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. |
| X. |
| XI. | CANTO XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
440
CANTO XI.
I.
There is a place where shines the sun—As though its march were just begun!
Fresh from the Almighty Former's hand—
Celestially serene and bland—
With such a living, loving ray,
It shoots its deep heart-smiles away—
And melts into the mightier Day!—
As though the Eternal's breath was blent,
With every beam-flash that it sent!
So seems to speak that breathing Sun—
(A conscious dreaming—feeling One—)
Its Own—Creation's march, begun!—
The Bloom seems on the opening light—
The Birth-bloom—rapturously bright!
Even while the eyes o'er-gladdened gaze—
Where skies more beautifully blaze!—
There is a Place where glistening streams—
More brightly glass his gathered beams;
And sing with thrilling voices sweet—
As they did angels' songs repeat!
441
Like Treasure-Bearers come and go;
And fling strange, costly wealth—like slaves
That in the East, from mines and waves,
Bring spoil—some Sultan's luxury craves!
Then overburthened lay their own
Life-offering—with those offerings down!—
Dying, where those rich gifts are thrown!
There, stars look down with human eyes—
Such deep love midst their splendours lies!
There Paradise!—Oh! sweetest part—
Lives straight from Heaven into the Heart!—
Which beats engirdled—warm and clear—
With the all-ambrosial atmosphere!
II.
There yon ethereal cope divine,Seems one wide, opening, sparkling shrine!
Till manifest almost to sight,
Appears the all-glorious Throne of Light!—
Till the dread triumph of Heaven's King—
With which all worlds untiring ring—
O'erflows the Unbounded Space—and most
Within the Unbounded Soul is lost!
(For that hath power it may not know—
And Spaces that for ever grow!—
Thronged—trembling—teeming, still with more
Immensities—that find no shore—
Vaster and deeper than before!
On fire with the Universe it streams,—
On fire with Godhead's Shadow beams!)
442
III.
Still—still the glory more than great—The pomp of the Creator's state—
More clearly shines to yearning eyes,
Through the arch of long-familiar skies!
Oh!—who—whate'er their clime—their doom—
Can doubt that Heavenly Earth is Home!
Through peace or pain—through weal or woe—
There smiles our Better-Land below!
There blooms the Paradise—the Place,
Of Refuge for the Exiled Race!
The hallowed and the saving Ark
On this World's hurrying waters dark—
Still doomed through Life's mazed wilds to roam—
Our hearts throb back their sweet way—Home!
And every step we take with pain,
But adds a fresh link to the chain!
But yields the lengthening chain a link—
Which yet must round existence shrink!
And clasp with closer clingings still,—
Those links the chain's fair measure fill!
Distance—still space by space shall seem—
To deepen more that darling dream!
Division doth but dearer make
The scenes for which our senses ache!
And in that distance more divine—
Like stars that All celestial shine—
(Though many a sphere is like our own
Its light from alien sources thrown)
443
Bright as some sun-throne 'mongst the spheres!
IV.
Yes!—still—as through Life's wastes we move—Mournful with human, aching love—
We fix our hearts on some dear spot,
Through all the days of living lot—
And deem—through this world's turmoils driven—
While Heaven is Home—so Home is Heaven!—
And be the adoring Dream forgiven!
For all Earth hath of First and Best,
Smiles—gathered in that place of Rest!
And midst vain jarrings—wild and rude—
'Tis sacred-calm—as solitude!
The World's breath dare not come to break,
Thy peace so blessed for Love's own sake—
Thou starry—clear—unruffled lake!
Nor hurl its weight of stormy hours
'Gainst all thine amaranthine flowers!
Yes!—Love there builds his Towers of Trust—
(Which yet shall scale the Skies—and must—)
And breathes, and deifies—the Dust!
Oh!—be it unto Love forgiven—
Heaven—Heaven—his Home!—to deem Home—Heaven!
V.
Ye Russian serfs!—ye proved ye knewHome's blessings—and its duties too!
And all the Household Healthfulness—
Of feelings—wholesome in excess!—
444
That feeling, darkling, shewed sublime,—
And boasted mightier depth and force—
So near the stream ran to the source!
Confining there its straitened course!—
Through no bright tempting flowery way,
Might this in soft-linked labyrinth stray!
No blandished Decorations there,
Were found to make the scene more fair—
The love from whence it sprung and grew,
Was all its charm and treasure too!
Who calls ye Slaves?—have ye not shewn
The Heart's great freedom was your own!—
A freedom that it felt and used—
Unshorn—undimmed—and unabused—
From veins to kindling veins transfused!—
Yes!—nobly did ye think and move—
In the great Liberty of Love!
Ye owned that godlike bright controul!—
The Free—who make not this their whole—
The Free—who seek less sacred goal—
Near ye were Slaves—worst Slaves—of soul!
VI.
In Ranza's town was shewn a scene,Of burning patriotism keen;—
The armed Peasantry even dared oppose
The progress of their conquering foes!
But little practised—ill their part
Sustained they—lacking warlike art!
445
Still grasped his poniard in his hand—
Still, reckless, made his desperate stand!
He sought the unequal war to wage—
And foamed with rabidness of rage!—
He glared around with glance inflamed—
Like tiger speared—then fierce exclaimed—
“Kill!—Kill!—ye Homicides!—that dare
To taint our once blessed native air!
Our native air—empoisoned so
By the impious, desecrating Foe!
Give me, at least, my life to end—
There lives no Country to defend!
No Country lives—to bless and guard—
With shame our Russia's heart is scarred!
A Land disgraced is not our Land—
Sweep forth!—with axe, and sword, and brand,
And—as ye have despoiled her worth—
Rush on!—raze Russia from the Earth!—
Leave not a name behind—to shew
An Empire could be humbled so!—
Our Homes—our Altars—are o'erthrown!—
Finish!—ye Fiends!—make all your own!—
Russia!—beneath your tread and glance—
Shall be a second shame-bowed France!”—
VII.
He glared—he raved—in vain they sought—With generous care and pitying thought—
446
And wrest the dagger from his hold—
He struck at random—here and there—
Fierce lowered his sable brow's despair!—
The indignant soldiers heard his prayer!—
They plunged their weapons in his breast,
And sent his troubled soul to rest,
But not before his frantic ire,
Bade victims at his feet expire!—
VIII.
The troops elated onward trod,Past the Abbey old of Zwenn'ghorode,
The shadow of the embattailled walls,
Upon the marching legions falls—
As though with stern, ill-omened frown,
Looked the ancient abbey darkling down,
While little recked those troops elate—
That mocked even the iron Front of Fate!—
They onwards passed—and onwards still—
Can so much triumph lead to ill?—
Can so much Hope be bowed—o'ercast—
With Disappointment's clouds at last?—
IX.
The mighty Czar, in Moscow's walls,His loyal vassals round him calls,—
His haughty nobles at the word,
Thronged round him there, with one accord.
The circumstance—the scene—the hour—
Might well the staunchest heart o'erpower—
447
The Orator—the Patriot Czar!—
And well his words the assembly fired,
And well, with breathless zeal inspired.
The emotions that his voice betrayed,
More dear the awakening accents made;—
He ceased—then burst the impassioned cry—
From hearts that heaved even, mountains-high!—
“Whate'er thou wilt for Russia's sake—
Guardian of Russia's Honour—take!—
Take all!—for all is Hers and Thine—
Take all!—but 'stablish Throne and Shrine!—
All—all—dread Liege—we freely give—
And joyful would the Death receive—
That Russia yet may reign and live!—
That he—Her execrated Foe—
May sink beneath a Nation's blow!”—
Their Sovereign's voice they well obeyed,
And swore to grant the wished-for aid,
Vast levies on the spot were made!—
It seemed that high Patrician crowd—
Of boundless sacrifices proud—
But sought how most, and best, to shew—
Their deep Devotion's generous glow!—
X.
Next to the assembled merchants all,Who kindling heard their Monarch's call—
Infuriate 'gainst the threatened yoke—
The sceptered speaker nobly spoke—
448
He launched full many a powerful word,
And fulmined curses deep 'gainst those
Who dared to touch their soil as foes!—
He painted well the wrongs—the alarms—
Which thus had called their Land to arms—
And charged them—in the holiest name—
For Peace—for Honour—and for Fame—
For all beneath—for all above—
To shew their Hate—and prove their Love!—
Those Proclamations then were read,
That had, ere this, been widely spread,
Which sternly—and in solemn tone—
Denounced the Sacrilegious One—
The Moloch of mankind—who came
With brand and spear—with steel and flame!—
And hoped to crush—to blight—and tame!—
To stamp their much-loved Russia's fate—
To blast her—and annihilate!—
But say!—shall He and His—who plan
This death-blow to the peace of man—
Who strive—thus armed 'gainst Truth and Worth—
To blot them from the face of Earth—
Shall He and His—who seek to bind
A Patriot-People's Heart and Mind—
Eclipse them with such crush of gloom?—
Condemn them to so foul a doom?—
Shall not that Fate—so dark—so dire—
Which to express is to expire,—
Such death seems curdling through the words,
That shivering strike the heart's wrung chords;
449
The Accursed who have conceived—designed?—
Whose soul could nurse so black a dream—
Whose thought could shape so base a scheme?—
The wreck—the wrath—the doom, alone—
Just Heaven but aid—shall prove,—their own!—
XI.
Then the Autocrat appealed once more,To burning hearts uproused before,
Flashed from his lips a glowing strain,
That stirred and quickened breast and brain:
His soul came rushing in the sounds—
His lifted being scorned its bounds!—
The soaring Nature seemed o'erwrought,
With endless ecstacy of Thought!
They hailed the pictured scenes—entranced—
Free, from that royal spirit glanced!—
He paused—their maddening hearts swelled forth—
As though rushed melting all the North!—
The dark strong North—by chains long bound—
Huge chains—that still to gird Her round—
Hundreds of winters forged and wound!—
Their deep-flushed visages expressed,
The keen emotions of their breast,
Wroth at the Aggressor's threatenings foul—
Stern lowered each Liegeman's shadowy scowl—
Burned their swarth cheeks with darkling fire,
And quaked their stalworth frames for ire!—
Their features fluttered with the rage,
Stamped there, as on a moving page,
450
Wild fury gleams in fevering rise—
From their white-rolled and phrenzied eyes,
Convulsed with wrath they foamed and writhed—
And shuddering stamped—and muttering breathed,
They clenched their hands—they struck their breasts,
Their long beards tore—that swept their vests—
Their Beards—that curled with rage unchecked—
While stared their bristling hair erect!—
They ground—they gnashed their teeth—and sought
In words to clothe their storms of thought—
Rose Passion's might to agony,
They tossed their brawny arms on high,
Their livid brows they fiercely knit,
In that terrific phrenzy-fit—
They glanced—they groaned—their soul's dark hoards—
Too fierce for tears—too great for words—
Remained unuttered—though displayed—
So sternly, in such gloom arrayed;—
With one wild effort sought they all,
To loose their passion from its thrall,
Deep, in their palms—they dug their nails—
They heaved—they glared—but it prevails;—
Dark words unto their rage were given—
Like clouds before the tempest driven!
XII.
First, shuddering execrations low,Hissed through their lips in broken flow,
Then burst the mighty deafening cry,
At once to stern ascendancy;
451
Now through their clashing accents rolls—
The sea was in their souls, and poured
Its tossing strength through each deep word!
And never sovereign's will was met
With such Devotion's fulness yet!—
Well they responded to his call—
All proffered they!—They promised all!—
The elected reverend chief, who there
Presided,—for his own proud share—
Great, generous sacrifices made,
And boundlessness of zeal displayed,
All followed in the same high path—
Love,—swayed their Hearts, Love!—strong as Death!—
Their bleeding Country's claims appeared,
By each new sacrifice endeared!—
Till even their rage forgot they thus,
In their high hopes magnanimous!
In their majestic joy and scorn,
Forgot they thus to grieve and mourn!
Whate'er their Czar could ask, they gave—
As flings forth weeds, the ocean-wave!
As freely—at the imperial word,
Thus showered they fast each treasured hoard!
To give—to glorify—to save—
Is all they wish—is all they crave!
Donation on Donation heaped—
Their Land from that Heart-Harvest reaped!
And Wealth on Wealth shall gathering flow,
To build fresh walls against her Foe!
452
Ere they shall see their Country shrink!
XIII.
Slow dawns a stern and awful morn—Strange sounds on every breeze are borne!—
Thousands on Thousands pass along
Through Moscow's streets—Throng following Throng!
A deep continuous hum, and low,
Seems like a funeral dirge to flow—
A City's or a Nation's dirge—
While onward rolls that living Surge!
Thousands by Thousands!—Crowds on Crowds!—
Pale as the Dead within their shrouds!—
'Twas that deep Day of pain and woe,
When Moscow saw her Children go!
Her Children from her ancient heart—
Thus forced by Fate's stern will,—to part!
The sad Procession onwards passed—
Tears rained from eyes of millions fast;—
With their young babes, pale mothers went—
Beneath the weight of anguish bent;—
Nor stayed to hush their children's fears—
Whose shrill, sharp wails assailed their ears!—
Nor paused to lull their griefs to rest—
Too deeply with their own oppressed!
The while those babes (soon taught to mourn)—
With very grief seemed changed and worn!
They bowed, with bitter woes dismayed—
Heavy as years upon them laid!
453
Its clouds even round, each infant's head!
XIV.
And there the grey-haired elders wept—And faint with sorrow, feebly crept!
Their withered hands they shivering raised—
At their own grief's excess, amazed!
So long the deadening crush of years,
Had sealed their springs of Hopes and Fears!
Their thin hair fluttered in the breeze—
Scarce bore their weight their trembling knees!
And must they from their own old Homes—
Those well-known roofs—those neighbouring tombs,
Where long they hoped, their bones to lay—
Be dragged in the Evening of their Day?
In their last hours of mortal care—
The season of their snow-white hair?
Must they, indeed, from Home depart—
With Time's dark Mountain on their heart?—
That mighty mountain which should rise,
From each heart's base to reach the skies!—
Days piled on days—hours heaped on hours—
Till high with snow-bright crest it towers!
Till the Earth-commanding summit fair,
Magnificently steep, point—there!
Till climbs the Heights of Heaven at last,
That Hill upheaved, of the Undead Past!
But seems that Mountain now to rock
Beneath their Sorrow's withering shock—
454
By the awful earthquake of that day!
XV.
Still onwards—onwards sadly passed—That moving concourse, dense and vast!
With them, their worldly wealth they bear—
Their stores—their hoards—with mournful care!
Before those thousands marched in state,
Long ranks of Priests, with solemn gait;
Within their hallowed hands upreared,
Religion's symbols grasped, appeared!
Before those countless throngs forlorn,
Their holiest Images were borne—
To shew them, in that dismal day,
Their Hope—their Succour—and their Stay!
Silent they moved—but not for long—
The fearlessness of Faith grew strong!
If Earth seemed crumbling from their feet—
Descending Heaven appeared to greet!
When shadows cloud our nether sphere—
Seem not the star-strewn skies more near—
Earth fades—and Heaven alone is clear!
The Sun once past from that proud sky—
A thousand worlds more feelingly—
Glass back their Maker's sleepless eye!
Wide scattered round, their lights serene
More boundless shew the ethereal scene!
455
XVI.
They silent moved—but not for long—The Light of Faith grew bright and strong!
The Priests, with ringing chaunts, uprouse,
The echoes from empty house to house!
Respond at once the People all—
Shook frowning tower—shook desert wall!
People and Priests together sang—
And far the sounding anthems rang;
The mighty Hymns shall swell and rise—
To drown the tones of faultering sighs,
The crowned Sun heard them—and the Skies!
'Twould seem the voice—first opening forth—
Of all the aroused and stricken Earth!
The old City shook, with those proud tones,
From turrets to foundation-stones!—
Her streets—whate'er their forms and styles,—
Through which passed slow—those countless files,
Seemed stretched like long cathedralled aisles!
Like solemn hallowed aisles—whate'er,
Their architectural aspects fair—
Those broad and stately streets appeared—
While proud, their shining piles they reared!
No roof save Heaven to crown their state—
As those emotions vast and great—
That shook the living hearts that day,
Which heaved and throbbed along the way!
456
XVII.
The roads to Cazann,—Wladimir,—And Yaroslaff—dense-thronged appear!
Press on—while Grief with Patience strives—
The innumerable Fugitives!
Vast crowds of cars and wains convey
Their household wealth along the way;
The treasures they have left behind—
Are loves—and joys—and peace of mind!
And linked associations kind—
With many a place familiar twined!
Deep, mystic, cherished sympathies—
And countless torn and trampled ties!
Again—again—they turn to gaze—
Where shines proud Moscow's palaced maze!
Where gleams great Moscow's golden zone—
Their praised—their cherished—and their own!
Alas!—her pomps no longer bright,
Seemed clouded o'er—and snatched from sight!—
For all who looked their last look there—
Gazed through the tear-mists of despair!
But still their Churches' hymns they sang—
Till distant pine-woods rocked and rang!
'Twas solace, in that sound's high swell—
To drown the Earth-agonized Farewell!
Still their reluctant eyes they turned—
Where Moscow's spires in sunshine burned!
With upraised hands—reverted head—
Their path of bitterness they tread!
457
They chaunt—and worship, as they weep!—
And so, a weeping Nation driven
To roam—first turned its steps toward Heaven!
The while—magnificently great—
The Old City—stretched in towering state—
Seemed beckoning them once more to rest—
In Her deep, shielding Mother-Breast!
They gazed—and gazed again—until
That Solemn City—mute and still—
Uplifting all its thousand spires,
Into the sunshine's flooding fires,—
Seemed rather pointing far on high—
To their bright Home within the Sky!—
To soothe them—and remind them still,
Of their great Ark from Wrong and Ill!
Than seeking, with persuasive smile,
Back to Her bosom to beguile!
She points with fingers eloquent—
To the azure arch above them bent!—
While seemed—those thousand towering spires,
Reflecting back the Morning's fires—
Thus pointing—tapering far and fair—
(Religion's hallowed watch-towers there,—)
Uplifted thus on high, to be
In the hours of their extremity,
Conductors of the Lightnings dread,
Of Heaven's great wrath,—from Man's frail head!
458
XVIII.
And rose, too, ever and anon,High thoughts, that keenly-kindling shone,
And fond impressions and intense—
Then gaining mystic influence—
Since in such seasons of distress,
When nations mourn in bitterness—
Oft, re-asserting ravished power—
Grey Superstition rules the hour!
And omens bright, and auguries fair,
Had lately blessed a People's prayer;—
'Twas at a moment deep and dark—
When fluttering faint gleamed Hope's last spark—
While wrung, and shaken, and dismayed—
Hundreds of thousands trembling prayed—
Before the old Altars prostrate bowed,
In their Cathedral-Temples proud,
Or 'midst their darkened chambers lone,
Imploring still the Holiest One!—
When all on Earth looked stern and drear—
And nought, save Heaven, could guide or cheer—
That suddenly,—swelled loud and high—
To the azure vaults of yon proud sky—
Wild shouts of revelling ecstasy!—
Soon were the strects thronged thick—while poured
Dense congregations fast abroad—
All scared with wonder—wild to know—
Why Joy broke forth 'midst so much Woe!—
Why Exultation glorying by,
Thus mocked the kneeling Agony—
459
O'er dying Hopes—so bowed and crushed!—
And what the cause?—with joy and awe
A startling spectacle they saw!—
Where shone on high, with lustrous gleam,
A mighty Cross (from whence the stream
Of splendours did most sacred seem—)
A Vulture, fluttering, strove among
The entwined chains round the emblem flung—
Entangled there and 'toiled he hung!
Suspended o'er the people's heads,
Meshed'mong those sun-touched, glittering threads,—
(Those chains that fixed, and fastened there
The hallowed Cross—sublimely fair!—)
'Twas this, roused, rapture far and free—
Trampling the kneeling Agony!
XIX.
Bright presage 'twas!—and omen glad,Their griefs at once forgot, the sad,
The timorous—their disturbing fears,
And smiles effaced all trace of tears:
Of joy's intoxicating draught,
The mourners and the tremblers quaffed—
Soon the omen was by all believed—
The augury to all hearts received!—
Thus should the man of evil power,
Be snared, in Heaven's appointed hour;—
Thus should Religion high and true—
The Tyrannous and the False subdue!—
460
Should thus confess the Powers of Light!—
And well it was such presage came,
Their minds to raise and to inflame;
For soon a heavy scene and sore,
Was spread, their wildered sight before!—
From Borodino's distant plain,
Now comes a long and ghastly train—
The weary and the wounded—they
Who suffered on that desperate day—
Aye!—suffered more than those who fell,
And now in the endless quiet dwell—
(Far more!—as their changed aspects tell!—)
Their blood-stained garbs—their staggering gait—
Their livid looks—their friendless state—
All saddened the awed spectators bowed
Beneath Compassion's trembling cloud—
Re-entered, too, their Moscow's walls,
To languish—'midst her sumptuous halls,
Their proudest princes—like the rest—
Pale—racked,—and wounded—and distressed—
Strange Fear and Anguish well might spring
To blight their shrinking hearts and wring—
But yet some hope remained to cheer
All frowned not desolate and drear!—
The auspicious, well-remembered sign,
Still hints of hope—of help Divine!
XX.
Rostopchin fervently addressed—With swelling soul and heaving breast—
461
Ere yet they left their Moscow's wall.
He bade them nerve themselves—and steel
With Patriotism's deathless zeal!—
Nor fear,—nor shrink—from threatened harm!—
He cried, “Be steadfast!—Arm!—Oh!—arm!—
Let every high and princely lord
Bare fearlessly his father's sword!—
Let every peasant proudly wield
His hatchet in the Solemn Field!—
Tools of your trade, seize every man,
Mechanic—serf—and artizan!—
And ye, pale women! cast down fear—
Your husbands—sires—friends—brothers—cheer!—
And arm them—gird them—for the fight—
And bid them go and guard the Right!—
Soon 'gainst the French shall they prevail—
For weak are these—and slight—and frail!—
But snatch—to clear the encumbered Land,
Your three-pronged forks in Hate's nerved hand—
Thus threat the unhappy, powerless band!—
These foes—faint,—famished and forlorn—
Weigh less than doth the sheaf of corn!—
And dread not scathe and scar!—for know
To soothe and charm your every woe
Shall masses solemnly be said—
And blessings showered upon your head!—
And fear not scathe nor scar!—for more,
To staunch the wounded sufferers' gore—
To salve their hurts—and bring them rest—
Straightforth the waters shall be blessed!—
462
XXI.
With Morn's first dawn shall I repairTo Koutousoff,—his plans to share—
His measures learn—his methods aid—
Through which shall fall our Foe dismayed!—
Just Heaven thus break the Unrighteous Blade!”—
The people heard him—and replied
With shouts—that echoed far and wide—
“Amen!—Amen!”—They thundered high—
With lengthened and tempestuous cry!—
Now,—near her kingly capital,
Thronged Russia's Banded Legions all,
And could they doubt—and could they droop—
While these inspired with trust and hope?—
While these remained to guard and shield—
And the arms of proud defence to wield!—
| The Maiden of Moscow | |