 | Erato, number II |  |
VIII.
Again the vision changed.
Again the icy land
Of the old Czars, was trod by hostile feet—
Hostile—and numerous—
And deem'd invincible:
The legions of the Conqueror, by himself
Marshall'd again for fight.
But, ah! the Conqueror!
Long years of care, and unrepose of mind,
Corroding conscience, solitude of soul,
And grandeur unenjoy'd, have mark'd that brow.
He heedeth not the bauble crown it bears.
Fate, as he deems, hath higher things for him.
He lives not in the Present, nor the Past;
But hath a world, of magnitude extreme,
Peopled by his own burning thoughts alone,
Yet full!—And here he reads his destiny,
Traced by Ambition's finger, not by Truth's.
Again the icy land
Of the old Czars, was trod by hostile feet—
Hostile—and numerous—
And deem'd invincible:
The legions of the Conqueror, by himself
Marshall'd again for fight.
But, ah! the Conqueror!
Long years of care, and unrepose of mind,
Corroding conscience, solitude of soul,
And grandeur unenjoy'd, have mark'd that brow.
He heedeth not the bauble crown it bears.
Fate, as he deems, hath higher things for him.
He lives not in the Present, nor the Past;
But hath a world, of magnitude extreme,
Peopled by his own burning thoughts alone,
Yet full!—And here he reads his destiny,
Traced by Ambition's finger, not by Truth's.
On—on he rushes! From the darken'd sky
Shoots the red lightning; but his serried ranks
Flash from their bayonets the vivid blaze,
Against the murky clouds that rage above.
On—on he rushes! And at his approach
The scatter'd Cossacks fly, with terror struck.
On—on he rushes! Lithuania's plains
Are traversed, and its capital is his.
On—on he rushes! But the flames arise
From every hamlet now. The noble fires
His castle, and the vassal serf his hut;
And armed men are gathering thick and fast
Around old Moscow's venerated walls.
Shoots the red lightning; but his serried ranks
Flash from their bayonets the vivid blaze,
Against the murky clouds that rage above.
On—on he rushes! And at his approach
The scatter'd Cossacks fly, with terror struck.
On—on he rushes! Lithuania's plains
Are traversed, and its capital is his.
16
From every hamlet now. The noble fires
His castle, and the vassal serf his hut;
And armed men are gathering thick and fast
Around old Moscow's venerated walls.
On rush the legions of the Conqueror—
Potent—impetuous;—but like the surge
That rolls, with force tremendous, 'gainst the rock
Immovable which rises from the sea,
Were they receiv'd; and back recoil'd a pace,
In dire confusion: then to either side
Wheeling, the master-spirit form'd again
The solid phalanx; and with gathered force,
And desperate fury, shouting to the charge,
He rush'd upon a single point, and broke
The lines compact, and won the gory field.
Potent—impetuous;—but like the surge
That rolls, with force tremendous, 'gainst the rock
Immovable which rises from the sea,
Were they receiv'd; and back recoil'd a pace,
In dire confusion: then to either side
Wheeling, the master-spirit form'd again
The solid phalanx; and with gathered force,
And desperate fury, shouting to the charge,
He rush'd upon a single point, and broke
The lines compact, and won the gory field.
But naught of triumph smooths the Conqueror's brow:
Silent, and stern, and gloomy still, he walks
The gorgeous palaces of the old Czars.
—Aha! what mean yon brilliant lights, that rise,
Pillars of fire to Heav'n, on every hand!
Moscow in flames! fired by the patriot Russ,
With slow and secret trains.—He could not leave
His monument of art, ancient and lov'd—
The palace-halls of the old capital—
The temples of the olden time—the tombs
Of reverenc'd chiefs and sages—and the aisles
And altars of his faith—to be profaned
By ruthless soldiery.—Ha! now he starts,
The Conqueror, from his hermit-world of dreams:
“Scythians, indeed!”he mutters, and is still
Silent, and stern, and gloomy still, he walks
The gorgeous palaces of the old Czars.
—Aha! what mean yon brilliant lights, that rise,
Pillars of fire to Heav'n, on every hand!
Moscow in flames! fired by the patriot Russ,
With slow and secret trains.—He could not leave
His monument of art, ancient and lov'd—
The palace-halls of the old capital—
The temples of the olden time—the tombs
Of reverenc'd chiefs and sages—and the aisles
And altars of his faith—to be profaned
By ruthless soldiery.—Ha! now he starts,
The Conqueror, from his hermit-world of dreams:
“Scythians, indeed!”he mutters, and is still
| Erato, number II | |