 | The Invasion of Russia by Napoleon Buonaparte |  |
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THE INVASION OF RUSSIA BY NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE.
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γελα δε δαιμων επ' ανδρι θερμω,
τον ουποτ' αυχουντ' ιδων αμηχανοις
δυαις λεπαδνον, ουδ' υπερθεοντ' ακραν.
Æschyl. Eum. 530.
τον ουποτ' αυχουντ' ιδων αμηχανοις
δυαις λεπαδνον, ουδ' υπερθεοντ' ακραν.
Æschyl. Eum. 530.
Ride, boldly ride! for thee the vernal gale
Breathes life and fragrance o'er the teeming vale;
For thee the Seine, for thee the glassy bay
Laughs in a revelry of golden day;
And o'er the wave the mantling vineyards throw
Their purple fruits, that in the mirror glow:
Heaven lives and beams for thee: then boldly ride,
Pageant of Gaul, and fair Italia's pride!
Proudly thy eagle soars, thy banners stream
In crimson folds, that mock the Sun's pale beam.
Proudly thy coursers neigh, and pant to tread
Muscovia's dust, and spurn the slumbering dead.
“I hear a voice—it cried—To arms! advance!—
“I see the star of Austerlitz and France.”
Breathes life and fragrance o'er the teeming vale;
For thee the Seine, for thee the glassy bay
Laughs in a revelry of golden day;
And o'er the wave the mantling vineyards throw
Their purple fruits, that in the mirror glow:
Heaven lives and beams for thee: then boldly ride,
Pageant of Gaul, and fair Italia's pride!
Proudly thy eagle soars, thy banners stream
In crimson folds, that mock the Sun's pale beam.
Proudly thy coursers neigh, and pant to tread
Muscovia's dust, and spurn the slumbering dead.
“I hear a voice—it cried—To arms! advance!—
“I see the star of Austerlitz and France.”
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“Speed!”—They have sped—murmuring o'er hill and plain,
Like the far murmur of the sleepless main—
Wave after wave, a flood of silver light:
Oh! that so fair a day shall soon be plung'd in night!
Like the far murmur of the sleepless main—
Wave after wave, a flood of silver light:
Oh! that so fair a day shall soon be plung'd in night!
Awake! ye Spirits—if on Niemen's shore
Ye sleep, or listen to the midnight roar
Of tumbling cataracts,— if ye love to play
On the white foam, and course the dashing spray—
I call ye now—on yon grey steep arise,
And wake the slumbering legions of the skies;
Shout to the tardy winds and stagnant air,
And rouse the vengeful thunder from his lair!
Proclaim to him, who vaunts that none shall stay
His arm, outstretched, omnipotent to slay:
Proclaim—, that pale Disease, the withering form
Of Desolation, and the sweeping storm,
They quail not, shrink not, from the haughty foe—
They have encamped, and they will overthrow!—
Slowly and darkly o'er the pine-tree groves
The brooding mass of devastation moves;
It moves, it comes! from skies convulsed and riven
The tempest leaps, the artillery of heaven
Peals from the clouds, the arrowy lightning's gleam
Glares on the snows, and gilds the livid stream:
The thunder growls around, and wildly sings
Of banquets soon to be, with sullen mutterings.
Ye sleep, or listen to the midnight roar
Of tumbling cataracts,— if ye love to play
On the white foam, and course the dashing spray—
I call ye now—on yon grey steep arise,
And wake the slumbering legions of the skies;
Shout to the tardy winds and stagnant air,
And rouse the vengeful thunder from his lair!
Proclaim to him, who vaunts that none shall stay
His arm, outstretched, omnipotent to slay:
Proclaim—, that pale Disease, the withering form
Of Desolation, and the sweeping storm,
They quail not, shrink not, from the haughty foe—
They have encamped, and they will overthrow!—
Slowly and darkly o'er the pine-tree groves
The brooding mass of devastation moves;
It moves, it comes! from skies convulsed and riven
The tempest leaps, the artillery of heaven
Peals from the clouds, the arrowy lightning's gleam
Glares on the snows, and gilds the livid stream:
The thunder growls around, and wildly sings
Of banquets soon to be, with sullen mutterings.
Dost thou, proud chief, the voice of anguish hear,
And drop, when others weep, thy pitying tear?
Ah! no—thou must not weep! but calmly see
Eyes glazed in death, grow dim, and die on thee;
And smile where others smile not; sights forlorn
Must be but dreams; and bursting hearts thy scorn!
Ah! can'st thou hear that faint and stifled cry,
And mock a dying father's agony?
Ten thousand fathers there in silence sleep,
Around their bier no wife, no children weep;
The Vulture screams, the Eagle hovers nigh,
Flaps its dark wing, and wheels around the sky.
By moaning gusts their requiems are sung,
Their's is the storm's wild howl, the thunder's tongue;
Their shroud, yon leaden sea of floating gloom,
Yon white and heaving mounds their only tomb!
Ten thousand widows there beside thee tread,
Ten thousand orphans wail around thy bed:—
Can'st thou thus slay, and sleep?—Then hie thee on!
By orphans' tears thy festivals are won—
Burn, vanquish, spoil!—but ah! thy star is dim!
For One—the mighty God—thou can'st not vanquish Him!
And drop, when others weep, thy pitying tear?
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Eyes glazed in death, grow dim, and die on thee;
And smile where others smile not; sights forlorn
Must be but dreams; and bursting hearts thy scorn!
Ah! can'st thou hear that faint and stifled cry,
And mock a dying father's agony?
Ten thousand fathers there in silence sleep,
Around their bier no wife, no children weep;
The Vulture screams, the Eagle hovers nigh,
Flaps its dark wing, and wheels around the sky.
By moaning gusts their requiems are sung,
Their's is the storm's wild howl, the thunder's tongue;
Their shroud, yon leaden sea of floating gloom,
Yon white and heaving mounds their only tomb!
Ten thousand widows there beside thee tread,
Ten thousand orphans wail around thy bed:—
Can'st thou thus slay, and sleep?—Then hie thee on!
By orphans' tears thy festivals are won—
Burn, vanquish, spoil!—but ah! thy star is dim!
For One—the mighty God—thou can'st not vanquish Him!
He saw the scarlet banner wildly spread
O'er yon black waste, the city of the dead;
He saw the victor ride in gorgeous state,
Through fair Smolensko, houseless, desolate;
And smile amid the dust and matted gore,
The formless wreck of what was man no more.
He hears the triumph's peal, that frantic cry,
By winds, his heralds, wafted to the sky—
Great God of vengeance! Not to Thee they raise
The anthem's voice, the chaunted hymn of praise:
Havoc to them is dearer than thy heaven;
Their hallelujahs are to Carnage given!
O'er yon black waste, the city of the dead;
He saw the victor ride in gorgeous state,
Through fair Smolensko, houseless, desolate;
And smile amid the dust and matted gore,
The formless wreck of what was man no more.
He hears the triumph's peal, that frantic cry,
By winds, his heralds, wafted to the sky—
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The anthem's voice, the chaunted hymn of praise:
Havoc to them is dearer than thy heaven;
Their hallelujahs are to Carnage given!
The spires
of Moscow glittering from afar
In the pale lustre of yon silver star,
Her steel-clad bastions, and embattled walls,
Her domes, her fanes, and gold bespangled halls,
No more the minstrel's midnight music hear,
No vocal strains her silent gardens cheer:—
Save where yon holy quire in pure array,
Through the grey portal treads its lonely way:
They with soft notes, that sigh upon the gale,
Wake the sad echoes of the sleeping vale;
Breathing, fair city, in a dirge to thee,
Their sweetest, calmest, holiest melody;
And cast, as o'er the mountain's brow they wind,
A mournful glance, a long last look behind.
In the pale lustre of yon silver star,
Her steel-clad bastions, and embattled walls,
Her domes, her fanes, and gold bespangled halls,
No more the minstrel's midnight music hear,
No vocal strains her silent gardens cheer:—
Save where yon holy quire in pure array,
Through the grey portal treads its lonely way:
They with soft notes, that sigh upon the gale,
Wake the sad echoes of the sleeping vale;
Breathing, fair city, in a dirge to thee,
Their sweetest, calmest, holiest melody;
And cast, as o'er the mountain's brow they wind,
A mournful glance, a long last look behind.
'Tis past, for ever—see! aloft they fly,
Yon smouldering flakes upfloating to the sky;—
Till the moon fades beneath the lurid stream,
Blotted from heaven, or shoots a ghastly beam.—
As some fond mourner, with averted eyes,
Kindles the pile on which a parent lies;
Thy children, Moscow, rear thy funeral pyre,
Plant the red torch, and fan the pious fire.—
For wilt thou, wilt thou thy Destroyer greet,
Drest with the garlands of thy own defeat?
Or bid thy vaulted domes with loud acclaim
Attune their echoes to a Tyrant's name;
Or see by feet unblest thy temples trod,
And blood-red Eagles wav'd above the shrine of God?—
Thou wilt not! Therefore with glad eyes I see
The golden flame—the flame that sets thee free!
Thy fretted aisles, thy burnish'd columns bow;
Rejoice, rejoice! thou art triumphant now.
There, there! from street to street with dreary roar
Their yellow tide the rampant billows pour,
And whirl'd by winds that sweep tempestuous by,
Point their red spires, and sail along the sky.
Yon smouldering flakes upfloating to the sky;—
Till the moon fades beneath the lurid stream,
Blotted from heaven, or shoots a ghastly beam.—
As some fond mourner, with averted eyes,
Kindles the pile on which a parent lies;
Thy children, Moscow, rear thy funeral pyre,
Plant the red torch, and fan the pious fire.—
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Drest with the garlands of thy own defeat?
Or bid thy vaulted domes with loud acclaim
Attune their echoes to a Tyrant's name;
Or see by feet unblest thy temples trod,
And blood-red Eagles wav'd above the shrine of God?—
Thou wilt not! Therefore with glad eyes I see
The golden flame—the flame that sets thee free!
Thy fretted aisles, thy burnish'd columns bow;
Rejoice, rejoice! thou art triumphant now.
There, there! from street to street with dreary roar
Their yellow tide the rampant billows pour,
And whirl'd by winds that sweep tempestuous by,
Point their red spires, and sail along the sky.
Tyrant of Earth! what art thou? not to thee
Crouch the proud surges of yon lurid sea—
In vain on Kremlin's height with pallid stare
I see thee scowl above the flames' red glare,
And bid them make thee partner of their joy,
And leave thee something—, something to destroy.
These smoking piles—is this thy conquering reign?
Those voiceless streets, that desolated plain?
Thy throne—, yon scarr'd and solitary tower,
Rock'd by the winds, and channell'd by the shower?
Thy train—, shall they thy splendid deeds declare
With their wan lips, and bless thee for despair?
Go! hunt the clouds, and shout it to the gale,
And let the night winds learn the vaunted tale!
Go! bid the sky with acclamations ring,
And bellowing storms thy boasted conquest sing!
Tell of the feats thy own right hand has done,
Unblest of God,—thy own right hand alone!
Proclaim—, that thou with unrelenting eye,
Could'st boldly see thy legions faint and die;
Could'st o'er yon waste thy grasping reign advance,
And buy a desert with the blood of France!—
No marble here thy blazon'd name shall bear,
Nor storied wall thy streaming trophies wear,
No deluged streets shall feast thy thirsting ken
With one vast death, with hecatombs of men!
Though Russia curse thee, Gaul shall curse thee more—
That crimson flood, it was thy country's gore!
Ah! can'st thou yon forsaken suppliants see
Extend their mute, their pallid hands to thee?
Creep to the gate, and in the portal stand
Of yon dark house of woe, a ghastly band?—
For thee, they left soft Gallia's fragrant gales,
Their own dear hill, their own domestic vales.
For thee!—they trod for thee Muscovia's wild,
And withering wastes where Summer never smil'd,
And blackening woods, where sighs the waving pine,—
And, that their eyes thus wildly glare, 'tis thine!—
—Yet he did calmly pass without a sigh,
And when for France they ask'd him, bade them die!
Crouch the proud surges of yon lurid sea—
In vain on Kremlin's height with pallid stare
I see thee scowl above the flames' red glare,
And bid them make thee partner of their joy,
And leave thee something—, something to destroy.
These smoking piles—is this thy conquering reign?
Those voiceless streets, that desolated plain?
Thy throne—, yon scarr'd and solitary tower,
Rock'd by the winds, and channell'd by the shower?
Thy train—, shall they thy splendid deeds declare
With their wan lips, and bless thee for despair?
Go! hunt the clouds, and shout it to the gale,
And let the night winds learn the vaunted tale!
Go! bid the sky with acclamations ring,
And bellowing storms thy boasted conquest sing!
Tell of the feats thy own right hand has done,
Unblest of God,—thy own right hand alone!
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Could'st boldly see thy legions faint and die;
Could'st o'er yon waste thy grasping reign advance,
And buy a desert with the blood of France!—
No marble here thy blazon'd name shall bear,
Nor storied wall thy streaming trophies wear,
No deluged streets shall feast thy thirsting ken
With one vast death, with hecatombs of men!
Though Russia curse thee, Gaul shall curse thee more—
That crimson flood, it was thy country's gore!
Ah! can'st thou yon forsaken suppliants see
Extend their mute, their pallid hands to thee?
Creep to the gate, and in the portal stand
Of yon dark house of woe, a ghastly band?—
For thee, they left soft Gallia's fragrant gales,
Their own dear hill, their own domestic vales.
For thee!—they trod for thee Muscovia's wild,
And withering wastes where Summer never smil'd,
And blackening woods, where sighs the waving pine,—
And, that their eyes thus wildly glare, 'tis thine!—
—Yet he did calmly pass without a sigh,
And when for France they ask'd him, bade them die!
But thou,
whose breast with holier ardour fed,
Glow'd for thy country, for thy country bled;
I hail thee, Patriot! and with Moscow's flame
Will write the glories of thy deathless name.
Patriot! whose dauntless soul could brook to see
Moscow in ashes laid, or Moscow free;—
Enslaved,—it could not brook—for who would dwell
A splendid captive in a painted cell?
Better in dungeons and in gloom to pine,
Than feast in halls which were, and are not thine!
What boots the branching roof, the pillar's mould,
The foliaged shaft, the cornice dipp'd in gold?
If prostrate man a Tyrant's rod adore,
And crouch a menial, where he reign'd before.
Then, who exults not? though the fitful breeze
Sigh o'er thy rifted pier, and crumbling frieze,
Desolate Moscow!—for around thy grave
Stern Virtue rears her freshest architrave,
And Faith and patriot Love with lock'd embrace
Entwine their arms, and guard the silent place.
Pale Memory twines a cypress wreath for thee,
Clasps thy cold urn, the ashes of the free—,
And Granta bids her youthful bards relate
How bright in life thou wert, in death how great!
Though guardian Heav'n has made, with kindlier care,
Her sons as free as thine, herself more fair;
She mourns thee! though her new-born columns shine,
To hail her Patriot Prince more blest than thine;
Though vernal flow'rs her happier Muses bring,
And grace his fostering hand, who bade them sing!
Glow'd for thy country, for thy country bled;
I hail thee, Patriot! and with Moscow's flame
Will write the glories of thy deathless name.
Patriot! whose dauntless soul could brook to see
Moscow in ashes laid, or Moscow free;—
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A splendid captive in a painted cell?
Better in dungeons and in gloom to pine,
Than feast in halls which were, and are not thine!
What boots the branching roof, the pillar's mould,
The foliaged shaft, the cornice dipp'd in gold?
If prostrate man a Tyrant's rod adore,
And crouch a menial, where he reign'd before.
Then, who exults not? though the fitful breeze
Sigh o'er thy rifted pier, and crumbling frieze,
Desolate Moscow!—for around thy grave
Stern Virtue rears her freshest architrave,
And Faith and patriot Love with lock'd embrace
Entwine their arms, and guard the silent place.
Pale Memory twines a cypress wreath for thee,
Clasps thy cold urn, the ashes of the free—,
And Granta bids her youthful bards relate
How bright in life thou wert, in death how great!
Though guardian Heav'n has made, with kindlier care,
Her sons as free as thine, herself more fair;
She mourns thee! though her new-born columns shine,
To hail her Patriot Prince more blest than thine;
Though vernal flow'rs her happier Muses bring,
And grace his fostering hand, who bade them sing!
Pale, palsied Winter!—thus, by tepid gales
Arcadian fann'd, and nurs'd in roseate vales,
Or dreaming else in those Hesperian isles
Bathed in pure light 'mid Spring's perennial smiles—
Thus bards have named thee,—but that feeble name
Thou, mighty Winter, proudly wilt disclaim:
Though slumbering 'neath the cloud-pavilion'd throne
Of Him who never sleeps, in chambers lone,—
Where the strong Earthquakes, His archangels, are:
Where the blue lightnings wave their torch-like hair—
Thou, yet unseen, unheard, hast whiled away
The Spring's soft hours, the Summer's tranquil day;
Thy sleep is slept!—no listless dreamer now,
A Warrior armed, a dauntless Rider Thou!
A mighty Hunter!—there I see thee leap
From torrent's shore to shore, from steep to steep:
Are not thy footsteps o'er the pathless sea?
The streams, thy coursers, bend their necks to Thee!
I see thee there with crystal bands enthrall
The dash of waves, and curb the waterfall!
Arcadian fann'd, and nurs'd in roseate vales,
Or dreaming else in those Hesperian isles
Bathed in pure light 'mid Spring's perennial smiles—
Thus bards have named thee,—but that feeble name
Thou, mighty Winter, proudly wilt disclaim:
Though slumbering 'neath the cloud-pavilion'd throne
Of Him who never sleeps, in chambers lone,—
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Where the blue lightnings wave their torch-like hair—
Thou, yet unseen, unheard, hast whiled away
The Spring's soft hours, the Summer's tranquil day;
Thy sleep is slept!—no listless dreamer now,
A Warrior armed, a dauntless Rider Thou!
A mighty Hunter!—there I see thee leap
From torrent's shore to shore, from steep to steep:
Are not thy footsteps o'er the pathless sea?
The streams, thy coursers, bend their necks to Thee!
I see thee there with crystal bands enthrall
The dash of waves, and curb the waterfall!
Ha! hast thou found them?—there thy victims lie
Crouching and shrinking from the starless sky.
Round the pale flame that flickers in the snow
Their blighted cheeks with ghastly lustre glow:
And some there are, who stand in silence by,
Or breathe a prayer, and then lie down to die:
Or cower in circles o'er their grave of snow,
Shrouding their brows in dark unutterable woe:
And some who laugh with parched and tearless glare,
A joyless laugh, and revel in despair.
And one, whose heart is basking in the gleam
Of a far land; the sunshine of a dream!
Where the light trembles in the quivering shade
Of some green orchard or dark olive glade;
Where clustering roses veil his own retreat,
And ivy mantles o'er the doorway seat:
And her fair form before his feverish sight
Glides, like a voiceless phantom of the night;
That angel form he never more must see,
Save in the visions of eternity.—
Ah! what will now those purple spoils avail,
Stretch'd on the snows and scattered to the gale?—
No earthly form to-morrow's Sun shall find,
Save the white waste, no whisper but the wind!
Crouching and shrinking from the starless sky.
Round the pale flame that flickers in the snow
Their blighted cheeks with ghastly lustre glow:
And some there are, who stand in silence by,
Or breathe a prayer, and then lie down to die:
Or cower in circles o'er their grave of snow,
Shrouding their brows in dark unutterable woe:
And some who laugh with parched and tearless glare,
A joyless laugh, and revel in despair.
And one, whose heart is basking in the gleam
Of a far land; the sunshine of a dream!
Where the light trembles in the quivering shade
Of some green orchard or dark olive glade;
Where clustering roses veil his own retreat,
And ivy mantles o'er the doorway seat:
And her fair form before his feverish sight
Glides, like a voiceless phantom of the night;
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Save in the visions of eternity.—
Ah! what will now those purple spoils avail,
Stretch'd on the snows and scattered to the gale?—
No earthly form to-morrow's Sun shall find,
Save the white waste, no whisper but the wind!
He comes! he comes! ye Gallic Virgins twine
The myrtle wreath, and weave the eglantine—
For him, who rides in gorgeous pomp along,
Strew, strew the rose, and chaunt the choral song.
For him, whose car has thunder'd o'er the plains,
Fettered by frost in adamantine chains.
Ah! no—he comes not thus! no gladsome cry
Shall shout his name, and hurl it to the sky;
No grateful crowds before his eagles bend,
No laurelled hosts his chariot-wheels attend:
For him no mothers' lips shall softly pray,
No hands be clasped to bless him on his way:
His heralds Silence and the Night shall be,—
A country's curse, his song of Victory!—
The myrtle wreath, and weave the eglantine—
For him, who rides in gorgeous pomp along,
Strew, strew the rose, and chaunt the choral song.
For him, whose car has thunder'd o'er the plains,
Fettered by frost in adamantine chains.
Ah! no—he comes not thus! no gladsome cry
Shall shout his name, and hurl it to the sky;
No grateful crowds before his eagles bend,
No laurelled hosts his chariot-wheels attend:
For him no mothers' lips shall softly pray,
No hands be clasped to bless him on his way:
His heralds Silence and the Night shall be,—
A country's curse, his song of Victory!—
Therefore,—to Winter's God the Nations raise
A holy concert of symphonious praise.—
For Thou hast spoiled the Spoiler: Thou hast bowed
The Scorner's strength, the threatenings of the Proud!
Thee, their dread Champion! Thee the Caspian shore,
Dark Volga's flood, and Niemen's storms adore:
Thee, the glad Tanais, Thee, the thundering voice
Of Ister; the Cantabrian depths rejoice;
Fair Tagus hears, and Alva's echoing caves
Wake the soft music of his amber waves:
And the great Earth, and everlasting Sea,
To Thee their anthems pour, dread Lord of Hosts, To Thee.
A holy concert of symphonious praise.—
For Thou hast spoiled the Spoiler: Thou hast bowed
The Scorner's strength, the threatenings of the Proud!
Thee, their dread Champion! Thee the Caspian shore,
Dark Volga's flood, and Niemen's storms adore:
Thee, the glad Tanais, Thee, the thundering voice
Of Ister; the Cantabrian depths rejoice;
Fair Tagus hears, and Alva's echoing caves
Wake the soft music of his amber waves:
And the great Earth, and everlasting Sea,
To Thee their anthems pour, dread Lord of Hosts, To Thee.
Segur I. p. 68. “Do you see that star above us?” p. 73. “Who calls me?” p. 109. “are we not the soldiers of Austerlitz?” these are the words of Napoleon. Of his belief in his fortunate star, see Porter's Campaign, p. 352.
Segur I. 119. The Emperor had scarcely passed over the river (Niemen) when a rumbling sound began to agitate the air. This was conceived to be a fatal presage.
Segur I. 227—233, speaks of “heaps of smoking ashes, where lay human skeletons dried and blackened by the fire.”
Segur II. 17. Their priests headed the procession: turning their eyes once more towards Moscow, they seemed to be bidding a last farewell to their holy city.
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