University of Virginia Library

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?
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;
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!—
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,—
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!—
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!—
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!
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!
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,—
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?”
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;
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!—
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!—
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.
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!
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!—
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!—
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;
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!—
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)—
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,
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,—
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.
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!—
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,—
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,—
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?
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:
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!

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!—
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!—
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,
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!—

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!—

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,—
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!
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,
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!—
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,
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;—
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!—
“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!—
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!—

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—
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!—
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!
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—
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!”

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—
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,—
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—
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;—
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!—
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!—
'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!
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!—

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!—

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!
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!—
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!
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!—
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—
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!