University of Virginia Library

I.

How like a lonely, fluctuating light,
On a black, stormy ocean, (seen, not heard,
In awful distance,) is the struggling moon
Amid her clouds, the billows of the sky!
On earth there is no light, there is in heaven
No splendor, all is dark sublimity.
Hell, envious, turns from earth's black horror, pale;
But not because the clouds are met on high,
A sable conclave, as of spirits damn'd,
Shading the gloom with their immensity.
Night! shall day don his golden diadem,
And laugh at weeping worlds? Lo, earth is mov'd,
With all her dynasties! o'er kings and thrones
The wheels of ruin pass; and—while they pass—
The torn worm writhes unseen, but not unpain'd.
Is Man the pupil of chastising heaven?
Is Sorrow discipline? Slowly, alas,
Water'd with blood, his sad amendment grows!
Turn from the lone grave of the broken heart,
Oh, Night, in tears! and bid thy storms arise!
Wake every whirlwind! hurtle o'er the deep,
And dash his gloomy billows into light!
What is thy voice, o'er storm-distracted seas,
And shrieking shipwreck? What thy howling rock,
Thy moonlight strand, with masts and corses strewn,
Compar'd with Battle's voice of myriad woes,
When Man, the gambling insect, plays at death;
And such a cry, as that of Waterloo,
Tells the aw'd nations that the game of kings
Is lost and won, and that their thousands were?
Look on the splendid and applauded form
Of glorious War, arraying realms in blood!
Look at pale Empire in his winding sheet!
Today a nation, and tomorrow dust!
The city chang'd into a sepulchre,
As by the stroke of some demoniac wand!

II.

Look—if thou dar'st—on Moscow's boundless blaze!
Oh, what a canopy that city hath!
Whose eye shall measure it? a canopy
Of fiery darkness! How the deluge roars!
Who hath heard sounds like these? From street to street,
O'er palace, dome, and tower, the thundering fire
Rolls like a chaos! And, as if awak'd
From direst dreams to worse reality,
Bare wretches crawl, each from his hiding place,
Like reptiles from their holes, when forests burn.
It is a dreadful, beauteous sight, this vast
Illumination! while the golden roof,
Like willing Beauty in the spoiler's arms,
On conflagration smiles! Amid sublime
Savannas, thus, supreme Magnolia, towers
Thy state imperial! and while clouds on clouds
Rush, by the lightnings harrow'd momently,
Lovely amid them laugh thy crimson cones.
Red runs the river in terrific light,
And giant shadows fluctuate on the waves,
The forms of rushing towers, and shapes that frown
And pass away. Walls fall, and rafters crash;—
Thick smoulder there the grisly carcases,
Black in the brightness. Night! how grimly stare,
On this strange noon, the dying and the dead!
When did thine eye see sights like these? And ne'er,
Save once again, shalt thou behold a scene
Dreadful as this! when Wrath's consuming torch,
The comet of Earth's doom, shall flood with fire
The mountain tops, and all things in one blaze
Shall perish, one wild blaze, that shall cast gloom
On boundless darkness, while the silent stars
Look on their sister, and turn pale. What looks
Of desperate, hopeless misery! Behold
That little group! it is a family.
The hoary grandsire first, bow-bent with years,
Comes, leading by the hand a little boy:
Timidly looks that little boy around:
‘Is not this fire a pretty sight?’ the child
Looks, and is sad, a child without a smile!
His elder sister, next, comes weeping forth,
Yet bearing, cherish'd on her breast, a bird!
The mother last! an infant in her arms,
At the flames pointing with its tiny hand,
The sunbeam of the storm! Their father sleeps
At Borodino. Whither shall they go?
When all are homeless, where shall they abide?
Beauty hath left the widow's sweet cheek waste,
And sickness fades an early lily there.
Better is he who sleeps, no more to wake,
Than he who wakes to woes and fears like her's!
Hark! how the soldier shouts where plunder calls,
And Force drags shrieking woman by the hair!
Where are the fiends?—it cannot be that men
Are the sole demons here! What eye is that
Which, thro' this horror, looks so calm and still,
Beneath a brow of thought? Thou who didst dip
A torch in hell, to wave it here! hast thou
A look of mildness? Man of Corsica,
It is not burning Moscow, it is thou
Whose destiny is more than terrible!
Immortal Envy hails it, and becomes
Half-humaniz'd, undemon'd by thy fall!

III.

As, on the peaks that island gloomily
A gloomy ocean of tumultuous clouds,
The giant Condor, iron-wing'd, supreme
In courage, from the lightning-blasted crag
Andean, grimly looks, and meditates
To wing the night, watch'd by the stars unveil'd,
The Tempest's path beneath his flight; so look'd
Napoleon on that all-devouring storm,
Perturb'd, but not dismay'd. He bade pale Awe
Wait on Reflection. 'Twas a dreadful scene!
And Retribution's fire-glance seem'd to flash
Above, around him, nearer, and more near!
He turn'd away, with troubled step, and sought
The couch of sleep. And could the tyrant sleep?
He, sternly tranquil, slept. But soon, in dreams,
Demons of fire pursu'd him; and a black,
Gigantic hand wrote on the flamy gloom,
‘Force is thy law, thy lord that shall be, Force:
‘Thy kingdom is departed from thee.’ Shrank
His soul from that inscription, to confront
(More dreadful still,) a benefactor wrong'd.
Stalwart she came; the spear was in her hand,
The red cap on her brow. A bitter smile,
(Despair, it was not thine!) a laughing frown,
Like foam upon the billow, brake athwart
Her gloomy features: back she drew, and spake:
‘What! Supercilious?—Tyrant!—Am I then
‘So soon forgotten? My hand rais'd thee: thou
‘Forget'st that, too. And thou no longer know'st
‘Her of Thermopylæ? Well. Ruin comes!
‘I did not send it: he who stabs himself
‘Needs not a foe. Hadst thou been true to me,
‘Tho' thou hadst fall'n, thou hadst not fall'n accurs'd,
‘But mourn'd by millions. Hadst thou not been false,
‘What could have mov'd thee? Not the world in arms.
‘Maniac-of Fortune! doth my speech offend?
‘Nay, then 'twas well to sell thyself, and France,
‘And Freedom, for—a shadow! Frown'st thou, Wretch,
‘On me, thine only friend? What is to me
‘The tyrant's frown? but e'en thy flatterers now
‘Will not fear thine.—Ha! fetters? and for me?
‘Right. Never tyrant fell as thou shalt fall;
‘And chains shall bid thee think of me—too late!’
The despot's rage choak'd his reply; but she
Who fears it not, was gone. A lovelier form,
With wilder'd step, and wither'd cheek, approach'd:
The wreath of vine-leaves on her brow was pale:
He knew her well, and dear to him was she,
If ought was dear; yet was their meeting sad:
‘Why, my adopted son!’ the matron cried,
‘Why didst thou slight me? why destroy my hopes?
‘Did I not love thee?—Oh, that thou hadst known
‘Me, or thyself! then, in thy single name,
‘The noblest two on memory's tablets graven,
‘Would have been join'd! his, of the seven hills,
‘The mightiest Julius, who could brook no peer;
‘And his, who dug beyond the western waves
‘The grave of Tyranny. And hast thou given
‘A fame unequall'd for a vulgar fame?
‘Earth ever teem'd with war-illustrious names,
‘Written with curses on the records sad
‘Of falling Empire! scourges of mankind!
‘Imperial spectres! o'er the surge of blood
‘Momently rising, but to shriek and sink!—
‘And art thou such as they? And thou hast join'd
‘The common herd, whose execrated deeds
‘Adorn not, but pollute, th' historic page!
‘Thou shouldst have been the prodigy of time;
‘Not—what thou would'st be, what thou art!—the slave
‘Of thy derided foes, their toy, their sport,
‘No more their terror! and—perchance—their scorn!’
She said, she paus'd, and long in silence wept.
So bends the patriot o'er the bust of Fox,
Whose heart was kindness; mournfully he reads
The features stamp'd with thought; fast-flowing tears
Bedew the cold, unconscious monument;
Fondly he calls him, ‘Friend of human kind!’
And, ‘Why, oh, prophet unbeliev'd!’ he cries,
‘Loveliest of mighty minds! why art thou dust,
‘While Folly lives, to laugh at tears like these?’
It was no heartless kiss that press'd his cheek;
He felt her warm tears there; but where was she?
Gone in despair. His iron soul was mov'd.
Beauteous as light, then came a queenly form:
He sprang to clasp it, but it sigh'd, and fled:
‘Wretch! throneless, thou art widow'd!’ He, too, wept:
And, o'er the desert of his horrid march,
His spirit, all perturb'd, seem'd to pursue
That flying spectre—Was it here? 'Tis gone.
Lo! at his feet, amid that plain of woe,
A giant corse was stretch'd, beneath the shroud
Of snowy vastness cold! He stood, he gaz'd
Intensely still. He hop'd there yet was life!
Why hop'd he so? what was the dead to him?
But marble lies not heavier on the earth;
There was no motion, nought but Death was there.
Oh, might he see the features! and he stoop'd,
With dreadful eagerness, to raise the shroud;—
It was a dire presentiment!—he paus'd—
He trembled—fearful, yet resolv'd, he paus'd—
And, with retracted form, still gazing, stood,
Fix'd. He put back his hand; he lifted up
The veil of ghastliness; and saw—himself.
‘All-blasted, and for ever!’ in a voice
That faulter'd with its fervor, he exclaim'd.
More visions? spectral Night! more terrors, yet?
Behold!—a rock in ocean! and a king,
Once lord of kings, lay on the summit chain'd;
Smiling no more on monarchs at his feet.
Earth's spectre erst was his—now! not that rock,
But the stone mattrass which his limbs embrac'd,
Was all his empire!—‘Art thou come to this?’—
The billows were around him, and the winds
Dash'd their insulting homage on his rock;
And Night was o'er the waters, with her blue
Pure, lucid, lovely, as an infant's eye;
Aye, and the stars—they, too, shall fall from heav'n!—
Beheld his fate, and trembled. And the moon
Serene and splendid, look'd upon him, mute,
While rav'd below the storm without a cloud;
But her wild image, on the howling surge
All-shatter'd, was the image of his soul.
He started up, awake.—He was alone
Within the Kremlin.—On his eye the flames
Of Moscow flash'd! he heard the roar of flames!
Fire was around him! Fire pursu'd him! Fire
Was in his heart!—and Winter, too, was there!

IV.

Turn from his blasted eyeballs, shuddering Night,
To Borodino's sleep.—How long since, here,
That well-contested game of death was play'd?
The winner lost!—not here,—and yet he lost.
Two hostile nations rest together here,
How peacefully! Even where they fell, they lie,
Heaven their sole covering, and their monument!
Ye myriad spectres of unburied Death!
I look upon a picture, black and vast,
Painted by Horror, with the direst hues
Of gloomy Hell! a finish'd masterpiece!
And yet, oh, Night, one thing is wanting here:
Shorn of his beams, Ambition should be here,
A blank spectator, a reluctant one,
And made to feel, in his own wretchedness,
The miseries and the littleness of Man.
Alas, this midnight vision doth not want
Spectators! They who fought and triumph'd here,
Behold it, silent as the shroudless dead,
With haggard eyes, and cheek bones famine-gnaw'd.
While the moon struggles with unmoving clouds.
Formless, and vast, and wild, the battle-steed
Stops, and lifts cautiously his feet, and fears
To touch the festering dead, and bends his neck,
And smells with horrid instinct, startingly.
Night! here is Life, more fearful far than Death!
A living crowd, without a sound of Life,
Gazing on Death without a sepulchre!
Pensive, they hear their undulating plumes
Swept by the wind. Cold, on the musket-stock
Trembles the hand that never shook in fight.
The faded form of Valor bends in tears,
Leans on his useless and degraded sword,
Indignant of his hideous destiny,
And shudders and despairs. What! hast thou not
Arms, and an enemy? Aye, but thy foe
Leagues with the rigor of the elements;
And, Valor! thou didst fight and triumph here,
To buy with blood a fate that hath no name.

V.

What flying shadows blacken o'er the snows?—
Start not, oh, Night!—What are these horrible
Shapes? Are they human? were they ever such?
Soon will they be—but, first, what have they been?
They are—they were—the ehivalry of France!
With fainting hope, they urge their weary way
To yon dark spots that speck th' horizon's verge.
What hope they there to find? Rest, food, and fire.
And what are those dark spots? They are—they were—
Smolensko!—Spoilers! what is there to spoil?
Pass onward, onward! to your graves? Pass on!
But ye shall have no graves!—And they pass'd on;
All who yet liv'd pass'd on.—But who shall count
The wretches, foodless, strengthless, garmentless,
Who halted at the icy inn of Death?

VI.

Say, Night, is this enchantment? Crystal woods
Laugh, in their brightness, on terrific forms
That tend enormous fires! And weeping trees,
The willow's saddest bough, the long-hair'd birch,
And larch snow-plum'd, reflecting vivid hues,
Droop, and from all their melting icicles
Scatter, as if in mockery, a shower
Of diamonds on the ample shroud below.
Many the sleepers here who shall not wake!
Are these the men whose shout turn'd Europe pale?
Some, sitting, sleep upon their knees; some rise
Chill'd, to dissolve an icicle, and drink,
Or feed on horse-flesh, precious morsel! priz'd
Above the ruby. Some around the fires
Stand motionless, or wander phantom-like,
Or, gazing on the dead, drop down and die.
Scorch'd, darkly pale, half naked, smear'd with blood,
What grisly Terror feeds on yonder corse?
Lo! maniac Famine gnaws his limbs, and laughs!
Lo! direr Madness, with tremendous smile,
Plunges into the fire his frosted feet,
Then, yelling, leaps at once amidst the flames
That hunger for him, and in horrible
Convulsions dies; soon, like a shrivell'd scroll,
Or cloud that melts in thunder, vanishing!
With such forms Superstition peoples hell!
Can that be Life which, seated on the dead
And dying, at the half-extinguish'd fire,
In haggard silence, stares? Haste to expire,
In mercy haste, ye flames! that dire Delay
May give (too long withheld!) the boon of death,
And lay them, by their stools of horror, stiff.
Why start ye, wretches?—oh, your miseries
Would call compassion to a demon's eye!—
Why start ye? can Flight save, or Darkness hide,
Or ought defend the God-abandon'd? No.
But wherefore did ye start? Devoted men!
The voice ye heard was but the carrion crow's—
Look up! that darkness is a cloud of wings.
Why start ye? 'twas the dog of famine's howl;
The vampire's maw expects ye! Well ye know,
The goul of Night hath hunger'd for ye long!
Still fear ye Death? Preposterous maniacs! why?
He would, and will release you: fear'd, or scorn'd,
He is at hand: these tell of his approach,
These shaggy monsters! houseless, masterless,
Gaunt, hide-bound skeletons, with bared teeth,
Impatient for their prey, they prowl around
The spectral fires. Hideous avengers! first
They fright their blasted victims, then devour.
E'en on the motionless, yet living wretch,
In his last pangs, they sieze; or, yelling, drag
The unseen corse from its concealing snow,
Tear out the frozen eyes, and, hung'ring still,
O'er fleshless bones—grim ghosts of Moscow!—growl.
Infernal scene! more dreadful than the voice
Of Berisina, when her crashing bridge,
Beneath the weight of thousands agoniz'd,
Fell.—What a shriek was there! and all was hush'd!
Men, women, children, in the whelming wave
Sank, all appall'd, all struggling, all at once!
The river's womb, pregnant with dying life,
Quiver'd in agitation horrible:
The pang was brief, but fatal!—It is past!

VII.

How terrible this sudden silence is,
This dead sublimity of loneliness!
Even the boom of far artillery
No longer, o'er the sounding forest, moans,
And dies away. His town-destroying brand
Destruction o'er th' horizon waves no more,
Casting o'er boundless snows the glare of hell.
Cold, cold is Night! yet, oh, how beautiful!
There is not on heaven's shoreless blue a speck,
Nor on the whiteness of the earth a stain.
Yet what are these? The mole mines not the soil
In heaps like these, and they are numberless
As ocean's sands. Far as the raven's wing
Can bear his flight—long, narrow, snowy mounds—
They slumber on th' interminable waste.
What are they? Ha! it moves! that hillock moves!
Oh, God! it moves!—there still is life then here!—
Lift not, oh, Winds, the snow-shroud from these mounds!
For every form of horror is below,
And every attitude of agony.
Some featureless, some limbless, dreadful all,
A host of men are here, by Winter's hand
Transform'd to marble! shapes of Pain and Toil,
Of Rage and Grief, of Death and direr Life,
And strewn, as Life and Death are every where,
Over an Empire's face!—Oh, Solitude,
Peopled with spectres of the past! like his,
Who hath inflicted and endured wrongs,
Till his heart's loneliness starts from itself,
And fears Perdition, even in the smile
That lingers on a lifeless baby's lip!

VIII.

Night! this is dreadful! this is—but a tomb.
More awful far a sleeping city is,
For Evil there will wake to sin again!
Behold a host of men!—I mock thee not,—
Here are their forms; their spirits are—Where are they?
What! doth this silent horror startle thee,
And pale thy gloomy cheek? Why doth it so?
Haply, 'tis but a type diminutive,
A tiny emblem of thine endless reign,
Thy final triumph, o'er the powers of earth.
What, if the sun, that lights thy lamp, shall fade?
What, if his heat shall die, and be no more
For ever? Still, the earth will move around
The central cinder, once the torch of God!
But she will move in gloom and deathiness.
The worm of tombs will be an icicle.
And ocean will be ice, with all his waves,
Bursting in foam; confusion without sound,
Cold, fix'd, immutable! Still, yawning rage,
Leviathan, a glassy monster green,
Aye in crystaline horror bound, will seem
To lash the solid surge. Still, vale and rock,
And all the infinite of forms will be;
Men, animals, and insects, fishes, birds,
And reptiles, all will be, but breathless all!
No life! no thought! motionless images,—
But everlasting! awful, numberless,
In shapes and postures all diversified
Of act or suffering—ever such to be!
Scorn's snaky lip, Rancor's immortal scowl,
Joy's living laughter, Misery's marble tears,
And Love's dear kiss, fix'd in etersial ice!
Each smitten by the hand invisible,
In his last action, or unacted wish!
And Frost will sculpture in chill adamant
Sleep's troubled dream, and all-surviving Death!
The deathless mockery of Death and Life!
Still, on the hush'd mausoleum of the earth,
Th' affrighted stars, and they alone, will look,
How dimly! Evermore, and evermore
Dead! She will be like a vast theatre,
With gloomy lights mocking its emptiness;
No audience! and no actors!—forms of Life!
Statues of Passion! but no living thing!—
All ice! all silence!—Night! cold, starry, dark,
Moonless, idealess, eternal Night!