The Maiden of Moscow A Poem, in Twenty-One Cantos. By the Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. | CANTO IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
335
CANTO IX.
I.
While Russia's Armies—bowed in prayer—Besought high Heaven to aid and spare—
And prayed its mercy to accord
A strengthened soul—a sharpened sword!
Emperor of France!—how stirred—how wrought—
Thy Universe o'er shadowing Thought?—
Emperor of France,—how passed with thee,
Those hours of their solemnity?
Relaxed melts all thy rigid mien,
Kind smiles about thy lips are seen,
Affectionate and loving looks,
'Stead of that glance no gazer brooks,—
Beam from thy softened, gladdened eyes—
Thy boy's smile on thy soul doth rise!—
Doth rise like some new Sun of Hope,
No more to wane, or set, or droop!—
'Twas on that self-same day arrived,—
Oh! treasure that his soul received!—
336
His child's dear image, eloquent—
His child's sweet pictured form, that said
(While low he bowed Earth's haughtiest head!—)
Ten thousand things of tenderness
His soul to soothe—and charm—and bless—
He stooped him to that blest controul—
Drank all that beauty to his soul—
And let the floods of Feeling go
O'er that wild heart's tempestuous glow—
While tenderness reigned all in all,
And he could bless its heavenly thrall!—
How strained he to his heaving breast,
That calm, unconscious angel guest,
Then gazed into those happy eyes—
And dreamed glad infantine replies—
Imagined looks of answering love—
Thought all that he could yearn to prove—
Conceived the charm he wished might move—
And bent him that sweet face above!—
The Lion playing at the Dove!—
II.
Still gazed upon those cloudless eyes—The Lord of Thousand Victories!—
And could his own glance back their glance,
Could Countenance with Countenance
Commune in peace—and love—and bliss?—
Oh!—what a miracle is this!—
That dreadful front of doom and war,
Gentle as children's snow-brows are!—
337
Which yet shall rise—and rise to reign—
Of the innocence of the earliest years,
Those hours—fresh fresh from Heaven's bright spheres—
Midst all the strife, and wrong, and wrath,
It hails—it welcomes to its path,
The fiercest soul—most stern—most wild—
Can whiten back to be a child—
To flutter with a myriad wings,
Above this waste of earthly things!
Half hid in Heaven our soul appears—
Till showered on dust—it falls—in tears!—
For Vanity, and Strife, and Doubt—
And all that clasps the world without—
Ambition's dark and sultry dream,
Or Love,—whose light's a rainbow gleam—
What are they,—from the Spirit shed—
The Spirit clouded—wrung—misled—
But weepings—weepings evermore,
Draining the impoverished being's core!—
III.
Bend—Chief of Monarchs!—o'er thy Boy,And know the Holiness of joy!—
Oh!—learn to smile from thee away
The fevered phrenzy of the sway,
Is Happiness a holy thing,
And dar'st thou blight it—dar'st thou sting
And make unnumbered souls subdued,
Its ghostly Memory's solitude?
338
Where Lightning-laughters glistening rise—
And marks that Beauty-breathing brow,
Traced on his dreaming spirit now—
Till scarce the Love's new yearning pain,
That haughty spirit can sustain—
So strong to cope with Earth and Fate,
And worlds in Arms—and hosts of Hate!
He trembles!—lest some distant chance
Should harm the empurpled Flower of France!—
Though now he throws that dreadful die,
On which may hang in hazardry
His Grandeurs all—and Triumphs high!—
Power—Empire—Dynasty—and Name—
And Earth-electrifying Fame!
He trembles!—lest a breath may blow
Too bleak o'er that sweet forehead's snow—
Yet risks—thus rashly with his Own,
All the earthly fortunes of his Son!
IV.
Soon called he round him—glorying highWith Love's own blameless joyauncy—
His men of mould and might, to gaze
On that young aspect—robed with rays!—
He called them round him there to view
His own blessed Boy—and bless him too!
On the outside of the Royal Tent
(Where—bathed in bliss—he long had bent
O'er each soft-shadowed Lineament)
339
While thousands there, heart-homage paid!—
And hailed with proud and fervid joy
That likeness of the Imperial Boy!
Strange contrast there was deeply seen,
That soft, young, tender face between,
And the aspects stern, of those that gazed
With rugged visages upraised—
Where scar—and weather-stain—and mark,
Of many a sufferance deep and dark—
Of many a hardship wild and drear—
Did sternly—hideously appear!
That sweet face of the pictured child
Smiled down upon them soft and mild—
Such trustful looks on them let fall,
As they were nursing-mothers all!
V.
And he looks on without a word—The World's great Arbiter and Lord!
In blissful silence of Delight—
Rapt far above his Power's proud height!—
While still round those dread lips played mild,
Smiles—that seemed speaking to his child!
Those lips,—whence oft in tempests hurled,
Burst words to shake the astounded world!—
And still within his softened eyes
A depth of troubling transport lies,
From these, now tenderest glances beam—
Such looks as from the Spirit stream—
340
That all bright dews of feeling steep!—
They seemed responsively to melt
To each fresh thrill his bosom felt,—
Those eyes—from whence so oft in ire
Glanced lightnings of terrific fire—
To search—to madden—to appal—
In Love they seemed to look on all!—
His mighty Mind then owned the Excess
Of Love's most trembling tenderness!—
He stood and gazed—then starting, cried
To those that waited at his side,—
“Remove him!—hence!—I say,—remove
That imaged face of Light and Love—
Too soon the Beautiful and Bright—
O'erlooks the Stormy Field of Fight!” —
VI.
Through mortal hours are strangely blentJoy—Sorrow—Hope—and Discontent—
When evening's gorgeous gloom was spread,
Far round in tints of varying red,—
And stained like dolphins when they die,
Shone all the emblazoned western sky;—
When Day—the fervid glistering Day—
Slowly and richly burned away,
Like fabled Phœnix on its pile,
Where thousand gorgeous mysteries smile—
341
Make Death a dazzling thing and bright,—
(And forth shall from its Ashes spring,
A Day as fair—as fleet of wing—
As bright shall the opening Day arise—
And leap and live along the skies—)
When Eve, thus—th' Opal-like and fair—
Blushed changeful Beauties through the Air—
Came trampling loud with furious speed,
A foaming, wildly-driven steed!—
His rider pale claimed audience straight
Of him—so glad and blissful late—
Gaul's mighty lord!—without delay
Was then—on the eve of that fair day,
The toil-stained man, in dusk array,
Admitted there to see and say!—
How flowed those tidings that he brought?—
His mien declared them evil-fraught!—
Low-faultering, must his voice repeat
A tale of failure and defeat!—
VII.
From vanquished Marmont 'twas he came!—Fabvier—the gallant courier's name—
He hurried from a bloody plain,
In the far purple Land of Spain—
From Salamanca's Field of Grief,—
Where yielding sank the Gallic chief—
To Borodino's Field Unfought—
Where deeds of doom must yet be wrought!—
342
To bring those tidings—sharp and sore—
Those tidings that Napoleon heard,
With mind determined and prepared!—
Bravely the tide of Ill he met—
And masked or mastered his regret—
Yet that stern blow was sharply dealt,
And many a pang the Mightiest felt,
When first that heavy truth was brought—
Distinctly to his grieving thought!—
With indignation deep he heard
Of dark Defeat—detested word!—
And blamed within his secret breast
Him who had vailed Gaul's Eagle Crest!—
Severely at his Judgment's bar
Arraigned he, the ill-starred Chiefs afar!—
Yet word of blame pronounced he not—
'Twas scarce the hour—'twas scarce the spot!—
His own foot,—as he well might think,
On dubious Battle's roaring brink!—
And who shall tell—and who may know
What chance—what change one day may shew?—
Who dream how yet may pass away
The impending and the uncertain Fray?—
On the eve of such a conflict stern,
'Twere wise, harsh judgments to adjourn!—
Thus outwardly indulgent, he
Met sore Defeat with dignity!—
343
VIII.
But seemed not, in such weighty hour,The ill news to gain yet deeper power?—
And when, in Solitude, again,
He pondered o'er these things—then—then!—
Did no strange Superstitious fear
Rise dark and heavy—dim and drear?—
Seemed not athwart the Future cast
Faint outlines pale of the untoward Past?—
Have not these late events of gloom
Dim shadowed forth the events to come?—
Do not past Fates,—for ever, still
Much influence th' unborn Good and Ill?—
While oft in long succession run,—
Continuing what hath been begun,
The courses vexed—and the issues strange—
Of Earth's wild destinies of change!—
Linked—likened—then—reflecting back—
Each other's semblance on their track!
Till sudden—breaking short the chain—
Fate's march appears made free again!—
'Twould seem, as though when it ascends,
And with the Eternal Ages blends,
The Past's dark Spirit still doth fly,
Still springs to yon recording sky—
Even by the Future's road on high—
O'er that joins all the Eternity!—
Thus casting o'er the void beneath
Its shadowy shape—on that deep path!—
344
Might wrestle with impressions strong,
For something seemed to glimpse through all
That bound him in the Present's thrall,—
Like the writ Fiat of his Fall—
Clear as the Assyrian's on the wall!—
And doubts—even lashed to agonies—
Might on his labouring spirit rise!—
IX.
But when 'midst circling throngs he stood,Controuled and checked was such dark mood;
And by no word—no look—no sign,—
Might these his secret Soul divine!—
Once more—once more he waves away,
As on red Valoutina's day,
(When Sorrow deep and Triumph bright
Too deeply—closely—blent their might!—)
Those gathering griefs that rose to bind—
With heavy bonds—his boundless mind!—
Once more—once more he casts aside,
With stern, uncompromising Pride,
All angers that he felt arise,—
All doubts—and pangs—and agonies,—
And all the lingerings of that Love
His soul could so intensely prove,
But some brief fleeting hours ago—
That left a deeper trace than Woe!—
A deeper trace than Wrath—Distrust,—
That stamped—and stamps!—it shall—it must!—
345
To conquer that!—and crush—and thrall!—
Aye!—hard—most hard it was to cope
With all that Tenderness and Hope!—
But Lo!—'tis conquered!—Lo!—'tis done!—
The Bosom-Battle well he won!—
Adjourned his Anger—Anguish—Love,—
And free as Freedom's self could move!—
Scattered his Heart's shrined thoughts abroad,
And with unshackled spirit trod!—
X.
Deep night returned!—Her shadows frownedO'er all the various scenery round;
A thousand tents—that whitening shone
The surface of the ground upon—
Vanished within her gathering shroud,
Like winged pavilions piled of cloud!—
Assembled round their watch-flames, how
Do Gaul's proud soldiers cheer them now?—
By tales and songs of battles old,
And well cheered these—the Brave and Bold!—
Of various scenes of strife they sang—
Seemed through those strains you heard the clang
Of clashing hosts,—so fierce they rang!—
Of Strifes they told—whose phrenzied wrath—
Leaves hideous tokens in their path!—
Hark!—of the Egyptian field of fight
They sing,—and fire the Old Northern Night!—
Of that great Battle fought beneath
The Mountain-Palaces of Death!—
346
XI. SONG.
1
Beneath the Pyramids' huge shadeOur King of War stood, war-arrayed!
Wist ye what glorious words he said,
To fire his marshalled chivalry?—
2
“From yon proud Pyramids' crowned heightFull forty centuries watch the Fight!”
Like prisoned storms raged Gallia's might,
To the accents of Sublimity!—
3
Our King of Battles gave the word!—Forth lightened straight, each dreadful sword,—
Sank weltering thousands, gashed and gored,
Till all was Awe and Agony!—
4
Wide spread the Fray!—'twas near and farOne wavering wilderness of War!—
Yelled Mam'louk fierce and Janizar
Loud, o'er the loud Artillery!—
347
5
The old Pyramids with that dread shock,To their foundations seemed to rock!—
As these, down thundering yet would mock
Our proud hosts' Warrior-Royalty!—
6
And fair and fearful was the sight,When forth—with speed of wind and light—
The mounted Mam'louks rode in might,
'Gainst squares unmoved as Destiny!—
7
They dashed themselves in brave DespairFull 'gainst each firmly-phalanx'd square,
To perish in their phrenzy there,
And own our dread ascendancy!—
8
Their proud hands waved they, o'er their head,Backed their fierce steeds all mad with dread,—
On bayonets—their blood dyed red,—
In wrath's stern—savage mockery!—
9
The armed Spahis like winged demons dashedWhere thickest War's hot lightnings flashed,—
And wild with Europe's horsemen clashed,
'Midst that dark gathering anarchy!—
348
10
Loud burst the thousand-thundering cry!—That maddened the echoing air and sky,
As though the Crash of Worlds was nigh!—
Far blazed the appalling Pageantry!—
11
The enshrouding smoke—wreathed deep and dense,Masked War's sun-crowned magnificence!
And veiled Defiance and Defence,
And pomps of gorgeous Blazonry!—
12
In fiery clouds then the Arabs came—The Desert Chivalry of Fame!
On lightnings launched of arrowy flame—
Their steeds of bounding bravery!—
13
And oft they charged—they charged again!—Those furious hordes of dauntless men!—
High towered the savage grandeur then
Of War's fierce Earthquake-Ecstasy!—
14
Dusk Egypt shuddered as she saw!—Grey Nile grew pale with breathless awe!
They owned his might whose word is law,—
Our Chief!—in Victor-Sovereignty—
349
15
For still those words his lips had said,Like light through all our thoughts were shed,—
We fought in presence of the Dead—
Of Glory's Immortality!—
16
Those words beamed forth like Stars of Light—“From yon proud Pyramids' crowned height,
Gaze Forty Centuries o'er the Fight!”
Those words were Power and Panoply!
17
And Forty Ages well might gaze—Might watch—with tremblings of amaze!—
But grant to those high Words the praise—
That blazed—that burned with Victory!
18
And those who fell forgot to die—So rushed their hurrying souls on high!—
And those who lived—to their proud eye
Life grew one glorious phantasy!
19
Still—still such Lives—such Deaths are ours!'Tis We are Empires' princely Powers!
Quake Ages!—with our whirlwind hours—
That crash through the old Eternity!
350
XII.
'Twas thus they sang—that dreadless Throng—And conquered o'er again in Song!—
'Twas thus they sang—that martial crowd—
The old Eagle-bannered battles proud!
While many another haughty lay
Charmed well the sense with victor-sway!—
And how in Russia's camp went by
These hours of Night's regality?
They passed on the awful wings of Prayer—
That hallowed all the conscious air!
The armed Russians still watched—knelt—and prayed—
For favouring Heaven's Almighty aid!—
In deep Humility of Heart,
They girt them for the Avenger's part!
And One there is 'midst Gaul's thronged bands,
Who lifts to Heaven his heart and hands—
Who occupies his hours with Prayer—
While Midnight's Mountain pointeth there;—
Since Darkness towers sublimely still,
The true Heaven-kissed stupendous Hill!—
And heaves its formless feature high,
To the upfilled space of yonder sky!
XIII.
De Courcy knelt in the hours of gloom,And gave his soul to Heaven and Home!—
His Mother's—Sister's—forms appeared—
By distance and by doubt endeared—
351
And Peace—and Hope—and Gladness brought!
And did not yet another smile—
As full of grace—as void of guile—
Rise like a spiritual sun
His vision-haunted soul upon?—
A Sun, indeed!—whose heavenliest ray—
Where beatific brightenings play—
Could shed a day as brightly crowned—
As spiritually splendent round!
XIV.
Slept not the Chief of France that night—But watched those flickering watchfires' light—
Slept not the Gallic Chief!—he feared
The Russians—though so well prepared—
Might yet with him refuse to cope—
And mock his deep and fervent hope!
But still those watchfires brightly burned—
And still his messengers returned,
With tidings that the neighbouring Foe
Were seen—where flung their changeful glow
Those blazing beacons to and fro—
(With countless shadowy forms girt round—)
By Myriads scattered o'er that ground!—
They did not deem, then, of Retreat!—
They yet would stand!—defy!—and meet!—
Meet Him—and his Unconquered Force—
Ere many hours have run their course!
352
So pined he for the Near Event!
And these brought back the assurance still,
That rooted as each bulwarked hill—
Which there unchanged—unmoved—remained—
The Russians fixed—their post maintained!
And that, so numerous spread the throng
Of shadows moving dark along—
Where beamed their bivouack fires afar—
(Brightening the fronts of Night and War!—)
'Twas deemed—those watch-fires fluttering red
By no chance scattered bands were fed—
But by all the Army—watching there!—
Till Battle's morn should fire the air!
XV.
Then tranquillized and soothed to rest,Appeared the sceptered Leader's breast!—
Even tranquillized by stormy Hope—
(That bade him not to doubt and droop—)
Of Tumult fierce—and Havoc near—
And all things desolate and drear!
Young Morning's Mantle—dimly grey—
Seemed spread to tempt the steps of Day!
At once, forth sallying diligent—
The Mighty Monarch left his Tent—
Gazed eagerly with glance of pride,
Turned toward the scarce-seen Russian side;—
Then loud exclaimed—with the accents high
Of keen and tameless energy,—
353
France!—Forward!—Strike!—and Lo!—'tis done!
So shall proud Moscow's gates be won!”—
Yet pause awhile—let humbler Thought
Be to thy Mind of Tempest brought!—
Think on this proud and pregnant Morn—
O'er all thy countless bands have borne!
Their hardships—sufferings—wrongs—and woes—
Their lack of comforts and repose!—
Nor let too wild a Hope impel,
As thou made them,—The Invincible!
XVI.
Faint—famished—weak—and worn—are they!—Let wholesome doubt—if not dismay—
Teach thee to fling thy pride away!
Thy soldiers long have sufferers been—
No change portentous hast thou seen?—
No dull decay—no gathering cloud—
That bends the dauntless and the proud!—
Where once seemed nought but triumph high,
And the ever-towering bravery!—
How can they stand, like swerveless rock,
'Gainst the onset's stern terrific shock?—
Oh!—well thy quick—thine eagle glance
Could read the unshaken soul of France!—
Well—well, could mark,—that Sunlike Soul,
O'er which no Change might darkening roll!—
Pain—Sufferance, Doubt—and sore Distress—
And all that could thy hosts oppress—
But promise thee the assured success!—
354
Beyond their own—even thy controul!—
And rouse their zeal—their valour's might—
Even to its loftiest, noblest height!—
Thus well thine own unquailing glance,
Could pierce the unquailing Soul of France!
XVII.
Yea!—they will stand, like swerveless rock—And bide the deep and desperate shock!—
Nay, more!—unmoved when they would halt,
They shall be Ocean in the assault!—
More!—more!—Themselves shall onwards sweep—
Fierce as the storm-march of the deep—
When they would rive and rend their way
Through all—as through bowed Night the Day!—
And who,—or what, shall breast and bide
The onset of their indignant Pride—
The fury of their shock of Hate—
When they would 'venge themselves on Fate?—
XVIII.
Near the Redoubt the Emperor stood,—Even that by Gallia's arms subdued,
Bought with such streams of valiant blood—
There paused he—in impatient mood!—
There waited he!—while Joy and Hope
Scarce in that awful breast found scope,—
355
Should pour its clearer, livelier glow—
Illuminating earth below!—
Till the First Shot should shake the air,
And bid them for the strife prepare,
From Poniatowski's valourous bands—
Then Carnage shall unbind Her Hands!—
Then Havoc shall make Earth a place
Too wild for even fallen demons' race!—
Now breathing thousands watch around,—
Watch on that glimmering battle-ground,—
Who ere the next fair morn's first ray,
Shall breathless lie—Unconscious Clay!—
XIX.
A change hath come upon the scene!—Stern Preparation there hath been!—
At loud rappel—and bugle-call—
The piled arms of the soldiery all,
(That left their hands through night-hours free—)
Displaced and glittering now ye see!—
Fast—fast—strides on the roseate Day,
And streaks of sheen far gleaming play,
Turn toward the East!—how more than fair
The march of mighty Morning there!—
Light's King of Glories now is nigh—
And soon shall burst in yon bright sky!—
That kindling—glowing—higher and higher—
Shall seem all flushed with his pure fire!—
356
The East is one crimsoning consciousness!
All vapourous wreaths of cypress Night,
Forget themselves and fleet in Light—
Forth comes the Life of Light in Heaven—
And gladness to all things is given!—
The Mighty Chief that watched on earth,
Felt, as he shared that boundless birth!—
He met—with mingling thoughts of flame,
The Orb of Day that glorying came!—
Exulting thus—His spirit rose—
Though ne'er Its fires knew check or close!
Rose high and higher—that dazzling Soul—
A Sun, above the Sun—to roll!—
XX.
Forth came the Sun!—to smile and shine—Till Nature wore his hue divine—
And never flashed his kingly power
More proudly than on that dread hour!—
Forth came the Sun!—and spread to sight—
While leaped and laughed the living Light,—
While rolled its ocean-sweeping sheet—
All things to gladden—all to greet—
The World beneath its Conqueror's feet!—
XXI.
And glorying there that Conqueror stood!—Rushed to his brow the blaze of blood!—
357
Where flames the sun in the orient sky—
Then cried in transport-tones that seemed
As they too flashed—as they too beamed—
(So clear they rose—and rang afar—
Burning with strife—and breathing war,—)
Cried,—in loud tones of Triumph's trance,—
While Glory streameth from his glance,—
While Victory on his forehead sits—
“There shines the Sun of Austerlitz!”
And those who shared that Rapture high,—
Hailed—blessed the Auspicious Augury!
Bright shone that Sun!—yet rose in pride—
Full on the phalanxed Russians' side!—
Displaying to their hostile view
Their adverse aim—their practice true—
Yes!—wide displaying to their eye—
Their armed and marshalled enemy!—
And dazzling with intensest light
The Gallic Hosts' bewildered sight!
Sons of the North!—now stand ye forth!—
Sons of the icy—iron North!—
Strong as its storms, and winds, and rocks—
To give or breast terrific shocks!—
XXII.
Russians!—the asserters ye are madeOf Freedom's cause—too long betrayed—
Arm!—arm, then!—Heroes of the Heart!—
Your swords shall smite, like Death's own dart,
358
War on!—war on!—in gallant joy!—
No second blow shall ever need
From your avenging swords to speed!—
War on!—in endless power and pride—
All Heaven seems warring on your side!—
Thy sons—Oh! Russia!—rise in throngs—
Armed—roused—and terrible with wrongs—
They rise—and rule the Hour!—
Now let them burst on France amazed!
Not thus the Mam'louk valour blazed,—
Not thus proud Austria's arm was raised,
When these defied Her power,—
Not thus shook Prussia's vengeful dart—
Not thus, Ausonia's Alpine heart
Seemed stirred to play the opposer's part,
When War there dared to lower!—
Now pale thy crest—and droop thy wing—
Swarth Eagle!—Heaven-o'ershadowing Thing!—
Down!—down!—thy blood-gilt sceptre fling—
Red Victory's thunder-bearing king!—
And mark thy Planet set!
For ne'er might'st Thou yet meet or find,
Such concord of high wills combined,—
Such singleness of soul and mind,—
While myriad hearts are more than joined,
Through Earth's—through Heaven's best interests twined—
Till these in one fast wreathing wind—
To Thunder back Thy Threat!—
359
XXIII.
'Twas stir and movement, all at last,Though yet roared not the Battle's blast.
The batteries—late erected—while
No daylight helped the arduous toil—
Too distant from the Foe were placed,—
Must these be nearer moved in haste!—
Remained the on-looking foe at rest—
Nor sought to thwart them—nor molest!—
An awful thing 'twere first to break
That calm—for Human Nature's sake!—
A fearful thing 't was thus to see,
These two vast Hosts at enmity,
Even while in silence, there they stood,
Unstained,—as yet, with brother-blood!
Appalling in its awfulness,
Must frown the scene where these shall press,
To share in savage Wrath's excess—
To mingle in the embrace of Hate—
And Death—and Agony—and Fate!—
XXIV.
Awhile those two Colossal FoesRemained at peace and in repose,—
Those two Imperial Armies proud,
Stood—by some weight of stillness bowed,
With looks of interest—stern and deep—
(While each unmoved their place did keep)—
360
With no dismay—with no distress,—
But with a haughty, hopeful sense,
Of deep expectancy intense—
Yet blent, perchance, with some faint awe,
Fulfilling Nature's solemn law!
In such a dreadful hour as this,
While yawned at hand Fate's dark abyss,—
While thousand graves—spread, opening wide—
Ten thousand graves—on every side—
To swallow half that life and pride!—
'Twere strange, indeed, did nought arise,
To hint of human sympathies!
XXV.
The Cannoneers are at their post!—In Battle-order stands the Host!—
To arms!—set on!—the Morning wears!—
Start!—like stung lions from their lairs!—
Already there are wounds and strife,
In this great Nation's deepest life,
Blood must be shed—doth that not bleed?—
The World awaits your every deed!—
Already there is scathe and smart,
In a great nation's deepest heart!—
Up!—strong Defenders of the North!—
Burning with boundless wrongs—stand forth!—
Up!—strong Defenders!—all are One—
Defenders and Deliverers—On!—
The World is waiting for your works!
Strange terror in her bosom lurks.
361
Shuddering, may shrink the Nations all—
For none may stand against the arm
Red with your Ruin!—Sound the Alarm!—
XXVI.
Napoleon's glance of Fire and LightWas fixed intently on his Right;
When suddenly—with startling burst—
Loud toward his Left—the Strife broke first—
Loud on his Left outburst the roar—
Of boundless battle—stern and sore!—
Ere long he learned a mighty band—
Of those beneath Eugene's command—
The brave Beauharnais—had attacked,
While fast their way they hewed and hacked,
Pale Borodino's hamlet rude—
By them now occupied—subdued!—
XXVII.
But other tidings quickly came—The exultant Triumph-mood to tame—
The bridge at Borodino, thrown
Across the stream, was made their own;
And this, deep dangerous risks to avoid,
Should straight have fallen,—by them destroyed,
But driven by the ardour of success
With wild impetuous recklessness—
Their prompt rash way they forced across—
O'ertaken by terrific loss—
362
The heights of Gorcki,—frowning black
With Ordnance stern, till thus hurled back
On their too wild and desperate track!—
The Russians mowed down many a rank,
With their fierce fires of Front and Flank!—
Those gallant bands were shaken sore—
They struggling bled at every pore—
While their brave chief in death was laid,—
The chief, commanding that brigade,—
All would have perished on the spot,
A glorious,—though a ghastly lot,—
But straight their dreadless comrades rushed,
With generous warmth of ardour flushed,
And rescued them from ruin dire—
At fearful risk—beneath that fire!—
XXVIII.
It was Napoleon's self that bade,The left wing urge the attack it made,
From him these orders had been sent—
It seemed 'twas but his shrewd intent,
Thereon to keep the attention bent
Of the Enemy—in such event!
Perchance, scarce deemed he that so well
His studied words they thus should spell—
And to the least, last letter tell!
But thought to mark—with dubious will—
Their partial execution still!—
Howe'er it was—he startled—shook!—
With thrill of ire—and lowering look,—
363
His mandates fast he multiplied—
With strenuous vehemence that bore
All things its passionate course before!
XXIX.
He flung the Battle from his Soul—Full on the Front to rage and roll!—
Flung the Whole Battle—fierce and dread—
Full on the Front—to blaze and spread!—
What though, within his scheming thought
Its plan had differently been wrought?
'Twas changed,—turned,—checked,—and snatched, and heaved,
From the oblique order then conceived!—
And from That Thought, far flashed and flew,
A fresh Creation—formed anew!
He judged that Poniatowski now—
Whose valour never knew to bow—
Must dwell hard by the Hostile Force—
Where runs the old Moscow road its course!—
XXX.
And hark!—faint sounds hoarse muttering come—He starts—as 'twere The Tromp of Doom!
Now—now,—the Signal prompt he gave!—
Proud time of transport for the Brave!—
The signal for the Attack!—at once
Bursts out the Battle!—dread response!
Terrific from the erst peaceful Plain—
From circling hills it raged amain!
364
Burst the loud Battle in reply!—
He spake the word!—like sword from Sheath—
The Battle bounded to his breath!
Men took to them their Strength and Pride—
And launched themselves on War's deep tide—
That round in regal anger swept!—
Bright anger!—while it stirred and leapt
Against those skies that soon shall lean
Above a blood-red ruin's scene!
XXXI.
To them, Men took their strength and might—Their Memories high of Feud and Fight!
That mingling with their feelings grew,
Till scarce their presence there, they knew!
Proudly, the unvanquished Sons of Gaul
Donned the armour of their memories all—
O'erjoyed—their Friedland fires they fanned—
And high, shook Jena's red right hand!
Their old Marengo minds they kept,—
And on the Steed of Battle leapt!—
The Giant Steed!—that, plunging far,
Shook from his horrent mane the War—
And galloped on the scorching gale—
And pawed the clouds of Havoc pale!
Then heaved in storm-pace on and on
His Mountain-Stature to the Sun!
Which, changed with wondering and dismay,
Made a white Death-Night of the Day!
365
XXXII.
But let him fade!—that Monarch Sun!—Wreathed deep with smoke-clouds dense, and dun!—
Within their rushing souls they gaze,
At One that shall unclouded blaze!—
A Sun that leaveth no more night—
With long immortal splendours bright!—
Strange Light that never intermits—
Streams from their Sun of Austerlitz!—
Crowned Sun of Austerlitz!—thy rays
Write on their souls—with thee ablaze!—
The burning word of “Victory” write—
To brace their thoughts with statelier might!
Those rays are royal in their souls!—
While fierce that Tide of Tempests rolls!—
XXXIII.
The far-resounding Battle roars—Like thousand seas on thousand shores!—
It mounts!—it maddens!—all is made
Like blazing shadows of Its shade!
Winged Hurricane-Eclipsings sent—
From mad Earth climb the Firmament!
She bids The Space be gloom and cloud—
And takes for Atmosphere—a shroud!
While every Earthquake-shout there waked,
The echoes with which the wide air ached!
Now both the unblenching Hosts behold—
On—on—like meeting Oceans rolled!
366
Both urging wildly at its will!—
“Russia in Arms!—March!—Strike!—Advance!—
And Charge!—Charge!—Charge!—tremendous France!”—
XXXIV.
Fierce crash on crash—far-echoing dread—Raged where the Boundless Battle spread!
The thousand-thundering batteried roar—
With deafening din racked more and more!
Defence—Defiance—and Despair—
Yelled their mixed madness through the air!
While still that dreadful Voice appeared,
As though both Hosts it hailed and cheered!
The Voice of War—so loud—so dire—
It lashed the Soul's tossed Seas of Fire!
“March!—Russia!—March!—Arise!—Advance!—
And Charge!—Charge!—Charge!—unconquered France!”—
In Nations,—heroes hurrying press,
To prove their Warrior-Worthiness!—
Sound!—Sound!—ye deafening noises high,
Peal on!—bewildering Harmony!—
While breathless Empires listening wait,
To learn what they may hope from Fate!—
Call out to them with such a voice,
That they may hear—and may rejoice!
Stern Russia!—Proudly do thy part!—
Worlds watching hail the Mighty Heart!
367
Britannia!—loftiest of the Free!—
Lifts up her glorious head on high—
Where flash new wreaths of Victory—
To gaze upon thy fateful War,
While smiles o'er thee, her Guardian Star!—
She watches Thee!—even She, whose march
Makes Heaven one Trophied—Triumph-Arch!
XXXV.
She—who hath met thy dreadful Foe—To lay his haughty boastings low,—
To lift Her Head above his Pride!—
And tell him loud—he is defied!—
Her trebly-crowned and queenliest head—
Unbowed—while bends a world in dread!—
Unbowed—'mid strife or threatened ill!—
For She shall blench not—word nor will—
That World's great Sovereign—Sovereign still!
Even while the illuminated towers
Of London—flush the midnight's hours!
And all the festal City shines,
With triumphs proud and princely signs!
Forgets she not, 'midst stateliest cheer,
The struggle and the tumult here!
Old England's millions watch and pray—
For Thee on thine eventful day,—
For thee, in thine ordeal of dread—
While doubt and gloom are round thee spread!—
368
High pinnacled on Mountained Worth!
Brightening Renown with Sun-sphered Truth!—
With Virtue's Honour!—best in sooth!
XXXVI.
And wronged and martyred GermanyHath fixed her thoughtful glance on thee,—
While chains are clanking harsh and loud
O'er her crowned cities, bright and proud!—
And blue Italia's eye of Sun
Shall dwell thy giant deeds upon!—
For while she bends—she burns!—Still—still
She keeps, like her Volcanic Hill,
A World of Fire crushed—shrouded—sealed—
Within—till Time it be revealed!—
Till the hour by Heaven designed shall come,
And bid the sleeping not be dumb!—
Till the hour, when Heaven shall raise her head,
And bid the entombed One, not be dead!—
Strike!—Russians!—Strike the Invaders down!—
Snatch—snatch their Glory's burning crown!—
On!—Russia!—On!—Old Rugged North!—
Let all thy treasured wrath fly forth!—
Defeat them and destroy!—
Sons of the savage North!—Ye stand
On your own strength—in your own land!—
War on—in gallant joy!—
An hundred nations watch and pray
For ye on this momentous day,
369
Britannia,—glorying, breathes from far
Her lofty blessing on your war,—
War on!—War on!—and win!—
XXXVII.
The glorious pageant streams unrolled,Like some huge banner, fold by fold,—
More glorious yet—and more!—
Earth with the deep reflection shines—
Standards on standards—lines on lines—
Bright arms on arms—no bound confines!—
Till Earth's proud Trees—Her teeming Mines
Seemed rooted up—despoiled—where joins
The Battle—sharp and sore!—
So thick those standards' staves arose,
(Like masts o'er waves of friends and foes,)
O'erpoweringly high!—
So thronged, those glittering arms were seen,
With scarce a spear-point's space between,
Bickering—like thick-starred sky!—
Here many a nation marshalled see
'Gainst Russia and 'gainst Liberty!—
XXXVIII.
Switzers!—March ye with these enrolled—Ye—highest of the haughty-souled?—
Can Ye forget your struggles proud,—
Sons of the Regions of the Cloud!—
For Freedom and your Rights—of yore,—
Round garrisoned by guardians hoar?—
370
The Impregnable to Man or Time!
Where, threatening, daunts the invading Foe
The pale Artillery of the Snow!—
The sounding Avalanche that rains
Its white destruction o'er the plains,—
The death-bolt launched as from the sky;—
(Where frowns it dark and angrily,
Touching those crests—half way on high,
Chilled with a dead Eternity!—)
Can ye those sacred strifes forget?—
Your land is glorious with them yet!—
The nations honour Her and hail,
Because she could not blench nor fail!—
XXXIX.
The Kühreihen's long-remembered notes,Mind ye where the air of Freedom floats;
And can ye unrepentant hear
Its sweet sounds in your dreaming ear?—
Well may you die upon the strain,
If you dare fight for Yoke and Chain!—
Well pine to death when rings that song,
If ye dare swell the Ranks of Wrong!—
The lay of the Alpine herdsman free
Must sting with sharpened memory,
When poured on ears not racked with pain
At clankings of the abhorrent chain!—
Think of the Schreckhorn's peaks of snow,
All shines unstained—above—below!—
371
The hearts unbowed through Life and Death,
As from Earth's soil its crowning wreath!—
Think of the soaring Jungfrau bright,
With spiritually-quickening light,—
The soul of Freedom's high repose—
The proudest Sun that gilds its snows!—
XL.
Think of your Lammer-geyer's wild cry,Whose every tone saith “Liberty!”—
Think of your rushing torrents sent,
In Freedom's own abandonment,
To shew how beautiful—how bright—
How glorious to the thought and sight,
Must be all shapes,—whate'er their birth,—
That blessed Freedom takes on Earth!
How fair all Forms—by mount or lake—
That holiest Freedom wills to take!—
Oh! dare ye strive to fix that yoke
On others' necks your proud hands broke?—
And dare ye strive to make them slaves?—
Think of your chainless Fathers' graves!—
Oh! by those fathers—by their fame—
By each heroic—honoured name—
Oh! By the immortal Patriot Three,
Stretched near Lucerne's blue forest-sea,—
Even Those who on the Grütlii shore
Formed their great starry league of yore!—
372
Where fast the rocks of terror fell—
Fast on the whelmed and slaughtered foe—
Beneath revenge and wrath laid low!
By the Underwalhden's haughty strife—
With all renown and glory rife!
By every high and hallowed grave—
The martyrdom of all the brave!
By shrine and altar—hearth and hill—
Be Free—and more!—Free-making still!—
Switzerland—noblest Land of Lands!—
On her proud Mountains, tiptoe stands—
To see her sons—(foul sight to see!—)
Fight—Freedom!—fight!—'gainst thine and thee?
XLI.
And can the gallant sons of Spain,Stand forth to bind the Oppressor's chain?
For this did They pour darkly down,
From proud Sierras of their own!—
And buckle War's bright Terrors on—
Their harness shining in the sun!—
By Saint Jago's honoured name—
By all your old chivalrous Fame—
By the antique strifes of fair renown—
When sank the tribes of red Mahoun—
When Afric's dusky breast received,
The few from Spanish steel reprieved!
By Zegri—and the Abencerrage—
Whose race was swept from Earth's fair page—
373
Proud Spain's high vengeance!—Truth and Right!—
By dark Guadiana's rolling wave,
And shores sunk deep in many a grave—
When Paynim—Moor—and Christian Knight—
There fought the dire and bloody Fight!—
By Rio Verde's wreaths of Fame,—
Those Hymns that hailed the bleeding stream!—
By brave Pelagio's deeds of power,
Where the old Asturias saw him tower,
In haughtiest Independence still,
'Mid its stern fastnesses of Hill!—
By your great Cid's immortal name,
And all your Dreams of the ancient Fame—
Unsay not every loftiest boast,
By strengthening thus the Invader's Host!
XLII.
Such words are vain!—In Gaul's proud van,See, rage the undaunted Catalan!—
And the Andalusian Coursers bear
Their masters through the Wild of War!
There Leon's haughty banner floats—
Its rustling stirs like trumpet notes!—
And there the plumed Guerilla waves,
That sword whose stroke should free all slaves!
While spurs 'mid Battle's clash and roar,
Shouting—the fiery Torreadore!—
And their own Land the while withstands,
The Gallic Leader's phalanxed Bands!
374
Glows red,—beneath blue skies of Spain!
XLIII.
Ausonia's high historic clime—Once—and For Ever—the sublime!
Sends forth her sons to swell these ranks—
From the Arno's amphitheatred banks;—
Or yellow Tiber's ruined shore—
Where sleeps a proud sun-world of yore!
Should not the Sons of Romans pause,
Ere They espouse another's cause,—
And die to wreathe fresh Laurels now,
Around their alien Ruler's brow?
(The Alps' Desecrator!—he who shook
Those Heights—with Battle's Thunder-stroke!—)
Should their dark sultriness of soul—
Thus spread the tyrannous stern controul!—
XLIV.
And ye!—ye blue-eyed heirs of Fame,Which streams from the Old Teutonic name!—
Ye, too,—thus on the Moskowa's plain
Have filled the Aggressor's crowded train;
There, the old Teutonic strains ye sang,
Till Russia's pine-woods shook and rang!—
While fast ye sped, to waste and blight,
With rash audacious boast of might,—
And give to Slavery's hateful lot
A nation that had wronged you not!—
375
To see ye wrong your ancient fame!—
And dare ye breathe your high old strain—
“The Rhine!—the Rhine!”—with shouts again?—
Be silent of the olden days,
When nobler were your works and ways;—
Be silent of the days of Pride,
If now ye take the Oppressor's side!—
XLV.
And ye!—Untamed, undaunted Poles,With Freedom burning at your souls!—
Think ye to free your native sod
By making Millions kiss the rod?—
By widening thus the Tyrant reign?—
No!—Ye shall rivet more your chain!—
Why should Ye in your rising hour
Thus grasp another's cloak of power?—
Choose your own paths—toward your own end—
On your own red right arms depend!—
Trust to your own high name and fame,
Nor the alien vain alliance claim!—
Nor think true Freedom shall be bought
By deeds unrighteous—darkly wrought!—
If ye, yourselves would freely move,
And proudly glance to Heaven above,
From the unstained Earth—that sees no slave,—
And raise, and right yourselves and save—
Oh! wrong not others,—nor betray
Their hands to chains of iron sway!—
376
By acting thus the enslavers' parts!—
Deal death around till ye are free—
Leave to the living—Liberty!—
Wreak vengeance—strike—o'erpower—chastise,—
But make them not Themselves despise!—
Nor yield them to the living death
Yourselves have maddening, borne beneath;—
Give them to Ruin's reddest graves,
Do all,—but make them doubly slaves!—
Go, form your own proud ranks and fight,
Nor let such Wrong e'er shake such Right!—
Go! valiant Poles!—Go! men of might!—
For the Universal Freedom—arm!
And sound the long and loud alarm!—
XLVI.
How many nations swell the train,To widen thus a Tyrant's reign!—
They deem this Might is Right—nor pause
To sound his claim nor weigh his cause!—
Now the Uproar shaketh far and wide
The echoing air on every side,
The hills have each a hideous voice,
And loud in havoc's din rejoice;
Ten thousand fierce explosions rend
The awed atmosphere,—and clash and blend;
Volumes of wreathing smoke and fire
Spread wide, in vast confusion dire,—
While hissing bullets whistling tear,
With ceaseless noise the startled air,
377
As her deep heart were swollen with wrath!—
In midst of all this deafening roar,
Davoust right onwards hurrying bore—
With threatening cannons ranged before—
Behind—the Artillery high and haught—
Of hearts, that burst with fiery thought—
Living artillery—that around
Shall ruin spread—without a bound!—
Towards Russia's first Redoubt—that frowned
Like Fate's own fortress—o'er the ground!—
Passed on—the Unvanquished and Renowned!—
XLVII.
Began the Northern MusketeersWith their sharp knell to strike the ears—
Loud rang that clear revolving knell,
Sang through the air their bullets well—
Straight answered by redoubled roar,
From cannon-mouths, that deepening pour
Their storms of ruin more and more!—
Still the Infantry of France marched on—
Nor fired—while fast their way they won—
Hastening to reach—check—crush—o'erthrow
The fiery terrors of the Foe—
But he, who at their Column's head,
Waved on—through all that scene of dread—
Brave Compans,—deeply stricken—pressed
The crimsoned earth with bleeding breast—
Fell too his Bravest and his Best,—
While disconcerted paused the rest!—
378
They halt—to pour back Death for Death!—
To pour back in their unchecked ire,
The fierce and desolating fire!—
This—this were vain!—thus ruin's worst
On their devoted heads should burst!—
XLVIII.
But Rapp rushed on—and forward led—In place of Him who stricken bled,
Once more,—beneath his brave command,
Right forward pressed the fearless band;
With levelled bayonets they go,
With quickened pace against their foe,
Like hungered wolves that desperate throw
Their strength on the angered buffalo!—
Whose murderous horn and mangling hoof—
May keep not these apart—aloof—
Until they quench his fiery mood
In torrents of his own black blood—
And tear him into quivering parts—
Each panting as with hundred hearts!—
'Gainst their Foe's fastness—so they rushed,
While Valour's fires to phrenzies flushed!—
They neared that Promontory-Mound,
Thick set with embrazures around,
Where frieze with arrowy threat was found;
They neared it! and their Leader first—
Who joined their shouts' acclaiming burst—
379
Hit from some hand that aimed too well,
Added one other wound,—that aim,
To twenty-one proud scars of fame!—
Then straight a fresh Commander came—
And straight the self-same fate was his—
Till seemed it that they could not miss!—
Davoust, himself, too wounded, bled—
Full well the hostile fight hath sped!—
Unwavering—that devoted troop,
Yet something slackened,—blenched in Hope!—
Their Hope may change—they will not droop!—
While Ney, with his divisions three,
Made speed—Davoust!—to succour thee!—
XLIX.
Divided then their fire the Foe—Onwards did Ney the Gallant go!—
Supported thus—encouraged then—
Advanced with shouts those fearless men!
And through fierce efforts,—firm and fast,
The entrenchments dread, they reached at last!—
Scaled these—and 'mongst the Russians mixed,
With their red bayonets transfixed—
Pierced, scattered, stabbed them, and o'erthrew,
And bands of stubborn strugglers slew!—
Meantime made Ney his fierce attack,
And left his broad and blood-stained track,
Where raised apart,—with threatening mien,—
The unconquered two Redoubts were seen;
380
From the adverse ranks that sought to smite—
That sought to smite,—but smitten fell,
And bled where they had fought so well!
Defeated—routed—these remained,—
They paused—with dumb amazement chained;
While felled them fast the unpitying Gaul,
Exulting high above their fall!—
L.
Thus forced the Left of Russia's Line—The Plain thus cleared—that voice of thine,—
Great Conqueror!—sounded clear and free,—
“Murat! lead on thy Cavalry!—
Thus finished shall Our Victory be!”—
Passed but a moment,—and, prepared,
Murat on the awful heights appeared,
Amidst those hostile ranks that now
Redarkened every lofty brow!—
For Russia's second line was there,
And Reinforcements fresh and fair,
By Touczkoff sent, to check the rout,
And onwards led by Bagawout!
These forward rushed right furiously,—
Thronged thousands, rallying round them, see!—
They braved their Foe's victorious ire
Beneath his very line of fire!—
Advancing to retake—regain
The entrenchments long held out in vain!—
In Victory's confidence of sway
And wild and reckless mis-array—
381
Stern harm their consternation caused!—
Westphalia's Phalanx, pressing fast
To Poniatowski's aid, rushed past,—
Then crossed the shadowy sundering wood
That 'twixt Him and the Army stood;—
Glimpsed through the blinding dust and smoke,
Whose clouds embarrassed the eager look,—
From the undue course those waverers took—
Who startled and astonished shook—
Were they mistaken for The Foe,
And fired on, wronged—and harassed so,—
Till desperately and strangely grew
On wild distress—disorder new!—
While the adverse numbers well retained,
And followed up the advantage gained!—
Their hostile Cavalry closed round
Murat—who, spurning bar and bound,
Had onwards dashed with sword and cry
To rally those scared troops that fly!—
Though Ruin glared in every shape,
Effected he at length escape;
And threw himself—from that fierce rout
Delivered—in the assailed Redoubt!—
LI.
There, numbers panic-struck he found,—His Presence made their chilled hearts bound!—
One hand doth well his weapon wield—
The other his proud crest upheld!—
382
Till sprang their gladdened hearts as high;
The valour of their first staunch mood
Burned,—thus triumphantly renewed!—
Ney, too, hath fairly formed again
His troops, that well their strength did strain
'Gainst clouds of Cuirassiers that came,
Breathing an element of flame!—
Checked by the Gaul were these o'erthrown,
Murat was disengaged—'twas done!
Those Heights re-conquered were their own!—
The Swordsman-King in triumph high,
Rushed once more on the Enemy,—
With the proud cavalry and fair
Of Nansouty and bold Bruyère,—
With terrible encounter then,
Joined furious hosts of dreadless men!—
As Life were but a weed to fling
Away—a light unvalued thing!—
LII.
Again!—Again!—Again!—the FrenchStill charged the Foe—they will not blench!—
In vain, the impetuous troops of France
To Victory's shouts timed loud the advance—
One stern fierce hour they deeply strove—
At length the Russ they backward drove!—
But Semmanowska's Heights—where stood
The ruins of its village rude—
Towered yet unvanquished—unsubdued!—
383
Far scattering hideous loss immense,
Down poured the Foe's commanding fire—
Fast—ceaseless—desolating—dire!—
Arresting Victory on her way,
Opposing all her soaring sway!—
These must be conquered!—Maubourg first—
Thy cavalry—with valorous burst—
Hath cleared the Front—and braved the worst!—
They cleared the Front!—came Friant then,
With his brave ranks of marching men—
Dufour too—well the attack was timed—
Soon up the opposing steeps they climbed!—
The Russians now give back—they're lost—
Driven—hurled—dislodged, from their high post!—
Marked Koutousoff the danger dire—
Must Russia in his sight expire?—
One vigorous effort must be made—
One stern gigantic stroke essayed—
Nor must the attempt be now delayed!—
LIII.
Murat and Ney, brief while remainedExhausted,—nor the fray sustained,—
The fiery conflict had oppressed
Their wearied troops, sore needing rest—
No reinforcements came to aid,—
On Victory's road so seemed they stayed!—
Soon from the unhoped-for respite deep,
Shall Koutousoff high 'vantage reap,
384
Strike!—Russians—strike!—nor shrink—nor swerve!—
Even to the Imperial Guards—behold!—
His whole Reserve doth he unfold!
His Left Wing now uncovered all—
Must they support—or ruined—Fall!—
LIV.
Bagration hath re-formed his line,Strengthened by ranks that hurrying join,
On that Great Battery rests his Right—
'Gainst which Eugene still hurled his might—
His Left—on that dark wood which bounds,
Towards Psarewo, the battle-grounds—
Their fire incessant sharply galled
Proud Gallia's ranks—yet unappalled!—
The attack was fierce—terrific—stern—
Still—still to combat they return—
Flight—failure—or defeat they spurn!—
LV.
With maddened vehemence they strive—Earth with the uproar throbs alive—
Artillery,—Infantry,—and Horse,
To all and each had they recourse!—
And each and all, tremendous, burst
On Gaul—as't was their Last and First—
Their first and last—their only hope;—
Yet deigned not Her proud ranks to droop—
Murat and Ney stood nobly firm,
Beneath that tempest—to its term!—
385
Their Victory hoped they to extend?—
Enough!—if what indeed is gained
Be well preserved—and still maintained!—
And now some balls, with threatening bound,
At the Emperor's feet have ploughed the ground!—
Where War's Great Master holds his seat,
They kiss the dust at those dread feet!—
LVI.
It fortuned well for bleeding France,Her own artillery did advance
Towards those stern heights,—she late had won,—
Where perished many a valiant son—
This, while with desperate zeal she fought,
With prompt rapidity was brought!—
Napoleon with impatience bade
This movement should at once be made;—
Throughout that day, 'twas strange—he shewed,
Save then, a still and deadened mood;—
A Mighty Melancholy sate
On his pale forehead—bowed with fate—
And in that dread and piercing eye,—
On fire with far Futurity!—
A gathering gloom,—at times o'ercame,
The insufferable light and flame!—
Upon his spirit seemed to press
A mountain's load of listlessness;—
386
His towering soul that day stood still!—
A wonderful and awful pause—
Without a clue—without a cause!—
Near that Redoubt he still remained—
Which first his Gallia's prowess gained!
Now sate he down in listless sort—
Now paced with cold indifferent port,—
So seemed he even as 'twere, self-worn,
By years of Inward Power o'erborne!—
The world by him informed and lit—
Was fired—as he was soul of it!—
All fevered to one Tempest-fit!—
For this he stole no Fire from Heaven—
The Flame from his own Soul was given!
Well might that Soul at times give way—
And sleep o'erwearied on the clay!—
Sleep on this clay of Death and Life—
Dust's life and death—grown faint with strife!
LVII.
The French Artillery now hath crowned,The fenced heights of the changeful ground!—
And soon out-bursts its dreadful voice—
To bid the fiends of War rejoice!
Three hundred cannon-mouths poured loud—
Their deafening clamours—stern and proud!—
At once their startling terrors roared,
In wildering Unison outpoured!—
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Seemed rent and staggering shudderingly!
Throbbed all around with knolling pulse—
So did those racking shocks convulse!
Appeared the air—the sky—the ground—
To live and labour with That Sound!—
Until it seemed the Voice of Space—
As though on their eternal race—
Worlds rocked beneath it,—to their base!
LVIII.
First, by this brazen line of doom,The Russian Horsemen were o'ercome!
Disordered—sought they refuge then,
Behind vast masses dense of men!—
Huge masses that advanced beneath
That dreadful cloud of fiery Death!—
As on they came—with measured pace—
Their ranks shewed many a gaping space!—
Those ranks were ploughed through every part,
By ruin's aids of murderous art!
Still on they came—advanced they still—
With firm, indomitable will!—
A fresh discharge terrific burst
From those stern batteries—like the first:
Fell whole Platoons at once destroyed—
To leave full many a yawning void!—
While o'er their wounded and their slain,
Closed fast those 'minished files again!
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No pause—in Passiveness was made—
No pulse of that Progression stayed—
No point of powerlessness, displayed,
For that destruction—dire and deep—
Which ploughed their ranks with slaughtering sweep;—
Though ill could these together hold—
So crushed were they—the Brave and Bold!
Each instant severed by the Dead—
The Dying—trampled by their tread!
LIX.
But Lo!—they halt!—advancing not—Nor yet retreating from that spot!
Hath Horror's petrifying grasp,
At length o'ercome them—that they gasp
As with Amazement's bonds enchained—
Whose suffocating links are strained—
Till sense and life have lapsed and waned?
The cause of this strange check unknown—
Was ne'er disclosed—was never shewn!
It might be that their Leaders viewed
Their failure—nor their plans renewed;—
Dubious what change to make, and how,
To save them, or to strengthen now!—
Possessing not like him whose star,
Had shone the Lightning-Sun of War—
The art of putting into motion—
All calmly as the Moon, doth—the Ocean,—
Such mighty Tides of stirring Life—
And governing through storm and strife!—
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Even in that streight so hazardous—
Some succours fresh—some new commands—
So paused these mute, devoted Bands!
Still shouldering closely side to side
They stood—they staggered—fell and died!—
Still linking fresh each lessening rank—
Thus breathless stood—and bleeding sank!
LX.
What Battle-steed is rushing wild—With blood—and froth—and dust defiled?—
What Steed—unridden and unreined—
His gallant housings dimmed and stained—
Far flings his reddened foam on air—
That foam dashed dark, with blood-gouts there?
Drips fast with gore his loosened rein—
He darts along—stops—starts again—
Then—Life half bursting through each vein—
Bounds like the Death-balls o'er the Plain!—
Amazement—Terror—and Despair—
Goad like his raging Riders there!
He plungeth on—and swalloweth space—
In that wild agonizing race!
With furious snort—with phrenzied bound—
He smokes along the echoing ground!—
Maddening—as with his own fierce force!—
'Tis fallen Bagration's Battle-Horse!—
Bagration!—bold—and true—and brave—
Hast Thou, then, found thy glorious grave?
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LXI.
And still the Artillery's volumed roar,Made Earth, one Shudder as before!—
And still those moveless masses stayed
Two mortal hours bereft of aid!—
Beneath that shattering Cannonade!—
Mowed down—pierced through—asunder torn—
To fragments hacked—riven—bowed—o'erborne!
Yet—passive as their Dead—stood all!—
No Movement made they but—their Fall!—
Like tottering ruins shaken sore—
Crushed inwards—fell they evermore!—
The Living—lifeless seemed to be—
Some wall of senseless statuary!
Throbs surely there no pulse—no heat—
Take root in blood, their reddened feet!
They look adown with eyes of stone—
As though the informing soul was flown!—
As they unto themselves, were then—
The Insensate Images of Men!
This hideous massacre and strange,
Continued thus without a change!—
Two mortal hours—continued thus—
Foul—sickening—stern—and dolorous!—
Pressed on with dreadful dire success—
Till Fortune even wished Triumph less!—
Till even the shuddering Cannoneers—
Unused to pity as to fears—
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Admiring that mute Valour's might!—
That awful courage—boundless—blind—
Blank—breathless—motionless—resigned!—
Wondering—they shudderingly admired—
Then paused—no fresh discharge they fired,
Awhile the ill-starred ranks respired—
It was The Victors first grew tired!—
LXII.
Sickening at horror's foul excess—And wearying of the tardiness
Of this Artillery-Battle now,
Those Conquerors—breathing-time allow!—
Exhausted by its length withal—
Low doth their ammunition fall!
They paused!—moved forward gallant Ney—
Burning to crown the Battle-day!
His right extending—made he then
Thus rapidly advance again—
To turn the left of that new Front,
Opposed unto their battle's brunt!
Davoust and brave Murat once more—
Both seconded the Chief—'tis o'er!—
The fragments of Ney's Numbers now
Make fallen Bagration's Remnants bow!—
Then ceased the Battle on the Plain—
While fiercely still the Strife must reign,
Above,—where yet their strength they strain,—
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Defended by the Muscovites!—
And near that Vast Redoubt which still
Barclay, with deep determined will,—
That cannot change—that will not bend—
Continued stoutly to defend!
LXIII.
High rode in Heaven the mid-day sun—When half of Russia's Line undone,
No longer sought their doom to shun,—
The conquerors breathed—their goal was won!—
The brave right wing of France, that so
Had swept down half of the ill-starred Foe—
Its front presented then and there—
With triumph proud—in order fair!—
On the part-opened Flank despoiled—
Of the adverse army's wreck entoiled,
Thus wrung—and shaken—bowed—and foiled!—
The Interior now was shewn revealed—
Without a skreen—without a shield!
The thinned Reserves—the abandoned Rear—
Shall all at length spread—visioned clear!—
All—all—the observant eye shall greet—
Even the Commencement of Retreat!
LXIV.
But weakened—thinned—exhausted too—These vainly met their Conquerors' view!
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Wearied and worn, too, on their side!
Too weak to throw themselves are they,
In that deep chasm's broad tempting way!
Yet checks such deed, and such design,
A still, full formidable line;—
Now call they on the Guard aloud—
Let this complete their Victory proud!—
Or but in marshalled strength appear—
With firm and fixed assurance—here!
Let this but follow them!—but shew—
Its Front before their weakened Foe!—
And on these heights but take their place—
Then—they, themselves,—that Foe will face!—
Themselves will finish—close—and crown—
A day that still should be their own!
The Guard!—the Young Guard!—They must speed—
To aid them now at sorest need!
LXV.
Belliard is at the Emperor's side—He meeteth looks of stubborn pride;—
And urgeth deep—and urgeth long—
With accents keen and reasonings strong!
“The Guard!—but let them now assist—
And all is as The Victors list!—
The Guard!—the Guard!—must this assure.
Their wavering Foe's discomfiture!
One Effort more, and all is done—
The Empire subdued—the Triumph won!—
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The Nation at Napoleon's feet!”—
But The Emperor dubious, gave command—
Once more the scene should well be scanned!
Straightforth His mandates were obeyed—
And swift return brave Belliard made!
“Already hath the Foe,”—he said—
“Much changed his plans—his flight is stayed!—
That shaggy Copse which lies between
Ourselves and him—even now is seen
With his sharpshooters thickly lined,—
A fatal meaning lurks behind!—
The bright Occasion's chance is lost!
If now forborne!—vain-vain Our Boast—
The blood-bought Triumphs of Our Host!
Not for One Moment more delay—
Or each best hope is swept away!—
Neglected Victory shall disdain
The arms that fail to fix her reign!
A second Battle we must fight,
To terminate the first aright!”—
LXVI.
Soon Bessieres farther tidings brought—With deep and full importance fraught;—
He saith, the Foes, in order true,
Have ta'en their strong position new!
Where seemed they well prepared to make,
A formidable fresh attack;—
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“Nay!—nought is well unravelled yet!—
More clearly must I see and mark,
On this strange chess-board—deep and dark!”—
He points toward Moscow's road afar—
Whence hoarse sounds Poniatowski's war—
Then towards that Grand Redoubt—where still
Succeed Eugene's brave efforts ill!—
While hurrying in fresh counsellors came,
With tones of power—and words of flame!—
They urged him—pressed him—charged—implored—
“The Guard!—the Guard!”—is still the word—
By Dumas, and by Berthier sent
Daru to these his efforts lent,—
(To this his eloquence he bent)—
Assured he, the Emperor,—stern and high,
From all sides burst that gathered Cry—
“The time to send The Guard is come!”—
Shall he be deaf—while none are dumb?—
LXVII.
This answer rendered back—their chief,In chill, grave accents, low and brief—
“And should the Morrow chance to see
Another Battle—answer me!—
Where should my Fighting Army be?”—
Urged then the Minister no more,
He felt all hope—all chance, was o'er;—
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Wildered—astonished—and aghast!—
Well might he, marvelling thus, behold
This changed demeanour—curbed and cold—
And, wonder-struck, Napoleon see,
Adjourning thus his Victory!—
Adjourning Glory—Fame—Success—
While seemed they on his path to press!—
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