fevering, fierce desire;
Where are his limbs of light and wind,
His heart,—that left the World behind,
His thunder,—and his fire?—

XXXVII.

Look up!—De Courcy!—look, and see!
The star of thine idolatry;—
Thy Love—thy Xenia! at thy side;—
A Life in Death!—thine own sweet bride!—
His dying eyes, he faintly raised,
And on his Loved One's face he gazed!
Such rapture to his soul was given,
He deemed he woke—he woke in Heaven!—
The blood thawed sweetly round his heart—
He whispered—“No!—we could not part!”
And yet he struggled sore—the smile
Died on his dying lips, the while!—
Then wandering seemed his thoughts to be,
Amidst the maze of memory?

757

XXXVIII.

“My pleasant France!—Celeste!—and Thou!—
Poor Mother!—worse than widowed now!—
My Home,—my Heart's Beloved!”—he sighed,—
“Soul of my Soul!”—then faintlier cried,—
“Xenia!—my Life of Life!”—and died!—
Heavily on his eyes were pressed
The death-weights of the Eternal rest;

XXXIX.

Fair Rose of Russia!—thou shalt fade,
And perish in that grave's cold shade.
She looked her maddening heart away,
On that so pale and worshipped clay;
Breathed deep, one long,—long,—throbbing sigh,
While still gazed there her changing eye;
Then sank on his dead heart, and died—
In that dear death Beatified!—

XL.

The shaft hath struck—the dart hath sped,—
Their two fair souls together fled!
Their two?—Oh!—never be it thought,
The Love, with such hearts were fraught,—
Could fail—when Earth's brief race was done—
To bind and breathe them into one!—
Those souls together soared, unriven,
One beautiful, bright soul, to Heaven;

758

XLI.

So strange the end—so dire the doom—
Of Moscow's Maid—and Russia's Rome!—
Despoiled of pride, and disarrayed,
Thy City bowed,—in ashes laid,
Great Empire! noble and august—
That crushed her to such royal dust!
But Oh!—the Ruins of the Heart,
That cursed the cold Destroyer's part—
But Oh!—the hearts in ashes laid,
That bade His impious triumphs fade!
And ne'er did one more meekly great,
Than thy pale Daughter!—bend to Fate!

XLII.

Fair Rose of Russia!—faded now,
No flower was e'er so sweet as thou;
But there is yet a lovelier Land,
Where flowers, like thee, shall best expand;
Fair Rose of Russia!—Rest in peace—
Thy lengthened griefs,—shall pause,—shall cease!
Fair Rose of Russia!—such as thou—
Were worthiest, even to wreathe Her brow!

759

XLIII.

That dire Retreat is now begun,
Which few shall live to look on, done.
Shift we the scene—Behold!—Behold!
A human ocean onward rolled;—
Far round them, clap their funeral wings,
As prescient of terrific things,
Despair, and Death, and vain Remorse,
And Famine,—with Her fatal force;
And iron Hate,—and all the Powers
Of Evil,—that o'erswayed those hours;
But be the doomed ones, deaf and blind,
Spared from the sense of ills refined,
That still shall torture, blast,—and grind!

XLIV.

On,—On,—they march! with something yet,
Of Hope, to light a Vast Regret;
Oh! Mercy!—hide the coming days,
From their despairing, vain amaze;
And even their actual fortune hide
From those poor wrecks of power and pride.
Before them, all the abhorring Land,
Commingled to one hostile Band,—
Is wrath, and silence, and revenge,
That cannot melt—that cannot change!

760

Behind them, Death, and Fate, and Flame,
And terrors drear without a name,
In wild and various horror crowd,
And track the footsteps of the proud;
And round them,—boundless Night, and Frost—
Where every hope is whelmed and lost,
Appeared in cold, sepulchral gloom,
To proffer even—a hostile Tomb!
As though beyond the grave should go,
The hate that haunts so loathed a Foe;
And they should find no peace nor rest—
Intombed in Russia's angry breast;

XLV.

Spreads round One shoreless Sea of Snow,
Whose dangers dire, no chart may show;
They staggering thread it—chilled and blind,—
Beneath the driving, bellowing wind!
Its feathery surges toss and swell,
A pale and cold, but dreadful Hell!
Ere long to mountains round shall grow,
That heaving and sepulchral snow;
Where countless corses mouldering lie,
On Earth—that is their enemy!
Even the elements, rejoined in death,
By theirs,—shall greet them as in wrath!
The while with lengthening, lingering tone,
Like Agony's and Suffering's own,—
A mighty Army's dying roar,
Shall shake that sea without a shore!

761

All drearily commingling there,
With howl of winds o'er deserts bare!

XLVI.

There,—there, shall many a thousand fall,
In torture's grasping, grinding thrall!
And horrid sights, shall there be seen,
To pierce with pity quick and keen,—
Glazed eyes, that see the world grow dark,
Turned round in aching sockets, mark!
Too dreadful is their cold white stare,
That chills the soul, with withering glare;
While many a face of aspect ghast,
Cadaverously changing fast,
Takes shapes that smite with strange distress,
Too harrowing in their hideousness!

XLVII.

Yet scarce their famished steeds can bear,
The emaciated riders there;
These worn, gaunt skeletons appear,
Like spectacles of woe and fear;
They scarce their leaden limbs can trail,
And staggering, front the sweeping gale;
Are these the chargers, proud and high,
That drank up space, with far-flashed eye;—
That snuffed the war-storm with their breath,
And shot them o'er its sounding path!
Still tossing high, their foam on air,
As their wild hearts would chase it there,—

762

Would follow there, and reach it still,
In wantonness of chainless will!
Far-bounding, follow, and o'ertake,
And make the world around them quake;
Their battle-harness, loudly there,
Still rattleth 'gainst their ribs so bare;—
But not to gladden, or inspire,—
Lost is their strength,—and flown their fire!
Nor, through their nostrils, stretched and wide,
Rolls now, the flame-breath of their pride!

XLVIII.

Creator of this wild Despair!—
Chaos-Compeller!—art thou there?
What fearful thoughts, must now be thine,
Thus watching, piecemeal,—thy decline!
Napoleon!—thy proud soaring mind,
In truth, left lower Earth behind;
That mind was like Volcano wild,
Up to the skies, in triumph piled;
And chief, in fierce eruption's hour,
Of dire and devastating power!—
In fierce Eruptions, heaving still,
To scatter round unbounded ill;
To leave but ruin,—dearth, and waste,
When pales the crown of fire, there placed!
Even placed upon its front of doom,
Where brightness seemed, yet worse than gloom!
This leaves but ruin, black and bare,
That kills the earth, and chokes the air;

763

XLIX.

Aye!—Ruin!—blasted, like the wrecks,
Whose waste, its triumph crests and decks,
Itself, doth darkling, frowning seem,
When fades away its lava-dream;
So trenched its sides, with scars profound,
So bowed,—seems even its Height discrowned!
True!—to the skies 'tis proudly piled,
And chiefly in those hours so wild!
But yet,—doth this on high aspire,—
Alone to pour, gross earthly fire!
Dark flames sulphureous, to disgorge,
And be the trembling Earth's dire scourge!

L.

Ah!—not with yonder stars sublime,
To commune well, such mount may climb;
This loves to cloud their purest rays,
With its unblessed, and scorching blaze;
Best loves to veil their loving light,
With threatening flash, and terrors bright;
And such thy likeness—Mighty Mind!—
That leaves a shuddering world behind!
Thine,—that volcanic, treacherous flame,
The Eruptive burst of martial fame!
The glory of the battle-hour,
The dreams of wild, ungoverned Power!
The changing and portentous light,—
The splendour, that must scathe and blight!

764

And thine the pomp 'tis pain to view,—
The triumph thine,—the terror too!

LI.

But like some star-y-pointing steep,
That leans 'gainst Heaven's own azure deep;
With lovely, lonely lustre bright,
Clear Immortality of Light,
Where Alps or Andes rear on high,
Their forms, like Sisters of the Sky,—
High Virtue stands, in gracious state,
Divinely calm, and meekly great;
The stars themselves, seem pointing there,
To that bright spectacle, and fair;
While gleams afar the snow-white crest,
With radiance, beautiful and blest;
Aye!—pointing down, and leaning even,
As though 'twere but, from Heaven to Heaven!
And mingling with the beauty pure,
That shall, for evermore endure;
Even mingling all to one bright crown,
That Earth-one, lovely as their own!
For both unstained, are pure, and fair,
'Tis Heaven with Heaven, embracing there!

LII.

Proud Tyrant!—say—did saddening thought,
Now—mourn the wrecks thy harshness wrought?
Oh!—for a bridle—bitted strong,
With sharp remorse, to 'venge the wrong!

765

Or for a spur of fire, to send,
Thy thoughts, to chase some nobler end!
Oh!—for a scourge that might but smite,
To part thy darkness, from thy light!

LIII.

Tremendous Battle was begun,
When War seemed o'er,—and Conflict done!
O'er Earth's pale face strange shadows dashed,
Where Nature and Napoleon clashed!
Like giant thunder-clouds of doom,
They clashed,—in dazzlery and gloom!
Those Titan-Twins,—that ruled and reigned,
As neither would be schooled or chained!

LIV.

Then burst the flames of Genius bright,
From his stupendous Mind of Might;
From his unvanquishable thought,
The electric fires were forced and brought;
For charged with fires electric, still,
Was his indomitable will;
Come!—towering Champions,—to the field!—
To arms!—Be one, first taught—to yield!
Twin Titans!—did ye meet in power,
With shock sublime, on that dread hour?
Yea!—lengthening down eternal years,
The answer of despair appears!
Since what could follow but despair,
When Nature checked Napoleon there?

766

A thousand worlds sure jarred and crashed,
When Nature,—and Napoleon clashed!
His soul,—in even despair, elate,
Hurled on its hurricane of hate;
While round him stood in godlike guise,
Conceptions, of colossal size!

LV.

But,—awful Nature!—Thou shalt yet,
With iron terrors, well beset;—
And Thou shalt reign with fearful sway,
And spread destruction and dismay!
Not thus, dost thou with triumph high,
Swell in thy mountains to the sky!
Where Chimborazo's glittering snows,
Hang o'er a Heaven-linked world's repose!
Heaven-linked by mountains, such as these,
Towering in crowned sublimities!
While seem their lifted crests, to climb,
To look into the stars sublime;
To pierce the darkness as with light,
Ruffling thy Royal Purple,—Night!

LVI.

Not thus dost thou in Victory sweep,
Where sea-like rivers hail the deep,—
Where all is madness even of motion,
'Twixt Orinico and his Ocean!
Not thus dost thou, all glorious roll,
Where tempests shake the affrighted Pole!

767

LVII.

Nor thus, in more than triumph shine,
Amongst those burning stars divine,
That speak the Eternal's dread controul,
Ablaze with Godhead, as they roll!
Thy mightiest power, and proudest sway,
Is even on this,—thy battle-day!
Like mailed Arch-angel, thou wert bade,
To strive, in strength and glory clad,
And on, Thou camest, in all thy might,
To search—to ruin—and to blight,
Fierce grasping thy ten thousand storms,—
Thy furious march the space deforms!

LVIII.

Earth with the shock seemed dead to lie,
As at His fall the World must—die!
A World must perish—bowed and low—
To compass His destruction so;
Such terror and such funeral gloom,
Made all, frown,—blackening to a tomb;
While thus her boundless triumphs grew,
Seemed Nature even as something new,—
She wore a Form she ne'er had worn,—
She bore a Fame she ne'er had borne;
And, while her banners broad, she reared,
Heaven's angel militant appeared!

768

LIX.

The World he claimed,—once more her own,
Resounded with her new renown!
As though a fresh Creation, she
Exulted in her Empiry!
Her Battle-Field,—and His, who bade,
Her Form spring forth, in might arrayed,
Was all an Empire, in its Pride,
And such an Empire!—vast and wide;—
Made all Her Battle-Field,—and even,
The Battle-Field of Conquering Heaven!

LX.

What burned with pomp of blazing shows,
When Promise first, and Hope arose?
When Promise and Expectance fair,
First dawned along the dazzling air!
What deluged Earth with floods of Light,
When Enterprise sprang forth in might!
While tints of gold, and hues of flame,
As though from Earth's struck bosom came;
While thousands rushed to rampant War,
Bewildered by a dangerous Star;
What burned upon the wondering gaze,
What set the quivering air ablaze?

LXI.

It is a dread and awful Power,
That brightens all the conquering hour!

769

It pours along—it rolls its course,—
Oh!—what its centre—and its source?
What scatters far the dazzling boon?—
It is Napoleon!—or the noon!
A noon of more than sun, sublime,
That fires the furrowing front of Time!
And radiates boundlessly away,
Into the endless realms of day!

LXII.

What frowns along an outraged land,
With gloom, too deep to understand?
What darkened with such shadows drear,
That Land so vast, afar, and near,
What lies like mountains on her might?
Reply!—Napoleon!—or the Night!
A Night of more than darkness,—worse,
In the wild chaos of its curse!

LXIII.

Yet all was done at bidding high,
Of Heaven's omniscient Majesty!
Whose dread design shall yet appear,
Through all, made excellently clear,
And doubt, and sorrow, and dismay,
Shall vanish like a dream, away;
In all thy works, the dark or bright,
How shineth forth at last—Thy Light!
Oh!—Thou, who rul'st with vast controul,
Creation's structure,—and her Soul;

770

In thy least lowliest works, the same,
As even in those of giant frame;—
In thy most shadowy—as in those
Where every glory, kindling glows;
There, soon or late, thy sign hath shone—
Bright as the Archangel in the Sun!—

LXIV.

Napoleon!—didst thou rule and reign,
So much to boast—so much to gain,—
To sink to such a depth at last,
Unbuilding all the soaring past?
Defeat for thee, becomes a thing
Of wilder doom, and keener sting;
Such marvellous success hath blest—
Each mighty movement of thy breast!
And were these crowned successes bright,
But given, to make more deep the blight?

LXV.

Thy glories learned, to sink and fail—
Magnificently prone and pale:
Seemed Rome's three hundred triumphs all,
There, blent to one—to fade and fall!
The Chaos-maker gazeth round,
'Tis his own Ruin, without bound!
He glared upon the appalling scene—
His thoughts grew arrows, barbed and keen;
For every thought had tales to tell,
Of how a throne—or triumph fell!

771

LXVI.

And could'st thou build a dream so vain,
O'er Feeling's empires free, to reign?
To crush down aspirations high,
That could not fall,—save with the sky!
To freeze the living blood of love,
That keeps time, to the stars above;

LXVII.

Yes!—Thou hast conquered!—thou hast gained;—
Hast hosts o'erthrown—and realms enchained;—
But Human Nature, roused at last,
Shall vindicate her patience past;
Ere this,—the struggle seemed of Earth,
And bore the token of its birth,
'Twas Earth to Earth,—that long dark strife,—
With few sublimer touches rife!

LXVIII.

But deeper hewed, thy desperate hand,
Through noblest thoughts, to drive the brand;
To slaughter spirits, in the shape
Of their best hopes, that yet must 'scape!—
Then all was doomed!—thy course of pride
Was stayed at once—and thou, defied!—

LXIX.

The World, thou mad'st thy World, might quail,
Her influence shrink, her interests fail;

772

All Earth, be from her centre hurled—
But Virtue is not of the World!
Above it, she hath fixed her throne,
And She, shall never be undone;
Above it,—and above thee!—vain,
Thy hope o'er Her, to rule and reign;—

LXX.

Frowned thy pale forehead, full of fate,
But not to make Her desolate!
Thine eye of fire, scorched up the lands,
But not to shake Her, where she stands!—
A deep and heavy change is seen
O'er all the proud Destroyer's mien—
A pale dejection, dimly weighs,
Where all was once, with hope ablaze!
He doubts, and pauses, and he stands,
And mutters low his half-commands!

LXXI.

And is this He—so proud and high—
So fixed, in mountain majesty?
And is this He, by whose quick thought,
Were mysteries pierced—more mysteries wrought?—
Warm, from his working mind, he threw,
Each winged conception, fresh and new,
They shot—they lightened, from his soul—
Like stars, in orbits fair, to roll!

773

They darted, and they glanced away,
To spread to one clear, settled day;
Those flames of boundless genius free—
In strength of endless Victory,
They lived from the inmost life to blaze,
Through all the vast Creation's maze!
Lived from his inmost life, to light
All round them—with their kindling might;

LXXII.

How different, sounds the Warrior's tone,
From when the World, seemed all his own!
When loud he cried exultingly,
“Reign!—Havoc!—Slaughter!—revel free!
And Carnage!—clap thy red foul hands,
And haste, with all thy howling bands;
Come!—my Familiars!—dog my way;—
And fawn upon my feet to-day!
For I will give you harvest high,
And mine is all the mastery!”

LXXIII.

They come—they dog his path—they throng,
As fast and free, he speeds along;
But followers false, and treacherous slaves,
Each now, its outraged master braves.
With mockery wild and dark, they come,—
And threaten him, with scathe and doom!

774

They spurn his yoke,—forswear his sway,
And bid the Mighty One obey;—

LXXIV.

From Earth to Heaven,—from Heaven to Earth,—
In Hope's despondency and death,—
He glares with anguish, and with ire,
And struggles, with his soul of fire;
Where is his glory?—where his boast?—
Where bideth now, his boundless Host?
Warriors in nations!—where are they?
Tread lightly—Proud One!—on their clay!—

LXXV.

Thought'st thou to soar and reign o'er all?
The farthest flight—the lowliest fall!
Learn thy new lesson—doubt and droop;—
Act thy new attitude—and—stoop!
Success and Victory, were thine own,
Thou'st thundered them, from thy red throne!

LXXVI.

Even Hope put on, pale Terror's guise,
At thine adventure and emprize;
Fear, at thy fatal rashness grew,
A shadow of yet gloomier hue.
And chill Amazement fled away,
Nor dared to cope with such dismay;

775

And as thy mighty wond'rous plan,
Unfolded to the eyes of man,
Yet heavier, fell the shadows all—
Far heavier yet, to sweep and fall!

LXXVII.

Now battle rages in His might,
Thy Thousands, madden to the fight;
And thousands of those thousands feel,
The crimson chastening of the steel;—
Now all the North, is burning far,
With yon dread sun of doom and war!
'Tis burning with that Sun of Fire,—
New kindled by imperial ire!
Septentrion Eagle!—said I right,
There thou should'st mount, to bless that light;
Aye!—there may'st thou triumphant soar,
And bask in Victory,—more and more,
The Other Eagle, too, shall know,
The strength and splendour of the glow!
But this shall waste his withering wings,
And blast, and blight him, as he springs;
Till all his spoil—till all his prey,
From his scorched talons, drops away;
Drops—scathed and shattered, from his grasp,
For Fate was in that deadly clasp!
The Rival Eagle, greets those rays
To perish, in their boundless blaze!

776

LXXVIII.

Lo!—all the North is burning now,
And lifting high a dazzling brow;
'Tis burning with that Sun of Fire,—
Yet farther—deeper—stronger—higher;—
That Sun—which gilds these glorious hours—
Risen from the Immortal Moscow's Towers!
Faint falls thy word of Victory,—
“My Frenchmen!—Forward!—win or die!”
Subdued by force of France no more—
Earth!—be the Earth thou wert before!
See Russia's sky, grows black with clouds,
That yet shall seem the Foeman's shrouds;—
Pale winding-sheets of snow they weave,
Where yet the strong, their strength shall leave;
Cold mausoleums of the ice,
Now build they,—let the worms rejoice!

LXXIX.

Brave Russians!—did ye frowning hear,
Their giant scheme of fate and fear?
Even when at first, its darkness threw
O'er your loved land, a doubtful hue?—
Ye did!—but now, with joyous scorn,
Ye see your Foemen, downward borne,
Dragged down, to the opened jaws of fate,
As 'twere by their own force and weight;

777

LXXX.

The Russians, marked their Foemen fast,
Fall off, like leaves before the blast,—
And they no more shall darkling frown,
For Fame and Freedom, are their own;
Aloud they shout, with gladsome voice,
“France yieldeth!”—Let their worms rejoice!—
Now they may “Havoc!” cry with joy,—
And finish, what the Fates destroy!
Roll in the grave's dull, blackening dust,
That cold, lone castle of their trust,—
And say, amidst those clayey towers,
“Yes!—ye have conquered to be ours!

LXXXI.

“Now We,—a creeping army come,
To fix your low and hapless doom;
Nor other army's proud array,
Was needed on your destined day;—
As ye were scarce of human birth,
Ye mouldered drearily, from Earth!”
Let Russia's revelling worms rejoice,
With such a mocking triumph-voice;

LXXXII.

Plumed Dominations of the war,
The Chiefs who governed, wide and far,
Own them, even for their captains now,
And bend to them, their haughty brow;

778

And once the living battle flew,
From out their thought, all fresh and new:
The battle flew, from out their thought,—
Well planned and shaped—and formed and wrought;

LXXXIII.

But now, at once they faint and yield,
Nor stand, nor struggle, on the field!
A dreadful judgment, deep and dark,
Soon made their pride and might, its mark;—
And Heaven took visibly the side,
Of those they challenged, in that pride;—

LXXXIV.

Heaven took the outraged country's part—
And strengthened her indignant heart;
Heaven's anger froze in all her snows;
With all her bellowing winds arose!
Still took her War's ten thousand forms,
And threatened loud, through all her storms,
Still frowned in every passing cloud,
And burst,—in her Defiance loud!—
Heaven blazed in her Stupendous Fire,
And thundered in her shock of ire;
Resisted in her rock-like mood,
And rushed in her revenging flood!
And hoped they, Victory could be given,
'Gainst Nature, Freedom,—and 'gainst Heaven?

779

LXXXV.

Vain—vainest hope!—this must not be,
While Nature, moves in Harmony!
While Freedom may be dear to man,
And portion of the hallowed plan;
While Heaven adjusts—and weighs—and gives,—
The life, in which Creation lives!

LXXXVI.

When Darkness doth rebuke the Light,
Usurping, yet once more, its might;
When Chaos chides Creation back,
Upon her high and 'stablished track;
When nothing nobler breathes, than Thee,
Chaos-Compeller!—this may be!

LXXXVII.

Napoleon!—To the combat now!—
Brace the dread war-helm on thy brow,—
For thou art summoned now to yield,
And challenged,—challenged,—to the Field!—
Now stand your dreadful Battle's brunt,
Fight face to face,—fight front to front,—
Ye awful Powers! sublimely met—
To shake and rouse Creation yet!
Try out your kingly strength and worth—
Napoleon!—and the iron North!—
Like warring worlds,—now join!—now meet!—
In strife,—terrifically great;

780

Since Wars of Worlds Your battling pride,
Shall seem to doom and to decide;
March!—Strike!—with shock of deadly might,
And Heaven shall guard and bless the Right!
Charge!—Charge!—Oh!—Charge!—host-mocking Powers!
Charge!—thundering through these Earthquake hours,
With your dread Grandeurs all stand forth!
Napoleon!—Nature!—and the North!

LXXXVIII.

Nay!—Monarch of the Mighty!—Pause!
Confess the weakness of thy cause!
Learn now a loftier, nobler, mood,
Arise!—to own thyself subdued!
Thou never yet tried'st flight so high,
As flight of that—Humility!—
Which yet should raise thee, from the dust,
Of Earthly Thrones—and earthly Trust!
And lift thee from the world,—half won,
To bend at its Creator's throne!
And in thy fall—and in thy fate—
Yet seem high honours to await!

LXXXIX.

To swell the pomp of thy defeat,
Lo!—Elements and Mysteries meet;
To marshall forth thy destinies,
What terrors and what wonders rise!
Vain seemed all common might and force,
Nature drew strength from Her dread source,—

781

And burst like the armed Minerva then—
To smite the Miracle of Men!

XC.

Ne'er yet, was such terrific war,
Since, far beyond the farthest star,
Mailed angels met, with angels high,
In Battle-order's marshalry;
Ne'er since, were called to fence and aid,
Such hosts, in such stern might arrayed,
As those unseen, resistless powers,
That stamped thy fortune's funeral hours;
And crushed thee down—and hurled thee forth—
Thou stormy Lucifer of Earth!

XCI.

Now what remains for thee?—Be still;
And curb, at last, thy tyrant will;—
Remain unto thyself, at least,
'Midst hopes denied, and ills increased;
And yet, perchance, at length forgiven—
May'st thou be dear, to Earth and Heaven!—

XCII.

Dismiss Ambition's last and worst,
Her petty, worldly aims accursed;
A higher, brighter Feeling learn,
And with yet nobler impulse burn.
That mighty Warrior, who of old,
Wept for new worlds, to grasp and hold,

782

Knew not, what Endless Worlds remain—
For souls redeemed, to grasp and gain!

XCIII.

These may be thine!—Ambition there,
May never slacken on Despair:
To that divine Ambition rise,
Set that vast Hope before thine eyes,
And strive, as thou for Earth hast striven,—
To gain, and grasp, and hold,—in Heaven!

XCIV.

In that Ambition be the same,
The soul of wind, the thought of flame;
And still be he, who warred and won,
Napoleon—still Napoleon!—
Nay!—be, thus wisely taught to bow—
Napoleon—more than ever now!

XCV.

But if,—yet wedded to the dust,
Thy Pride disdains that holiest trust,
Shalt thou not shew the World, what Fate,
Must yet, on her stern Anarchs, wait?
And first in Failure, and Defeat,
Scowl round thee—ruinously great?—
'Midst powers destroyed, and schemes undone,
Napoleon!—fallen Napoleon!

783

XCVI.

Great Heaven!—how wond'rously sublime,
Thy mysteries, pierce the clouds of Time,
While all goes gathering evermore,
To full perfection, as before;
Still first, the gloom, the storm, we find,
Then Order, Hope, and Rest,—behind;
First,—Darkness brooded o'er the space,
Then sprang the Sun, to run his race!

XCVII.

'Twas Chaos first,—and Death, and Night,
Till these, all trembled into light;
And breathing into beauty, shewed
How great the source, from whence they flowed;
Thus all goes harmonizing on,
Till full Perfection's heights are won;
And who shall limit—who shall bind—
Perfection's march—her course assigned?

XCVIII.

This bright Creation, glorying now,
With such uplifted, Heavenward brow,
This ordered Nature, fresh and fair,
Contrived with such consummate care,
This work of Thy constructing,—Lord,
With boundlessness of beauties, stored,
May be,—yet waiting on thy will,—
Chaos of new Creations, still!

784

(The chaos of a lovelier state,
That yet Thy word doth watch and wait!)
Of new Creations, brighter far,
To which but seeds, are Sun and Star;—
But scattered seeds, that yet shall burst,
Sublime,—their mighty part rehearsed!
Wide blazing into being—more
Than aught, They shadowed forth, before!

XCIX.

Thus, too, for human nature, wait,
Revealments high, of loftier fate;
Deep ripenings onwards,—upwards, still,
Deliverings from all Wrong and Ill!
And rash Pretenders, unto Power,
Like thee, Napoleon!—bring The Hour;
Strong Agitators such as thee,
But serve the pregnant Mystery!
Speed Preparation's business well,
And urge the secret-working Spell!

C.

'Tis thy fixed task, with troublous toil,
To drive the Ploughshare, through the soil;
To loosen all the stubborn mould,
That treasures new, may this, unfold;
Thy Wars, and Feuds, and Triumphs wild,
But serve, a holy purpose mild!
Man's moving Mind, and shaken Soul,
Must now, confess the dread controul;

785

CI.

But, from these shocks and strifes shall rise,
A thousand living harmonies;
Light things shall pass,—the void—the vain,—
The Mightiest and the Best remain!
And strengthened still, by Shock and Strife,
Shall tower, the loftiest truths of Life;
The noblest thoughts shall plume their wings,
To pierce the atmosphere of things;
Constrained—when Storm reigns deep and vast,—
To try their fullest strength at last!

CII.

And in the Deluge of Dismay—
That swept on wild disaster's day,—
The soul bade all Her Dreams to soar,
And mount, and triumph, more and more!
When Happiness, from Earth, seemed driven,
Where could she seek it,—but in Heaven?
She spurned all lodgements, dull and poor,
Where, cabinned, dwelt her thoughts before!
Low Earth, her least emotions shun,
And house in eyries, next the Sun!

CIII.

Ruffling the Waters of the World,
Thou'st shewn its depths, are gemmed and pearled!
Dark Diver!—who, thyself, a storm,—
These, still disparted, to deform!

786

Yet, thou hast shewn, with wealth, 'tis stored,
And bared full many a jewel hoard:
What treasures, of high trust sublime,
Didst thou lay panting-bare in Time!
Developing Man's Spirit, more,
Than e'er 'twas shewn, on Earth before!
More spreading forth, His World of Mind,
(Doomed Husbandman of Human-Kind!—)
Than ever yet, 'twas shewn, or spread,
Since sprang it from the Fountainhead,
For thou didst culture,—thou didst plough—
The Nature thou could'st hope to bow!

CIV.

Discoverer of new Worlds august,
Of Spirit, spurning clay and dust;
For still, to mock Oppression's thrall,
They woke—to work at last, thy fall!
The holiest energies of men,
Developed, grew apparent then,
And still that Spirit and the Thought,
Were more, to life and action wrought;
Thy searching, and thy striving, broke,
Full many a dark and stubborn yoke;—
Shewed many a systemed splendour fair,
Man dreamed not,—never guessed was there!
Wert thou designed, even thus, to be
A labourer in Immensity?
The Immensities of will and thought,
To glorious revelations brought;

787

To prove, wert thou, even thus, designed,
A Newton of the Space of Mind!
Against thy Knowledge, plan, or will,
But studious of self-greatness still!
No Power could make, save one alone,
Such Newton of Napoleon!

CV.

He—who snatched Space into his soul,
And there, bade all its mysteries roll,
Displaying unto wondering eyes,
The boundless beauty of the skies,
The while, in his Large Thought contained,
No vastness shrank,—no splendour waned;
But seemed the Universe to sway,
More glorious, there, to burst away;
Even he, scarce filled a charge so high,
So fashioned for Eternity!
Scarce,—scarce, such mighty works atchieved,
As Thou,—who from the deep mind, heaved,
New worlds unthought of,—unbelieved!—
Their wonders and their truths displayed,
And drew them from the deepest shade!

CVI.

This didst thou!—forced by dread controul,
That, step by step, still urged thy soul;
This didst thou!—'gainst thy wish or will,
Heaven's instrument and agent still;

788

Yea!—seemed thy task more great and proud,
Than his, who rent Creation's shroud;
As Souls, than Suns, more glorious shine,
In their dread Maker's sight divine!
These brightlier shone, whilst Thou assailed,
Still crushing down those clouds that veiled;
And ever Human Nature grew,
Assailed!—displayed!—to something new!
Thus pierced—thus opened—thus disclosed—
Its panting depths and springs exposed!

CVII.

In perfect order fair, did rise,
Crowned Harmonies, and Sympathies;
Attraction of sublimest force,
Even to the Centre,—to the Source,
Then ruled, in ever-glorying course!
While high endeavours,—hopes supreme,—
And many a Heaven-aspiring Dream;
And proud resolves, and feelings deep,
On their broad paths did visioned sweep!

CVIII.

Say!—Was't for Angels was revealed,
Thus, Mind's great Firmamental Field?
Say!—Was't for them, to see how fair,
Omnipotency's works, are there?
And was't for this, were bade to start,
Harmonious pulses of the Heart?

789

In all their full perfection bright,—
In marshalry of Living Light?
Not yet, to even angelic eye,
Displayed in triumph full and high!

CIX.

No!—Not that Sage, whose thought could be,
The Home of all Infinity,—
Did e'er atchieve such glorious task,
Far more, than thou would'st aim, or ask;
And all the madness of thy Mind,
Was but for purpose good, designed!

CX.

Chains!—why!—thou brokest ten thousand ties,
That barred Man's heart, from yon bright skies?
Ten thousand, thousand chains that bound,
To worms,—and ashes,—and the ground!
And this,—unrecking of thy deed,
'Twas this thou didst,—and raised, and freed!
Thoughts, long that leaned to clay and dust,
Felt these things, crumbling from their trust;
Once loosened from those links of Earth,
They shot into a nobler Birth!

CXI.

And thou didst desolate the world,—
Till all was in one darkness furled!

790

(Though Souls,—like Stars—like Suns, around,
Blazed up, and lit that dark profound!)
Crushed Hearts,—from Earth's best blessings riven,
Could then, but turn them, unto Heaven!

CXII.

Pale Death and Sorrow with thee went,
On their most ghastly message sent;
Say!—are not these, but Heralds free,
Of Hope and Immortality?
From their cold wintery breasts, they fling,
The cloudless, and eternal Spring!

CXIII.

Oh!—ne'er did yet the saddening Earth,—
In doubt, and dreariment, and dearth,
So gird her loins—and tread her round—
Even like a Pilgrim, Heavenwards bound!
As through those hours, when Suffering drove,
Each winged and yearning thought, above;
While all her soul went rushing there,
From Doubt and Dread—and from Despair!

CXIV.

Chains?—Lo!—who talks of chains?—Be Free!—
Free in thyself,—Humanity!
How frail,—how weak—are bonds, when wrought,
To bind the mighty Giant,—Thought!

791

Weak—weak they are,—yet not in vain,—
For stings like spur of fire, the chain;
When once the wakening Powers of Mind,
Have felt the thrall that shall not grind!

CXV.

Then, then like spurs of living fire,
Sharp sting those chains, to wake desire,
Bright, high Desire, for noblest things,
Till seem they most like goads,—and wings!
And would they bind down Man to Earth,
And all its spirit-drought and dearth?

CXVI.

Nay!—these,—though with such aim, scarce given,
Have linked that lightened Earth, to Heaven!
Well lightened of the load she bore,
Of treasures, trusts, and ties of yore,
Lo!—she hath found a thousand wings,
And high exultant, upwards springs

CXVII.

Chains?—Yes!—to yon great Heaven above,
They chained the heart of man, in Love!
In faith and love, that cast out fear,
And bound to every brighter sphere;
Chains!—Chains!—they grow Conductors bright,
Of all the Immortal Lightning's light!

792

And when their part is done and o'er,
Then, shattered,—they shall be no more!

CXVIII.

Napoleon marcheth on his way,
From thrones to thrones—from sway to sway!
Through walks of Kings—and wastes of Realms,—
Which his tremendous shadow whelms!
He marcheth on,—while fame and power,
O'er-stretch the horizon, and the hour;

CXIX.

Still deemed he for himself, he wrought,
Still judged he, 'twas his aim he sought!
While following fast, each thought that rose,
Within the mind, that scorned repose;
And little did he guess or dream,—
He toiled, to serve, Heaven's Mercy-Scheme!

CXX.

He laboured—but to make more clear,
Earth's Elements, and Atmosphere!
To purge her of her worthless dross,
To make her gain, through grief and loss!
To lift her, to a loftier state,—
To find her weak, and leave her great;

793

CXXI.

To teach the universal heart,
How poor is false Ambition's part;
To rouse the never-ending hopes,—
Even most, when most the spirit droops!
To be a Warning, and a Word,
To times, whose springs not yet are stirred!

CXXII.

For thou shalt heave thy World-wide Name,
To every height of starry Fame,
The Mountain of thy mention even,
Shall scale—shall shake—the listening Heaven!
Yet only to proclaim and shew,
How, wild Ambition, turns to woe!

CXXIII.

And now what anguish seized thy mind,
When Disappointment came to grind;
Thou gazest round thee,—black Despair,
To iron turns the very air!
And all against thee seems to lower,
And all hurls back thy boasted Power!

CXXIV.

Aye!—words which thrilled upon thine ear,
Dark words of Prophecy and Fear!
When first thy Giant Enterprise,
Even storm by storm, did seem to rise,—

794

To lash the Deep World to a wave,
That yet, thy mighty feet must lave!
Now swift, returned on thee again,
And armed with piercing Powers of Pain;
While all appeared to cry aloud,
From Earth's dull, angry, threatening cloud!

CXXV.

“In every shape—at every stride,—
With scorn—with hate—with wrath and pride,—
Thou art despised!—thou art defied!
Through every scene—through every stage,—
Thou yet, shalt find, but rage on rage;
Through every sense, thrills every sign,
Of anger—human and divine!

CXXVI.

But On!—yet march from space to space,
Since bournless is thy bitter race!
The while with scorn, and strength, and pride,
Thou'rt thus detested,—and defied!”
But yet wild hopes inspired him still,
Through many a form of threatening ill;—

CXXVII.

Hopes!—traitors oft, yet ever dear,
Still lit his paths with fitful cheer,—
Those Phœnix-phrenzies of the heart,
That live, and die, and burn apart!

795

Live—die—and blaze to life again,
With ecstacy of joy and pain;
They yet endured within that soul,
And strung it to its old controul;

CXXVIII.

'Twas such an agony,—to stoop,
From even Despair would'st thou carve Hope;
Or call it, by her treacherous name,
And fan it, with her added flame!
Thus thy Despair was more, far more,
Than aught Earth ever knew before!

CXXIX.

Wild agonies of ampler scope,
Start, gendered, 'twixt such fear and hope,
Aye!—agonies more awful far,
In their so deep and racking war,
Than ever sprang from still dismay,
When foiled Expectance fleets away!

CXXX.

'Tis that the soul, bursts wildly there,
Her giant stature, fain to rear,—
To greet, what doth opposing rise,
With all her mustered energies!
Yes!—all her energies awake,—
'Gainst Pain's hard, stubborn rock to break;
And all are in their might arrayed,
To feel the torture—not to aid!

796

CXXXI.

When all is lost, and all resigned,
Sinks back upon itself, the mind!
All lost!—she bowed and hushed, remains,
In prostrate guise, and wears her chains!
She withereth from herself away,
Nor more resists the crushing sway!

CXXXII.

Not so, the torrent of thy thought,
Could be to still subjection wrought;
Thy spirit writhed against the doom,
Which fenced thee round, with treble gloom;
And blazed into defiance still,
Of every obstacle and ill!

CXXXIII.

Unhappiest!—could'st thou—could'st thou then,—
(So far above the herd of men,—)
Not turn to good account those powers,
Heaven gave thee, for thy spirit-dowers!
What might'st thou not,—dread Mind!—be made,
If but with righteous thoughts arrayed?
A glory to irradiate Earth,—
Almost of superhuman birth!

CXXXIV.

But now Ambition's selfishness
Stints all thy soul—and makes it less;—

797

'Tis true, to outward view perchance,
Thou seem'st, full proudly, to advance;
And with a high and noble aim,
And urging still a lofty claim,

CXXXV.

Thine Alp-like Aim ascends on high,
And towers in fair ascendancy!
In sovereign singleness it stands,
To glance o'er thousand subject lands;
Alone as is the sovereign sun,
A mighty and a matchless one;

CXXXVI.

But naked 'tis, and barren all,
Since, there, no gracious dews shall fall;
Dark clouds and storms, hang round it chill,
Even like its own drear fruits of ill;
As though from this, they sprang and grew,—
Can such aim be the right and true?

CXXXVII.

With what a voice, did Russia speak,
To teach thee, this was vain and weak;
With true nobility of thought,
Her part she chose—her deed she wrought;—
No forward-hurrying hope and will,
Might match Her calm resistance still;
But foolishness—vain Glory's dream,
Near her brave fixedness should seem!

798

And what ambition could compare,
With Her magnificent despair,
When she at length, with wrath and wrong,
Was threatened by the Proud and Strong?

CXXXVIII.

It grew a Glory!—lived in Light,
And rushed to rapture, in its might;
Forswearing its sad nature even,
It raised its beamy front to Heaven;—

CXXXIX.

Yea!—gloriously did Russia wear
Her crowned, magnificent despair!
Seemed all the beauty of all hope,
To gird it round—she could not droop!

CXL.

She made Her grief, in its proud guise,
A miracle to charm all eyes!
And Sorrow seemed as something new—
So dazzling shewed, its mighty hue;
Her woes were wonders!—and her wrongs,
Spoke forth with trumpet-piercing tongues;—
What seemed as Fate, turned all to Fame,
She made herself a living name!

CXLI.

She made Herself for evermore,
A Name, that Nations shall adore;—

799

From Russia's Sun of Fire, a ray,
Shall humbled Empires, trembling, pray,
When threateningly, o'er them may come,
The eclipse of foul Oppression's gloom;
That Sun she kindled in her ire—
Of fair, and earth-o'erblazing Fire,
Shall lend a ray of living light,
To Empires—girded round with Night!
The Night of Slavery, or of Shame,
Pierced by that beam of deathless Flame!
Right proudly 'twas her glorious sons,
Waved Galaxies for Gonfalons!

CXLII.

Yes!—Russians!—yet your deed sublime,
Shall blaze along the march of Time;
That farthest march, shall proudly light,
Unfading in its hallowed might;
'Twill yet to the unborn nations reach,
The glory of your strength to teach!

CXLIII.

And more!—through all Earth's destined days,
(Resounding with its endless praise;)
Shall this, make Slavery's hateful ill,
Impossible to nations still!
Make harsh Subjection's brand and ban,
Impossible to Mortal Man!

CXLIV.

Defeat and shame by this shall be,
Effaced from Human Destiny!

800

Henceforth, to Peoples, and to Kings,
Be fear and fate, unrecked of things;
To all the hidden future years,
(Yet lingering 'mid the distant spheres;)
Submission foul, and Slavery fell,
Your Deed hath made impossible!

CXLV.

So glorious was the part ye played,
Your high Resistance so hath laid,
Sublime Necessity on all,
Not to submit, and not to fall;
Lo!—after your high Deed sublime,
To yield—were doubly shame and crime,
To yield—to fall,—were doubly shame,—
While shines that Deed to deathless fame!
Thus made it,—Slavery's brand and ban,
Impossible!—to Living Man!

CXLVI.

Now first, take Failure to thy soul,
Great Conqueror!—own her dread controul;—
For gathering round thee, day by day,
Shall creep the encroachments of Dismay;
Thou hast unsaid Thyself!—and made,
A Falsehood, all thy Fame betrayed;
Rein back thy thoughts, and let them know,
The presence of subduing woe!
Would'st make—while nought thy pride may check
A stepping-stone of every wreck?

CXLVII.

Let Ruin teach thee, truths and things,
More worthy of a Spirit's wings;

801

More worthy of a Spirit's flight—
Vast, strong, and durable, and bright;—
Thus learn a lesson deep, at last,
From thy dark Present, and thy Past!—

CXLVIII.

Controul and check thy thoughts of flame,
Think what a glory 'twere,—to tame!
Think,—think, what Victory vast and new,
Yet thus is left thee, to pursue;—
Go!—strike but there!—but strive for this!—
Thou canst not fail,—and canst not miss;

CXLIX.

And did that Conqueror weep of yore,
For victories fresh—and triumphs more,—
That Conqueror who, since thou wert not,
Atchieved a high and glorious lot?
Did Alexander weep in vain,
For other worlds, to own his reign?
Yet never glanced within, to see,
Worlds lengthening to Infinity!—

CL.

And thou, too!—shalt thou,—canst thou, thus,
Be blind to truth so luminous?
Like Flying Suns, thy thoughts rushed on,
As more than space were to be won!

802

And still they flashed—and still they flew—
To seek abroad, those triumphs new;—
Nor ever turned again, to come,
And look for these—and find—at home!

CLI.

Oh!—what a Conqueror might'st thou be,
What Empires might be bowed by thee,
Such Empires dread, of thought and mind,—
As leave Earth's pettier realms, behind,
If thou would'st but sublimely learn,
The Nothing thou hast lost,—to spurn!

CLII.

Fight that Great Field!—and nobly strive,
Fresh wreaths hath Glory yet to give,
Far brighter wreaths than ever yet,
Around thy haughty brow were set,
Haste!—arm ye for that mightiest Field,
And heavenly-tempered weapons wield;

CLIII.

Thy powers, lead forth, to win,—to gain,—
And range them, on that boundless plain;
Thou hast taught many a Host to bow—
Subdue the Great Napoleon now!
Let this, be still reserved for thee—
And then thy name is—Victory!—

803

CLIV.

Astonish Earth, indeed, with this,
And let thy prize at last be—bliss!
For never hath the purple sway,
On thee, bestowed a cloudless day!
Thy mind still preyed on farther hope—
And asked yet ampler range and scope;—

CLV.

That ampler scope and range be thine!
And triumphs, endless and divine;
Be all thy widest wish fulfilled,
Till thy great heart is soothed and stilled!

CLVI.

Thy widest, farthest wish shall be,
Fulfilled—if Virtue teach it thee!
If she may prompt it, and suggest,
To thy schooled thought, and chastened breast
Then,—thou shalt wonder at thy past,
And learn what Greatness is,—at last;

CLVII.

And wilt thou shrink, from such a field?
Leave that unfoughten still—and yield?
Then other Powers, shall come and gain
That Victory, thou could'st so disdain;
Tremendous Powers of Wrath and Pain!

804

Nor grace,—nor mercy, these shall shew,
But teach thee, all the Worst of Woe;

CLVIII.

The Earth-bound and the stubborn mind,
They yet shall wound—and yet shall grind;—
They come, in many a dreadful shape,
Their victim ne'er must hope escape!
They come, together leagued,—and Lo!
With these, thy writhing soul must go!
Their wrenching grasp,—their crushing hold,
Hath pierced thy heart's most hidden fold.

CLIX.

Then pause!—Then change!—yet act the part,—
Heaven's self is whispering to thy heart;
Conqueror!—thou never yet hast known,
What Conquest is!—Now learn thine own!

CLX.

So far were this, beyond all pride,
Of past atchievements, dread and wide;
That these should seem to melt away,
Like Dawn's young tints, in full-blown Day;
Till thou should'st doubt, what thou hadst done,
And scorn all victories—save that one;
Aye, doubt what thou hadst deigned to do,
And ask if aught but that were true;

805

CLXI.

Begin!—and breathe not,—pause not, now,
Till these fresh laurels shade thy brow;
Till this high conquest is complete,
And Past and Future at thy feet;

CLXII.

None other now, is worthy thee,
So flushed with many a Victory!
To such a Conqueror,—crowned,—Heaven-taught!—
Should seem the past Napoleon,—nought!
And what should in the Future dare,
With thee,—self-vanquished,—to compare?

CLXIII.

And hast thou, felt not this, at length,
Through such fierce trial of thy strength?
Hast thou not deeply felt and known,
What all hath taught thee—all hath shewn?

CLXIV.

Stern thoughts in dark processions led,
Have much thy mind admonished;
And even those thoughts of thine, shall cry,
“Fulfil a nobler Destiny!”
Napoleon!—Past Renown shall bow;—
Surpass,—Surpass,—Napoleon, now!—

806

The mightiest deed, thou e'er hast done,
The loftiest Victory, man e'er won!

CLXV.

True!—thou could'st pause not on thy path,
Of ravage, fury, and of wrath,
Till worlds were won or lost—Away!—
A nobler triumph tempts to-day;—
A boundless World, indeed, awaits
To finish,—and fulfil thy fates!

CLXVI.

Let but that world be now,—even now,
Thyself—Tremendous Spirit! Thou!—
Who still must teach, to bend and bow;
Win, win, thyself at last—then know
What Triumph's truth, may be below!
Even teach thyself to droop and bend,
That thou may'st o'er thyself ascend,
Through noblest hopes—and dreams sublime,
That mock at earth, and fate and time;

CLXVII.

Or thou, remaining in thy wrong,
Shalt learn a dreadful lore, ere long;
Learn Thou may'st bowed and blasted be,
By the cold crush of Destiny!
And feel thou'rt shadowed, and o'erborne,
By thine own deep and dread, self-scorn;

807

CLXVIII.

Yes!—while pride still shall tower the same,
Though near her, frown the withering shame,
Ambition, too, though reft of aim,
Shall urge thee still to hurry on,
(Though Fame,—though Hope herself be gone;
And that Ambition seems to be,
In thy changed eyes, couched, cleared, and free,
Even like a wandering, pallid light—
Deprived of all her noblest might!)
Thou thus shalt learn the deadly lore,
That wrings the bosom's quivering core;
Learn Thought by Thought,—dethroned,—uncrowned—
That—wanting to Thyself thou'rt found!
That wanting to thyself, of yore,
Thou wert,—and shalt be evermore;

CLXIX.

For still thy deep and solemn trust,
Was placed on things of earth and dust;
On all, that was Without, was placed
That Hope,—which nought within, embraced,
No self-reliance,—proud and fair,
No native confidence was there,
No calm of an assured controul,
No independence of the soul;

808

CLXX.

'Tis this, thou yet, shalt feel and find,
And curse thine own Unequal Mind;
For thou believed'st thyself to be,
A Monarch over Destiny!
This Soul-dethronement—dread and deep,—
Shall every known despair, o'ersweep;

CLXXI.

This Spirit-wreck—this inner fall,
Shall prove the bitterest doom of all!
This slow Uncrowning of the Mind,
Far most shall grieve, and most shall grind,
And leave all other pangs behind;

CLXXII.

For Thought by Thought, uncrowned shall be,
That revelled once in Sovereignty;
Or seemed at least, in dauntless pride,
To monarchize, afar and wide;
Those Thoughts must be deposed, at last,
From Thrones,—as shadowy, even, as vast!

CLXXIII.

Thy Soul, still leaned her whole dread weight,
On outward Circumstance, and Fate!
She built no towering trust apart,
Enslaved by thy ambitious heart;

809

And wanting, to Herself,—and chained,
In drear subjection, she remained;
Weak, wanting there, that soul was found,
That fain would seize on all around!

CLXXIV.

Still wanting, to Thyself, wert Thou,
Who raged for Empire, then and now!
Who maddening after conquest, flew,
From triumphs real, and glories true!
Who made thy purpose, aim, and end,
On outward things, alone depend;
And bade Earth's fleeting splendours be,
Thy Nature's great necessity;

CLXXV.

Aye!—wanting to thyself, indeed,
Since Earth's poor nothings were—Thy need!
Since these frail vanities were still,
The despots of thy daring will!

CLXXVI.

The Outward was thine Element!—
Thy Fate hung on each light event,
Which 'chance, might cross, thy foiled intent;
The Actual, marred thee still, or made,
Thy substance, was Opinion's shade;
The breath of Others, all thy life,
This fanned thy living Soul to strife!
Mind's fixed sufficiencies, supreme,
Ne'er entered on thy narrowed dream!

810

CLXXVII.

These things, thou yet, shalt feel, shalt know,
Shalt learn this First, and Last, of Woe,
Yes!—learn too bitterly, to be,
While all shall mock, and madden thee,
While doubts grow more—and powers are less—
Napoleon still,—and Nothingness!
Thou,—that with fire of rage exclaimed,
Of dark defeat's least thought ashamed;—
“Let me be yet the Same—the One!
Napoleon still!—or Nought,—and,—None!”—
Napoleon still, or Nothing?—think!
Lest Both thou thus, should'st prove,—and shrink!

CLXXVIII.

Lest thou should'st yet, though fierce—though proud—
As ere the storm had touched, or bowed,
Know this harsh truth too well, at last,
That all was Falsehood in thy Past;
That all thy Greatness was alone,
The Sway—the Purple—and the Throne,
Yet would'st thou to thyself confess,
This thought of wormwood-bitterness?
Confess that these so much could be,
Thy Life and Soul—thy Trust,—and Thee!

CLXXIX.

Were these things then, Napoleon?—Say:
The Throne—The Sceptre—and the Sway?

811

Were these things,—these, Napoleon?—Dreams!
That fade like fleeting meteors' beams?
The least, last part,—that still must be,
Of all true deathless majesty!

CLXXX.

Thy greatness, was indeed the power,
The vain, brief empire, of an hour;
The strength—the state—the flushed success,
The acquired Dominion's lordliness,
The heart of ice,—the iron hand,
The myriads, trained to thy command;
With high and soaring Genius true!—
That lent its mighty magic, too;

CLXXXI.

The pride of Genius, true!—but still,
Wronged Genius!—wrenched and warped to Ill,
Forgetful of its mission high,
Its duties, and its dignity;
Its Charge!—Earth's good, and happiness,—
Its grand prerogative,—to Bless!

CLXXXII.

The strength of Intellect, indeed,
That sprang to triumph, and exceed!
But Intellect—most like a Sun,
(A lone, and vain, and useless one!)
Created, ere an Earth was made,
To bloom, with its proud light arrayed!

812

CLXXXIII.

Ere worlds were sphered, to roll around,
And share its splendours,—without bound;
And bless its warmth—and drink its beams,
And glass it, in their thousand streams;

CLXXXIV.

'Twas thus, thine Intellect of might,
Poured,—vainly poured, its awful Light;
Its glorious brightness, threw away,
And flashed around, a fruitless Day!

CLXXXV.

Its splendours wasting,—and in vain,
Exulting in its dazzling reign,
It shone,—unwelcomed and unblessed,
Nor brightened even, thine own dark breast!
No influences of hallowed kind
It lavished,—in the Void enshrined;

CLXXXVI.

And yet, the worlds were made—were formed,
Which this, should still have lit and warmed!
Those circling, living worlds, were made,
Which this, should have with Light arrayed;
Have cloathed with splendour—dowered with strength—
And blessed with happier life at length,
With brightness filled,—and flushed with bliss,
And could it shrink from task like this?

813

CLXXXVII.

But all its rays were self-ward turned,
For self, its fires all flashed and burned;
Denying its vocation high,
It wronged its glorious ministery;

CLXXXVIII.

Alas!—if thus it failed to light,
'Twas prompt, to ruin and to blight;
Those fires still scathed, and scorched, and seared,
By all around, abhorred and feared;

CLXXXIX.

And ashes, these shall leave alone,
Poor trophies of a Pride undone!
Itself,—its triumphs scarce enjoyed,
And all around it,—but destroyed!

CXC.

And then, at last it shrank—it waned,
Till scarce one glimmering spark remained,
And few recalled—how it had reigned!
And thus, whate'er thou wert and art,
Must prove a shadowy thing apart;

CXCI.

And thou may'st still thy pride retain,—
Still burn to conquer, and to reign!
Still keep thy dark, imperious mood,
Withstanding,—as thou hast withstood!

814

Still hurl Defiance loud, 'gainst all,
And thunder down, thine endless fall;
As fiery, and as reckless e'en,
As when thou ruled the boundless scene,
As haughty and as restless still,
As when thou wrought'st thy tyrannous will;

CXCII.

Still keep the same imperial air,
And dash thee 'gainst the strong despair,—
And yet, in sooth, but lay slight claim,
To true Renown, and virtuous Fame!

CXCIII.

And thus,—yet, higher things untaught,
Shew Earth and Heaven,—thou'rt very nought;
Since vain was evermore thine aim,—
A dream thy power—a breath thy fame!
Wild Passions governed thee, and swayed,
And blindly thou, their voice obeyed;
Thou still might'st seem the monarch then!—
Yet be the very mock of men;—
And still thyself—still thus, may'st be,
The shadow but of Vanity;
Alas!—still,—still, the One!—the Same!
Prove but the sounding of a name;

CXCIV.

And this thy fate!—and this thy doom!—
Of awful and mysterious gloom,—

815

The fiat of thy fortunes wild,
With blood, and wrong, and shame defiled;
To be—'mid boundless grief's excess—
Napoleon still—and Nothingness!

CXCV.

But yet reserved for thee, appears
The task, to light all future years;
If thou wilt learn not Wisdom's part,
Her teacher 'gainst thy will thou art;
And others win from thee, her lore,
That costly and unfading store;
From thee, her loftiest truths they learn,
Still uttered—from thy funeral urn!
From thy despair—and from thy dust,
They glean these treasures of their trust!

CXCVI.

And those, whom thy imperious hate,
Would leave, o'erthrown and desolate;
Those patriots—that with hands of fire,
Wrung the bold heart, that braved their ire,
They, guarding well their rugged Land,
More with their bosom, than the brand,
But reaped from the outrage, planned and schemed,
A Good, thy mind, full little dreamed,
Those noble and exalted foes,
Thou gav'st them more, than thou could'st lose!

816

A Faith,—a Concord,—and a Pride,—
That might have slept,—till touched and tried;
A knowledge calm, and strong, and bright,
That Heavenly power shall guard the right;
All trust in Him, who reigns above,
On Earth all zeal, and truth, and love;
And Russia rose, a nobler Land,
At touch of thy transforming brand!
Her sons looked down on thee, and shook,
Thy soul with that stern, scornful look;
They well may pity one, so bowed—
Pity!—last insult to the Proud!
Thy dream was hopeless all, and vain,
To bend them to thy will, and chain!

CXCVII.

They could not fall!—for Faith must stand—
Heaven's blessing, cheered that noblest band!
They could not fail!—for Zeal must win—,
And doubt were fate—and fear were sin!
They strove, as Truth and Virtue strive,
They could not die!—for Love must live!
And this, the generous Patriots found—
Who saved their Land's own hallowed ground!

CXCVIII.

Still with them—and for ever fight,
All feelings of the loftiest might;

817

Still fast increasing in their strength,
Till they surpass themselves at length,
And new, bright glorious Wonders seem,
Which Fancy scarce, ere this might dream;

CXCIX.

All lofty feelings with them fought,
And miracles of conquest wrought;
All powers of Heart, and Soul, and Mind,
That left mere earthly strength behind!
That brought to that imposing strife,
Their deep o'erflowing flood of Life;—
An Armament of Gods, that seemed,
While Victory round them, flashed and streamed,
Immortal and supreme allies,
That seemed descended from the skies;
Battalia of the Holiest sent
To work on Earth his dread intent!
So glorified, they shone!—such light,
They shed around, so strong, so bright;
Who marvels they, the Victory gained,
And triumphed, and rejoiced, and reigned!

CC.

And thou the while, in thy despite,
Wert made a teacher of the right!
And thou that shunn'st fair Wisdom's way,
Lead'st others, to adore her sway;
No, never was such teacher yet—
Since first her lights in Heaven were set!

818

CCI.

Thou preachest,—with thy thunder tone,
Her precepts,—made more clearly known,
Thy hurricanes grow tongues to tell—
True life but dwells, in her calm well;
That but in her sweet paths may be,
The fulness of Felicity!

CCII.

Thy soul's dark fire,—(thy pain and curse!—)
Burnt this into the Universe!—
And thou hast written with the sword,
Her warnings, and her deathless word!

CCIII.

And Human Nature even shall be,
A new and nobler thing, through thee,
A nobler thing It yet shall prove,
And upwards mount, and onwards move;
Those lessons, Wisdom preached in vain,
Have branded been, on heart and brain;

CCIV.

Earth would not listen, would not look,
She turned from voice, and sign, and book;
The starred Philosophy might plead,
She would not hearken,—would not heed;

819

The truths to her cold ear addressed,
Died on the marble of her breast!

CCV.

And yet, that lesson must be learned,
Which long she mocked,—and late she spurned,
That which was told, and taught,—in vain,
The world's crushed heart, shall long retain!
In vain 'twas preached and proved,—but now,
'Tis graved and ground, through breast and brow;
Ploughed—scored—and stamped, into her core,
It there shall live for evermore;
Earth never shall forget, what so,
She learns in sore dismay and woe!
On thy bowed, blasted Soul, too!—there,
She read dark warnings of despair!

CCVI.

The world's great heart, was crushed and jarred,
With death-wounds deep, of sufferance scarred!
But many a noble fountain gushed,
From that strong heart, so bruised and crushed;

CCVII.

That, first was pierced,—'twas tortured first,
Then Thine, with awful anguish, burst;
Even Thine,—who wert the Author still,
Of her worst grief, and deadliest Ill!

820

CCVIII.

She looked at her own heart,—and thine,
And marked stern trace, and ghastly sign;
From thine,—to her own heart she turned,
And straight, her whole dread lesson learned!

CCIX.

If Earth was deaf and dull before,
She now shall hear and heed, the more;
If she, seemed slumbering through the Past,
She shall but wake the more, at last;

CCX.

She feels such crimson Fame as thine,
Must darkening droop, with swift decline;
She owns those things, are void and vain,
Which most could charm her,—most could chain;
She feels that she, too much and long,
Hath praised and hailed, Her Proud and Strong;
And blushes at the memories stern,
Which fast upon her Thought return;

CCXI.

She feels she loved to laud and bless,
The murderers of Her Happiness;
Loved still, all honours to accord,
All homage,—to the Conqueror's sword;
And shall she not, with contrite tears,
Raze the red records of those years?

821

To true, real Glory's merits wake,
And expiate, centuries of Mistake!

CCXII.

Let Genius,—Virtue,—Truth,—arise,
For Earth shall learn at length, to prize!
Let these, their mighty fronts uprear,
No blood-stained laurels, there, appear;
Now let them take their own high place,
All earth to gladden, and to grace;
Successors to that Phantom pale,
Driven down, her own fierce, sulphurous gale!
False Glory!—that could breathe and bring,
Such wrong—such wreck,—foul, fatal thing;
Deposed,—dishonoured,—and disgraced,
She flies a world, her touch defaced;

CCXIII.

The Desert, she hath left behind,
Shall brightening, blush, with flowers of mind;
And blossom, like the Rose, with hope,
That never more shall fade and droop:
Arise!—thou Soul of Truth and Love,—
'Tis thou, should'st rear thy front above!
While gory Conquest shrinks away,
And deigns to leave the sons of clay,
The light of Heaven,—a cloudless Day!

822

CCXIV.

Arise, then!—Justice,—Virtue,—Peace,—
May your pure reign, ne'er change or cease;
The immortal lesson hath been taught,
To heart and soul, and sense and thought;

CCXV.

Shall ever Man, be found so mad,
As in thy paths of flame to tread?
Thou Evil Genius of our world,
That withered,—in Thy Shadow furled;
Shall ever Earth endure again,
The forging of such fatal chain?

CCXVI.

Thanksgivings be to him who sent,
This message so magnificent;—
“Pride heaves Her mountains, to the skies,
That Good, by giant steps, may rise!
Hate, points her threatening towers above,
And there alights, the Watcher,—Love;
Still Evil laboureth, day and night,
To sow but seeds of Life and Light!”

CCXVII.

The man of evil ways and mood,
Shall stand not—and hath never stood;—

823

He shattereth Empires in his path,
In wild audacity of wrath!
Then, yet with rage of rapture flushed,
Falls—falls—beneath their ruins crushed;—
While they, shall yet from ruins rise,
But linked, with nobler harmonies!

CCXVIII.

Even from Thy Thunders, to rejoice,
All Earth,—came forth, that still, small voice,—
The Voice of Wisdom, Truth, and Love,
That Voice, which calls the soul above:
Those roaring thunders died away,
But Lo!—the still, small voice shall stay;

CCXIX.

The whirlwinds cease, the blessed word,
The whisper,—is distinctly heard;
And that shall stay—and that shall last—
While sinks and droops, the deafening blast!
When all the fearful sounds are hushed—
That still survives—nor can be crushed!

CCXX.

Earth!—Learn thine awful lesson well,
And this to all thine Ages tell,
To all thy generations new,
Tell out this lesson, deep and true,

824

CCXXI.

'Twas traced with gall,—'twas graved with steel,
'Twas roared through storm, and thunder-peal,
'Twas scored in blood—and stamped in flame—
And deeper ploughed, in dearth and shame;
'Twas blasted through an Earthquake-breath,—
'Twas scrolled on doom,—and sealed with death:
But yet, shall this shine forth sublime,—
And bless thee to remotest time!
Remotest Time?—its treasures be,
Designed for all Eternity;

CCXXII.

Pale Victory, hides her haughty head,
Where twine her bloody garlands red,
She cowers, 'midst mountains of the slain,
Ashamed of Slaughter's ghastly stain;
She names herself in this distress—
A Monster and a Murderess!

CCXXIII.

The first time this, she e'er perceived,
How foul a web, her labour weaved,—
The first time this, herself hath seen,
The darkness of her funeral mien;—
And Eagle Fame hath stooped to-day,
Forgetful of the flashing ray;—
Stooped down, from haughty place on high,
Pierced,—at the threshold of the sky!

825

CCXXIV.

Aye!—like a thunder-stricken thing,
It plumes no more, its rushing wing!
Ambition gazeth on her gain,
'Tis ashes—ashes,—void and vain!
And Pride,—o'ertaken with dismay,
Hath owned itself, but dust and clay!

CCXXV.

A mighty change hath sternly come,
To reign with strong, and fatal gloom;
For thee hath come,—fierce child of wrath!
To darken all thy dreadful path;
That Change, which like a boundless Cloud,
Doth all embrace—doth all enshroud,
Shall shadow every thought of thine,
Nor bid one star of promise shine;
Thus all, shall be the gloom of night,
Without one star, to touch with light!

CCXXVI.

A murderous change!—and thou must bear,
This tyranny of fresh Despair;
Feel melting from thy grasping hold,
That Earth,—thy plaything even, of old!
And see a Universe around,
Not to thy mortal footstool bound;

826

CCXXVII.

Go!—seek thy narrow Dungeon-Isle,
And learn thine own dark heart the while!
Go!—climb its rocks—and tread its sands,
Stretch forth thy sceptre-emptied hands,
And feel how well, the free, fresh air,
Can mock thy monarchizing there!
Can foil their grasp of power and pride,
And be, as ever,—free and wide!

CCXXVIII.

Still thankful feel, those hands no more,
Can bear fresh stains of steaming gore;
Mankind may pause, from strife and pain,
To 'plenish Nature's withering vein,
Which thou, in sooth, didst all but drain!
And brace with strength,—which hope supplies,
Their long-exhausted energies;

CCXXIX.

Gaze well, on proud Creation,—free,
From aught of thine,—from all of thee!
Sphere round thine angry eyes, and own,
'Tis fairer than thy thundering throne;
'Twere sad to mar (at last confess!)
Such harmony and happiness;
Cry loud, “The Man, no more enchains!—
The Maker-Monarch, smiles and reigns.”

827

CCXXX.

And Lo!—Behold!—what trace is left,
Of all, that thou hast seized and reft?
What sign of that dominion dread,
Which seemed so boundlessly to spread?
Whate'er on Man's scarred heart may be,
Nor Earth,—nor Heaven,—keep trace of thee!

CCXXXI.

And yet what shadows, vast and deep,
Far round thy steps, were wont to sweep,
What gloom, what dreariment, and wrath,
Frowned, lowering o'er thine earthquake path;
Gaze round thee!—gaze with long deep look,
On this broad page of Nature's book;
From Shore to Sea!—from Sea to Sky,
Now turn thy charmed and wondering eye;

CCXXXII.

Thou never dreamed'st how bright a world,
Thy phrenzy once, in darkness furled!
Thou knew'st not—till imprisoned there,
Even in that Isle,—so bleak and bare—
Thy grasp, was on a globe so fair!
(For Beauty dwells in every form,
Which Nature wears,—in calm or storm;)
Thou never dreamed'st, that grasp of thine,
Was laid on treasures so divine;
Nor guessed Creation had a charm,
Which might that iron grasp disarm!

828

CCXXXIII.

So loud, War thundered in thine ear,
Her melodies thou scarce might hear!
So flashed its dazzling pomps round thee,
Her loveliness thou scarce could'st see;
Nor hadst thou time, nor wish to view,
Her wonders—that are witcheries too!
NOW gaze on Heaven and Earth, and own,
They far surpass, thy costliest crown!

CCXXXIV.

Gaze round on Heaven, and Earth, and Sea,
Magnificently strong, and free!
And hail thy loss—and bless thy fall—
That spared Man, too, from yoke and thrall!

CCXXXV.

Admire Eternal Nature's mien,
Though wild and savage, be the scene,
For glory still—and deathless grace,
Must light all features of her face;
The glory of that breath divine—
Which bade her be—and blush, and shine!

CCXXXVI.

The sea around thee seems to rave,
As this, too, feared to be thy slave!

829

But thoughts, in mightier billows roll,
Against thy tempest-battled soul!
There sweeps the sea, that girds thee round,
With restlessness, that hath no bound!

CCXXXVII.

The sea of soul rolls dark and wild,—
For all her waters are defiled;
Still darker, wilder, seems to roll
The self-distracting Sea of Soul!
Her world of waves, no rest may know—
'Tis storm above—and storm below,—
By fierce Ambition, lashed to strife,—
Leviathan of all thy life!
Since that, seems maddened by Remorse,
And Failure—but to deadlier force;

CCXXXVIII.

That Soul is more, than thou canst bear,—
So heavy grown, with new Despair!
And what shall teach thy sovereign will,
To pause,—to suffer,—and be still?
And how canst thou, endure the weight,
Of such a Mind—and such a Fate?

CCXXXIX.

How brook that crushing load,—'twere vain,
To seek to heave from breast and brain?
How brave the strange and mingling gloom,
Of thy dark thoughts—and darkest doom?

830

Aye!—how the weight o'erwhelming bear,
Of such a Soul—and such Despair?

CCXL.

What giant wrecks, around thee frown,
Of schemes and hopes—once all thine own;
Like Skeletons of Worlds—that lie,
Exposed in crushed enormity;
Still in their ashes warm!—as they,
Might never wholly pass away;—
Thy children!—can they turn to clay?
Impregnated with thy grand thought,
And half by thee, to Being wrought?

CCXLI.

No!—No!—they cannot wholly die—
Yet this, were happier destiny;
Those Dreams,—like wrecked Creations, changed,
From light,—from harmony estranged,—
Must they on thine own soul fall back,
And leave all Ruin in their track?
Must they, even there, sink back, and lo!
Scorch, scathe, and crush it as they go?

CCXLII.

That Soul is more, than thou canst bear,
Weighed down with her Colossal Care,
Each memory, is a mountain laid,
Upon her struggling strength, o'erweighed;
Each feeling, hath the force of fate
To grasp and grind thee, long and late;

831

CCXLIII.

That soul so vast, thou canst not bear,
So vast!—with as immense Despair!
'Tis more than thou canst brook or brave,
Yet mocking Fate, denies a grave!

CXLIV.

No gleam of haughty hope shall stay,
The Illusion fast, shall fade away;
The Illusion, thou would'st worship still,
To mould the world unto thy will;
Like Lion roused, it spurns thy chain,
And shakes thy hand from off its mane;

CCXLV.

And thou, the First, the Last, shall seem,
Divorced from that Ambition's dream!
For thou,—the branded and accursed,
Still deemed'st thyself the Chief—the First;
Yea!—First thou might'st thyself believe,
And thus but bitterly deceive;
Thou little dreamed'st how low can be,
The heart,—a Slave to Destiny!
Thou little knew'st the ignoble state,
Of minds,—that are the sport of Fate;

CCXLVI.

Thou little know'st how weak thou art,
That bearest that bound,—that fettered heart!

832

Nor how degraded, dull, and blind,
Are they, whom the inner chains can bind,
Chains of that thralled, dependent Mind!
Thou dreamed'st not all the ruin wrought,
By rebel wish,—yet abject thought!
When those who fain would rule o'er all,
Yet fear a breath, may work their fall;
A change,—a chance,—may yet o'ercome,
And give them to a hopeless doom;
While smiles within, no refuge fair,
Nor hold,—nor shelter,—from Despair;

CCXLVII.

Is Power then thine?—No!—Thou art Power's!—
She ruffles all thy restless hours!
And Hers thou must be,—Hers thou art,
Her sceptered hand is on thy heart;
Dost Thou claim Empire's sway?—Ah! no!—
'Tis Empire thralls, and rules thee so;
No choice of thine is free,—no will,
Thou'rt Fortune's veriest minion still;
'Tis Hers to sentence, and to sway,
'Tis thine to tremble,—and obey!

CCXLVIII.

But yet thy proud and daring mind,
These harsh and heavy truths shall find;
Thy ruined soul, shall surely feel
That dread conviction,—sharp as steel;
When Empire ebbs, and Fortune fails,
And Vengeance, triumphing, assails;

833

When Victory vanishes away,
With proud Success, and purple Sway;
And Glory's thunders, cease to roll,
And thou hast left thee, but—that Soul!

CCXLIX.

And what a Desert!—what a Waste!—
Where all seems darkened,—all displaced!—
Where aims confused, and wills perplexed,
Are mixed with passions, torn and vexed;
And every element is tossed,
Into a chaos—worse than lost!
While there, dread thoughts, stretched wide and far,
Like half-creations,—chafe and jar;
Thoughts,—that if wisely ruled, should be,
The seeds of Worlds,—all harmony;
The seeds and springs, of worlds supreme,
The Real, deepening from each dream;
Still growing more and more sublime,
Beyond the petty reign of time;

CCL.

Sink back into thy Soul, and know,
How little all is there,—and low!
Since what may wear so mean a guise,
As that which can,—but will not rise!
What bear so foul and dire a stain
As that, which might—and dare not reign!
Or what so abject, shall be found
As that Immense,—which seeks a bound?

834

Though, true, thy soul is strong and vast,
It seems the lowest, least, and last!

CCLI.

'Twere shame, the Boundlessness of Space,
Should clasp but motes in its embrace!
No mighty Worlds—no Globes immense,
To crown it with magnificence;
No Systems proud—no glorious Spheres,
To light it through eternal years;—
But all that seems most vain, most vile,
To mock, and wrong it, and defile;
'Twere shame, indeed, if thus could be,
Made void, its dread Immensity!
Its wond'rous, and o'erwhelming scene,
Thus fraught, but with the base and mean!

CCLII.

An Universe,—with nought of grand,
Within its large circumference planned!
With nought of excellent and great,
To swell its pride of fruitless state;
An Infinite,—of petty things!—
Where no transcendant triumph springs;
No marshalled Orbs,—no Thrones of might—
No Galaxies—that stream with light,—
No thronged Creations,—broad and fair,
No Majesties of Mystery there;
Nor stars—nor earths—nor pomps august,
Of countless Suns!—nought—nought but dust!

835

And thus with thee!—Oh, Blight!—Oh, Shame!—
Oh!—mockery of the mighty Fame!
The outstretching thought,—the glorious mind,—
'Tis but with veriest shadows lined;
The unmeasured,—the profound, and vast,
Is but a wilderness—a waste!

CCLIII.

And boundless is that soul, in vain,
If but the trivial, it contain!
In vain, that Soul,—spreads, wide as Space,
If but the worthless it embrace;
Yes!—all is little there, and low,
Where Vastness, proves but empty show,
No meaning deep, no method high,
To suit its sovereign dignity;
While Darkness shrouds, with shadowing wings,
That Boundlessness,—of trivial things!
All—all—is low and little there,
Where nought its own vast scope, would share,
Where nought, with answering worth, would fill,
'Tis vain—'tis but a vacuum still!

CCLIV.

And this, can but arouse our scorn,
Thus weak and poor, thus lost and lorn!
This Soul,—with nought of Grand, endued,
Throughout Her Grand Infinitude!
Despite those dreams, that seemed so proud,
Till adverse fortunes, checked and bowed;

836

That seemed so marvellous, and great,
Till withered, by the blast of Fate;
Oh!—boundless is that Soul in vain,
If but the futile, it coutain;

CCLV.

Yet this, is all that shall be left,
To thee,—unutterably bereft;
That soul, must be thine only sphere,—
The only Empire left thee here!

CCLVI.

While thus for thee—no power—no sway,—
May there re-light thy darkened day!
No bright dominion there, shall bless,
With vast and growing happiness,
(Hast thou not blackened all within,
With fierce impiety and Sin?)

CCLVII.

No kingdoms of the Spirit Land,
Shall, smiling, start at thy command;
But thoughts,—thy torturing tyrants still,
Shall madden thee, with endless Ill;
Thy Tyrants all, and Sovereigns these,
Shall leave nor rest, nor peace, nor ease;
And thine, shall thus be no controul,
Even in thine own unbounded Soul

837

CCLVIII.

Those thoughts, all turned to torments so,
Shall waste thee, with a storm of woe;
And like a weight of Worlds, shall lie,
On thy crushed Spirit's agony;
Each asks an Empire,—and in vain,—
They rage for power,—they reap but pain;

CCLIX.

Yet, what a sphere,—and what a scene,
That glorious Spirit, might have been!
Oh!—what a sun-enlightened space,
Where more than Worlds, should run their race!
Tremendous Being!—still arise!—
Still give that Spirit to the skies!

CCLX.

Up!—disappoint the Fiends that wait,
To stamp thee, with Eternal Fate!
The Mountain of thy Mind hath gone,
Before thee!—Follow!—follow on!
Unknowing where 'twould reach, or tend,
It soared and spread, with all to blend;
Without a bright and settled aim,
It reared its dread Titanic Frame;
It heaved its awful pride on high,
Yet but to clash with yonder sky!
Faith!—Love,—must spread their hallowed wings,
To reach the hidden, heavenly springs.

838

CCLXI.

The Mountain Thoughts—the Mighty Dreams,
Half way might meet, the Day's young beams,
Yet but conspicuously, to fail,
Nor pierce the deep eternal veil:
Haste!—let the heart,—love-touched, even now,
Its mightier powers and strength, but shew,
And 't will surpass them, as it flies,
'Twill smile upon them,—from the skies!

CCLXII.

Should that, remain still at the base,
Of Heights of Thought, which towered through space?
Should that be thus content to stay,
(While worlds smile round it!—) in the clay?
And dwell,—from countless triumphs thrust,
In their great Shadow,—in the dust?

CCLXIII.

Mind,—Genius,—Thought,—have soared in pride,
Now send the Spirit far and wide;
The Eternal Spirit—that shall stay—
When all besides is passed away;
That yet must last—that yet shall live,
And all resign—or all receive!

CCLXIV.

Let now the heart of faith and love,
Straight, bear thee far, all heights above;

839

Forget those fond chimeras vain,
That fevered through thy restless brain,
And waken to the wider sense,
Of all the Exalted and Immense;
The might of even Thy Name of old,
Must fade, in what shall now unfold.
Let Faith the Meek, and Love the True,
Make all thy stormy nature, new!

CCLXV.

The dust—the worm—demand aloud,—
Their part and portion, in the Proud;
Deny them, and defy them, now,
Wake yet the World's new wonder, Thou!
So long that hath her wonder been,
Trampler and Thunderer of the Scene;
And all the pride of thy past state,
Shall fade, in what thou may'st create!
Go learn to make thy fate,—and fall,
Sublimest of thy fortunes all!

CCLXVI.

Thou'st governed Earth, with strife and wrath,
Loud thundering, o'er her shadowed path;
More glorious government be thine,
Even in thy wane, and thy decline;
She yet may hail thee, with remorse,
Of Admiration's mightiest force;

840

Such Admiration, she may prove,
As yet, may deepening turn,—to Love!

CCLXVII.

If thou would'st wisely gain and win,
Thy triumphs now, may well begin;
And let that loftiest triumph's light,
Make all the past, like gloom and night;—
Shine to thyself!—and be a Sun;—
A Sun indeed—a matchless One!

CCLXVIII.

Put on thee, all thy noblest strength,
Now live, thy whole vast life, at length;
Come, towering to thine own great height,
Rise regally to thy true might;
Thy greatest self, at length display,
And blaze into thy perfect day,
Smile back Defeat—appal Dismay!
Thou'st yet but known the least, last part,
Of glorious mind,—and awful heart;
Teach Suffering all thine own deep will,
And let thy soul, be Sovereign still!

CCLXIX.

The Sovereign of those Kings of Earth,
Who with her might and strength, make mirth;—
(All realms of Powers, that haughtiest are,
Their dread dominion passes far;)

841

Regret, and Terror, and Distress,
And Pain, and Wrong, and Bitterness;

CCLXX.

Be Lord above these fearful Lords,
And pierce them with thy thoughts, like swords,
So let them tremble—let them prove,
Whate'er thou will'st—and melt and move!—
Reign!—Reign!—and stretch thy wond'rous power,
Beyond the petty day and hour;

CCLXXI.

Let the pale Anguish, paler grow,
When she would dare, to work thy woe,
Let the wild Terror, cower and fly
From thy august audacity!
Let Shame, that fain would bend thy head,
Blush, deep,—blush glowing, rosy red;
And let thine iron Destiny,
Be tempered,—and be taught by thee;

CCLXXII.

Take thy vast Fate within thine hand,
And bend it to thy great command!
And mould,—and make it, to thy mind,
And with thine own strong fetters bind;
Uprear the uncrowned,—the soul-crowned brow,
Shew Earth, her new Napoleon,—now!
Yes!—rule in abdicating more,
Than ever thou hast ruled before!

842

CCLXXIII.

Thus,—rise in falling!—leave behind,
Indeed, the world thou hast resigned!
With Admiration, breathless grown,
Till more than ever, made thine own;
(Yes, more than ever Thine,—though not
For thee, be left, one subject spot!)
Her mighty heart, to thee subdued,
In that admiring servitude;

CCLXXIV.

Let Conquest—fierce as comet wild,
Be turned to glory, firm and mild;
Now put on Laurels—pale Defeat,—
For once, let Victory, kiss thy feet!
His soul hath lent such light to thee,
As fires thee, but too dazzlingly;
His soul,—that never dreamed before,
What semblance, mild Submission wore;

CCLXXV.

Vain thought!—the Conqueror falls, to shew,
Man's greatness, is a dream below!
That meek Humility alone,
Can reach the threshold of the throne;
He falls, for ever falling on,—
Yet more and more disgraced—undone!

843

CCLXXVI.

Since when the soul falls once, then,—then,
It falls again,—and yet again;
No lowest and no last, there is,
For her depressed immensities;
She falls,—as she would rise, in sooth,
For ever, if her trust was truth!

CCLXXVII.

And this, Earth yet shall see and know,
And reap her wisdom, from his woe,
All Woe!—Yes!—still all woe was thine,
From thy wild dawn,—to thy decline;
Ambition brought to thee, no bliss,
Thou never staid'st to taste of this;—
Thou could'st not pause upon thy path,
To snatch the dark delights of wrath;
While on, and onwards, rushing fast,
Thy gain was still left—with the Past!

CCLXXVIII.

And thus, but torturing Strife was thine,
From thy fierce dawn,—to thy decline,
Proud miser of Success!—who still,
But sought thy greedy hands to fill;
Nor e'er enjoyed, or used the store,
Thou would'st but hoard up,—more and more;

844

CCLXXIX.

To him, a fearful task belonged,
Himself, avenged the World he wronged;
Even on Himself, avenged it well,
And, groaned with griefs, no tongue shall tell;
True!—Earth, strange things shall learn, and know,
And reap her wisdom from his woe!
While still unchanged Her Seasons move
In Harmony, that springs from Love!

CCLXXX.

While still the stars, above Her shine,
To draw Her thoughts, to things divine;
Whose light, like Heaven's own life and soul,
Makes all hearts bless them, as they roll,
(We bless them—as they burn and glow,
On fire with Godhead, as they go!
Like Heavens in Heaven, they smile,—so bright,
Beams their beatitude of Light!)

CCLXXXI.

Thy lesson lives, though thou art gone,
Napoleon!—lost Napoleon!—
Forgetfulness shall never fling
Round that, her cold and shadowy wing,
In human strength was all thy trust,
And thy dominion was,—the dust!

845

Thy hope, was in thine armed array,
The worm soon claimed a wider sway!

CCLXXXII.

Of powers misused, and gifts defiled,
How speaks thy proud career, and wild,
And still we pause, and pondering think,
Hast thou but soared such heights,—to sink?—
More grand results were sure, designed,
When Nature teemed, with such a Mind!
How must thou oft have crushed,—o'erthrown,—
Sublime emotions of thine own!
(Emotions, that if not suppressed,
Had brightly changed, thy stormy breast;)

CCLXXXIII.

How must thou oft, when Feelings high,
Sought—with fine instinct sought,—the sky,
To mingle with its majesty,
Have done them violence abhorred,
And stunned them, with thy tempest-word;
How torn them, from thy living soul,
With strange and terrible controul;
How strangled, in their glorious birth,
Great Thoughts,—that rose like suns o'er earth!

CCLXXXIV.

Illustrious thoughts!—that yet might well,
Have challenged even, The Impossible!

846

Enriched the Universe!—and given
Another Light to yon bright heaven!
And what was thy dark choice and will?
To make them Ministers of Ill!
Their Transit, through the arch of Time,
Was veiled with wrong,—and stained with crime;

CLXXXV.

Would'st Thou have Uncreator been,
Of this fair world's triumphant scene!
Thou didst so desolate and blight,
And cloud her loveliness and light!
Her Hopes—Her Harmonies, destroy,
And trample, her last sparks of joy!
As though Her Happiness must be,
An outrage and a scourge to thee;
(Earth praised thee, through her pale distress,
Served,—feared,—obeyed,—now let her Bless!
Yea! thus Thyself, surpass,—exceed,
None,—none, but thee, could do such deed;)
Would'st crush all worlds, to build Thy Throne?
Napoleon!—Napoleon!—

CCLXXXVI.

Would'st thou have ruined all around,
And Nature's starry zone unbound?
Unmaker,—would'st thou fain have proved?—
And Earth from her foundations moved?

847

Unmaker!—in thy dark unrest,
Of that vast good, Heaven saw and blessed!
The Good,—the Beauty,—and the Love,
Fresh breathed, and blessed, from Him above!
'Twas but thyself, that was undone,
Napoleon!—Napoleon!—

THE END.

849

SONNET.

[Dearest!—and ever Dearest!—all for thee]

Dearest!—and ever Dearest!—all for thee,
Whate'er I think, write, hope, or seek, or dream,
From lightest phantasy, to loftiest scheme!—
To thee, these pages all inscribed shall be,
Thine is my heart's deep immortality;
All things to me, but as thy shadows seem,—
For thou'rt the substance, source, and sea, and stream
Thy thought, shuts out the Universe for me;
But then, that thought, a Universe appears,
Enough for me!—though I have scorned at Space,
And asked fresh wonders from the dazzling spheres,
The while my dreams, shot past in fiery race,
Their long Eternities like mortal years!
Enough!—Enough!—that thought, through Life— and Death to trace!—

850

STANZAS WRITTEN ON FINISHING THE MAIDEN OF MOSCOW.

1

Fare thee well!—My long task,—deep and dear!—
And farewell to Hope's flutter and strife;
Ah!—with scarce such a pang—such a tear,
Should I utter,—Farewell to thee, Life!

2

But the sentence, I feel, hath been said,
Heavy hours, like the happiest, shall fly,
Joy!—when tasks and when trials are sped,
Then our business can be but—to die!

3

There are leaves, that go fluttering around,
Where the canker eats deep in its wrath;
Where we trace not the waste, and the wound,
Breaking hearts,—full of death,—line our path!

851

4

But the World smileth on, still the same,
That white sepulchre,—crowning the dust,
And forgets their faint vanishing name,
Who once placed, in her shadows, their trust!

5

Heaven!—how many, like me, sadly turn,
From some long-studied lesson, complete;
Still to learn how to suffer and mourn,
While past watching and work, seem but sweet!

6

Many turn to their rest, yet once more,
To find rest,—is denied them below;
And but cease from long labours and sore,
To find leisure, to labour in Woe!

7

Yet few know, in how bitter a mood,
Was this task, planned and fashioned by me;
Few!—if One, hath indeed understood,—
Shall that One blame, where failure may be?

8

Few,—few know, in how hopeless a mood,
Was this task undertaken and wrought,
If the One, hath but well understood,
For each fault,—there, shall favour be sought!—

852

9

Where such failure and fault may be found,
Let that One to indulgence incline,
And—though Grief—though neglect, gird me round,
All the fame that I yearn for—is mine!

10

Let Thy Thought judge me gently, and spare,
Where the heart-wound, too clearly is shewn,
All the guerdon I pine for, is there,
All the glory I ask, is mine own!

11

Oft, while seeking, to chain down my mind,
To that subject, I marked for my theme,
How my Fancy reeled, dizzy and blind,
How my Life, melted off in a dream;

12

Saddened thoughts, that would stay not on Earth,
Soared away, from my soul evermore;
But to leave it, in silence and dearth,
While the pain still, struck home, to the core!

13

Could we track those high thoughts,—it were well,
But we send them before us, too fast,
While ourselves seem contented to dwell,
On this hateful Earth's, desolate waste;

853

14

No!—the Pain, and the Pang left me not,
No!—they soared not away from my soul,
Not one grief that I felt,—I forgot,
And each part, was as harsh as the whole!

15

Oft, like bright shattered mirrors, too, seemed,
Those thick fancies, that thronged through my mind!
With such thousand-fold visions they teemed!
Though so shivered—such splendours still lined!

16

And no fragment reflected,—not one,—
The fixed subject, and theme of my toil!
'Twas in vain, still I struggled to shun,
And more broke,—more to spread them, the while.

17

Though scarce conscious,—again and again,
Still I murmured those words, I would write;
But how fruitless, the strife of the brain,
When the deep heart rebels in its might;—

18

Persevering,—I taught me, and traced,
Words—that roused not the lost absent thought,
Part by part, all my trial I faced,
Inch by inch, with my torture I fought!

854

19

I repeated those words at my will,
Which the deaf thought, could ill comprehend,
And in me, was no strength and no skill,
Yet the heart-ache,—and heart-break, shall end!

20

Was that struggle, as hopeless as hard?
As 'twas painful,—was't profitless, too?—
Shall I reap not the one wished reward?
That dear praise,—which alone I pursue!

21

Fare thee well!—my sad task!—deep and dear,
(Now, no more need I seek,—need I shun;)
Commenced, 'mid such faintness and fear,—
And concluded,—Enough!—It is done!

22

Oh! Happiness!—where is thy home?—
Where—where dost thou linger and dwell?—
Stars and Seraphs sing,—“This side the tomb,”
Dear, impossible Blessing!—“Farewell!”

23

Hence!—no more!—Oh!—no more!—never more,
Come in shadow, or seeming near me;
I might dream, thou wert clasped to the core,
And but wake to find Grief,—and not thee!

855

24

Never more!—Never more!—Oh!—No more!—
Come, in feeling, or fancy, near me!
I might dream that I won thee,—and wore,
And I know, 'twould be Grief,—and not Thee!

25

Did I think I could seize thee, when borne,
On the whirlwinds of Passion and Pride?
All my spirit, on fire with its scorn,
All my heart,—like a storm-troubled tide!

26

I believed thou wert found but in Fame;
How I yearned then, to shine and surpass;
Had I built me that nothing,—a name,—
Should I thus have atchieved thee?—Alas!

27

Oh!—Happiness!—Heavens!—were I thine;
What a Sun, thou should'st make of my soul!
All this wild, fervent spirit of mine,
Seems but born for thy burning controul!

28

Then—these strange, deeep o'erflowings of Life,—
(From excess,—keen as Death!)—were divine!
And what rapture should burst frrm their strife,
Oh! Happiness!—could I be thine!

856

29

Wert thou lighted, but once, in this heart,
Which no time, and no torture, can quell,—
High as Heaven, should thy fire mount and dart,
But,—impossible Blessing!—Farewell!