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. |
| XII. | CANTO XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
463
CANTO XII.
I.
The Prisons' gates unbarred allow,The Escape of the Entrammelled now!
Pour Hundreds forth—at once, set free—
Loud bursts their savage revelry!—
Tumultuously they take their way—
And bless their disenthrallment's day;—
Yet,—darkening lowers and frowns that hour—
Stern Justice claims her awful power!—
Since two selected from the rest
Were yet detained—at high behest;—
When all their cells were searched—explored,—
Marked out from this flagitious horde,—
These two were guarded yet—and chained—
And thus by stern command detained!—
A Russ was one unhappy man,
Whose days seemed shortening to a span,—
His comrade came from Gallia's clime—
(Ah!—was not that itself a crime?—)
Both were in opening life's fresh prime;—
464
But blackening, round them, lowered Despair!
Impeached for traitorous crime abhorred—
The Russian youth no grace implored—
He felt—he knew, too well, 'twere vain,
Convulsively he grasped his chain!
Thick rose the heart-dews of distress—
With their damp—deadening iciness—
Along his once unclouded brow,
Burthened with bursting anguish now—
Wild rolled his eyes—pale lurid streaks
Checquered his smooth, unbearded cheeks—
Perchance, 'twas not the approaching doom
That struck his soul with blight of gloom!—
'Twas not the desperate danger near,
That made him quake with ghastly fear—
'Twas Conscience!—Conscience!—then that woke—
That loud in trumpet-language spoke!—
The rending heart, beneath her sway,
Pours its own darkness through the day,
Till shrinks the chilled sun's smothered ray;
Its subterraneous world starts forth—
Naked as Nature in the North!—
And, Oh!—what Passion-monsters spring
To sight—with many a loathsome thing—
Reliques of dreams and deeds passed o'er!
But whose remains last evermore—
Embedded in that parent soil—
Which gave them birth—received their spoil!—
Like Skeletons of Mammoths found
Secreted darkling under-ground!
465
II.
From that sepulchral spectacle—He shrinks—as from an opening hell—
Faint cowering back—and crouching pale—
'Tis Conscience!—Conscience!—bids him fail!—
And yet, in sooth, his sin was slight,
Though grown gigantic in his sight!
The fearful Crisis now at hand,
That casts strange shadows o'er the land,
Made flashes of a transient fault,
Glare, meteor-like, to Heaven's far vault!—
And while his sin did mingling blend,
With wild, fierce horrors, without end,
That high, and deep, and wide extend—
It seemed their mystery all to share—
Their heinous hideousness to wear—
Till the error-monsters of the heart—
Even self-out-monstered seemed to start—
More deadly in their demon hue,
Blackening and blighting on the view,
Self-judged,—thus sad, the Accused One stood
As though he lacked sense—breath—and blood!—
The victim of a wild remorse—
(That far o'erflowed its spring and source;—)
Still gathering, still—increasing force!—
The stranger, too!—be sure that he
Cherished scant hopes of clemency;
His name and race alone must shed
A sevenfold vengeance on his head!—
466
Was, sooth, enough of crime and brand!
III.
Straight, either shuddering criminalWas dragged unto the Judgment-Hall—
A furious crowd assembled there,
Viewed both, with deep and dreadful stare—
From Mercy's hope the wretch must turn—
At that tribunal—strange and stern—
Hundreds of judges frowned around—
Muttering with hoarse, harsh, curdling sound,
The hundreds then assembled there!—
Who looked the Sentence of Despair!—
For deeply felt the unhappy man,
Weighed down with self-inflicted ban—
The Accused One—branded with the name
Of traitor—and its deadly fame—
That even could pitying Heaven forgive
Did softening Justice bid him live—
The people's fiery vengeance yet,
Should stern exact the enormous debt,
And still, a sterner judge within—
Pronounced the sentence of his sin!—
The youth was one of gentle birth,
Descended from a line of worth;—
His merchant sire with care had trained—
To knowledge high the youth attained!—
Large sums his Father pleased resigned,
With loftier wealth to store that Mind—
467
To roam in leisured pilgrimage,
'Mid Germany's far scenes and fair,
And breathe her wild and mystic air—
His soul her conquering influence proved—
It felt—fired—fevered—and it loved!—
It soared on her quick spirit's wings,
And drank of her dark bubbling springs,
Strange stores of dangerous wealth he piled—
Of travelled speculations wild—
And hopes outshining—full and free—
Endeared each journeyed phantasy!—
IV.
His full heart preyed on glittering schemes—His fancy built a thousand dreams—
And fast the visionary light,
Bathed all his thoughts in triumph bright,
Inspired he deemed with zeal sublime,
The Illuminati of the Clime—
Amidst their ranks enrolled—he sought
To track their soul-steps—thought by thought!—
And joined—with fervid zeal avowed—
A sect of Independents proud—
The Martinists!—and fondly dreamed—
While Hope with beaconing radiance beamed—
His father-land to raise and bless,
With Liberty's large happiness!—
'Twas said that he had scattered wide,
With strenuous stealth, on every side,
468
Some taught—some borrowed—some his own;—
That lately, in the Russian tongue,
He dared—from Russian Fathers sprung!—
To publish even—forth scattering so—
Vile Proclamations of their Foe!—
Nay—more!—those treasons he disgorged—
'Twas said he fabricated—forged!—
(Still all, tremendous Vengeance urged!—)
V.
Was thus of deadly, treacherous sin,Impeached, the ill-starred Verestzchaginn,
Confession nor defence he made—
Nor yet to shelter, or to aid,—
Accomplice or ally betrayed;—
Now silent as the grave he stood,
In bitterness of desperate mood,
Before the Judgment-Seat—where sate
A Man of War—in solemn state—
Stood savage Cossacks round his chair—
Ranged—armed—with wild ferocious air,—
Like executioners—that yearned
To strike—their eyes with fury burned!—
Proclaimed, were the accusations loud,
Before the vengeance-thirsting crowd;—
Rose, shrill sharp sounds, like owlets' screech,
And mutterings hoarse the ear did reach—
A monster sound—of shapeless speech!—
Confused—and horrible—and wild!—
No pity there, breathed—kind and mild;—
469
Within that frowning Judgment-Hall,
You might have heard a feather fall!
When rose Rostopchin in his place—
With glance severe—and threatening face—
He sternly raised his haughty head,
And thus with deep full voice he said,
While all hung listening through that court—
On each clear word in solemn sort!—
VI.
“What word, to all succeeding time,Can speak this dark, unheard-of crime,
Could fiends even find its name?
Think!—What,—should be his deadly dole—
Who stabs his Country's living soul—
And blisters It with shame?—
His own, hath portion with the dead,
Through outer darkness let it tread,
Is not the sentence stamped and said
By Heaven and Earth beneath?—
And in Her sorrow this is done!—
And in Her mortal need—Her Son—
Would crush with fouler wrath!
Did the whole world in judgment sit,
To fix the sentence—just and fit—
Would One heart wish the wretch to acquit—
One Voice his dreadful doom remit—
Would pause One fatal breath?
470
Would not the whole wide Earth, declare—
And thundering clamour—Death!—
Were Heaven to judge the wretch—whose crimes
No match can find through bye-gone times—
Could grace or pardon come?—
Even Mercy's self should snatch the sword,
And hurl Wrath's thunderbolts abroad,
With sevenfold terrors 'gainst the abhorred—
The soul of Strife and Gloom—
Love's seraphs, seize the quivers, stored
With the worst vengeance of their Lord,
Angels and saints with one accord,
Should sound his blast of Doom!”
VII.
He paused—tumultuous murmurs spoke—The indignant ire his accents woke;—
When sudden—'midst the throng was seen—
An old grey man of awful mien,—
All gave him way within the hall—
The Father of the Criminal!—
With firm free step he onwards came,—
His front, unbowed, by grief or shame!
All the ashen cheek of age, on flame!—
That sunken eye—enkindleth stern
With thoughts, within, that rage and burn!—
“Old Man!” Rostopchin cried—“Draw near!—
Three minutes yet I grant thee here—
That thou mayst bless thy son!
471
Immortal Justice waits this day—
To crush the Self-Undone!”
The savage Brutus of the North—
His shrivelled hand, stretched threatening forth—
And straight he spoke aloud!—
“Bless!—Bless!—What!—bring him, blessings?—prayers?—
Proud Chief!—Thou mockest my proud—despairs!
Insulter of these whitening hairs!—
Scorner!—my heart no weakness shares—
Though this changed frame be bowed!
VIII.
“I curse him!—with my full deep heart—That ne'er yet took the Traitor's part—
Lo! I condemn—and curse!—
And let his Father's curse even now
For him,—of branded heart and brow,
For him—who breaks Earth's holiest vow,
Terrific judgments nurse!—
And, with his Country's curse entwined—
Cling withering all that loathsome mind—
Which seas should ne'er absterse!—
Till hope of mercy be resigned!—
Till sick Despair, lower black and blind!—
And if there be indeed behind—
A wilder and a worse,
With chains of deadlier clasp to bind—
The thoughts round fiercer racks to wind—
Which men or fiends rehearse!
472
And grappling with existence grind—
His soul from the Universe!
Betrayer of thy Land—thy Home!—
Blasphemer of our loftiest doom!—
Thine be no rest within the Tomb—
Thy dust shall wrath disperse!
IX.
“All the four winds of Heaven shall driveThat restless dust—the dead-alive—
Heaved from Earth's loathing breast!
No tenement shall ever hold—
No shroud contain in pitying fold—
No regions grant thee rest!
Death shall refuse to his cold heart
To press thee—blasted that thou art!—
As Life from thee shall shrink!
Nor Death—nor Life—shall call thee theirs!—
Go!—where some nameless state prepares—
'Twixt both some dreadful link!
Thus, the Excommunicated Soul—
The Spirit—scorched like shrivelled scroll,
An exiled wanderer through the whole
Of great Creation—(while no goal
Shall greet thee—bowed to Wrath's controul!)—
Shall waste where worlds indignant roll—
Suffered in none to dwell!
Thus every sphere should thrust thee forth—
To wander on in Mercy's dearth—
Like thine abhorring Mother Earth—
473
The Traitor Wretch shall find no place—
Shall reach no spot of rest in space—
Shall claim—while ages run their race—
While Fiends—even Fiends—shall curse and chase—
No Country—even in Hell!”
X.
A sharp electric shudder ran—From breast to breast—from man to man—
While burst the Father's rage!
So terrible his looks and words—
So ill that maddening wrath accords—
With that grave, reverend age!
But this forgot they—when again—
The Ruler spoke in startling strain—
Appealing loud to all!
His voice shall fire their souls once more
With fury—deadly as before—
They hear and heed his call—
“People!—to ye whom he betrayed—
To ye he sought but to degrade!—
People!—to ye—the Avengers made—
Do we commit him now!
Strike!—as with dark insidious aim—
He hoped to strike your truth—your fame—
And stain with worse than blood your name—
And brand the loyal brow!
Strike!—strike!—as ye would smite the Foe—
His crime is equal!—nay!—not so!—
His own doth tenfold horrors shew—
474
The Invader's crime to his is slight—
Who fain his Fatherland would blight—
Crush—shame—destroy—and disunite—
His Countrymen—and Country!—Smite!—
Strike!—Strike!—Despatch him in our sight!—
Crowd murderous blow on blow!”
XI.
The infuriate listeners asked no more—Keen thirsting for their Victim's gore—
At once on him they rushed!
Like bloodhounds on their prey they bound!—
Axe felled—knife pinned him to the ground,
Sword hacked—lance pierced—and bludgeon stunned—
Down rained upon him—wound on wound,
Thick—thick the life-streams gushed!
It was a horrid, sickening sight,
To see him feebly writhe and fight—
Against his murderers there!
Through the instinct of convulsive life
Resisting still—with hopeless strife—
In anguish and despair!
And once the assailants back he bore—
All bathed in floods of spouting gore—
With superhuman strength!
Such force doth desperate Phrenzy lend—
Throughout the frame such vigour send—
But he is crushed at length!
Aye!—as a swarming circle strong
Might round some writhing adder throng—
475
His gnashing, howling, raging foes—
Around him, mad with vengeance, close
And glut their wrath's excess,—
As pards their jaws of fury ope
Round the o'ermatched, struggling antelope—
They mock his dread distress!
His groans—his shrieks none hear—so swells,
The echo of their maniac yells—
Who pierce him—and o'erpower!
To pieces hewed—hacked—riven—and torn—
He dies!—They pause—outbreathed and worn—
Deep drenched in gory shower!
Then bursts once more their fury fierce—
With barbarous blows the dead they pierce!—
Wrath ruled that dreadful hour!
The Governor o'erlooked severe
This strange, dark, slaughterous scene of fear—
With stern, unpitying eye!
Nor motioned he with hand or head—
To stay those horrors wild and dread—
This mad barbarity!—
XII.
Meanwhile the unhappy Frenchman gazed—Dismayed—thrilled—agonized—amazed—
On this revolting sight!
Anticipating the anguish all—
That yet to his dark lot shall fall—
With shuddering, still, affright!
476
No gloom was in his glance discerned—
No fatal sign he made!
No anger from his accents broke—
With cloudless look, composed, he spoke—
Nor wakening wrath displayed!
“Stranger!—and Brother of those Bands,—
Who dare with hostile glaives and brands—
Invade our much-loved clime!
Thou'st seen our Vengeance!—Justice!—Power!—
Hast marked through this appalling hour—
Our patriot-fire sublime!
Now learn how high can glow and rise
Our generous scorn of injuries—
Now know how we—forgive!
Own our Forgiveness high and proud—
As our avenging wrath avowed!—
Stranger!—I bid thee live!
Go! Frenchman!—To ourselves it well
May likeliest seem—nay!—laudable—
That,—wheresoe'er Fate bids thee dwell,
Thou most shouldst love, thy Land!
Still love,—with passion and with pride,
Far more than every Realm beside—
Through all the huge World—wild and wide—
That Land—with Hope—with Heaven—allied!—
This best we understand!
Whose hearts even now are running o'er—
With zeal that thrills them to the core—
Who love our Country,—nay!—adore!—
Aye!—meet it seems that thou shouldst more
477
Than us—whose garb for long ye wore—
Whose Land long gave ye of her store—
And in her nursing bosom bore—
As 'twere thy native clime and shore,
Thou'rt French—and such must prove!
Frenchman and Foeman!—thou'rt forgiven!
Go forth!—beneath the boundless Heaven
Thou'rt free—as Her wild breezes even—
Thou'rt free—at choice to move!—
XIII.
“Thy countrymen are near at hand—That France which is Thy Fatherland—
Shall speak to thee, through them!
Howe'er thou mayst transplant the tree—
Leaves—bark—and branch—distinct shall be—
And bear some marks indelibly—
Of that far clime where sprang up free—
At first, its root and stem!
Go!—let thy Countrymen be told—
All thou didst Here, this day, behold;—
Go!—Frenchman!—go and say,
That Russia, 'mid her far-spread bands—
Where'er Her Sovereignty expands—
Through all her length and breadth of Lands—
From Moscow's spires to Caspian sands—
(Since boundless spreads her sway!—)
That Russia,—'midst the armed nations proud
Which round her Throne of Glory crowd—
Found but One treacherous heart avowed,
Of dead and dastard clay!—
478
And Conscience flawed, of Falsehood bowed—
'Midst Her thronged myriads all!
That Russia,—stretched from zone to zone—
Had but One foul, ungrateful Son—
But One disloyal traitor—One!—
And that thou'st seen him—fall!
That SHE—'midst thrice ten thousand tribes—
Despite of threats—or taunts—or bribes—
Beneath her rugged sky—
From City throned to Desert wild—
Found but ONE false unworthy Child—
That One,—hast thou seen—DIE!”
Loosed are the Gaul's late fettered hands—
Free as the chainless winds he stands!—
But long remembered he that day
Of gloom—and anguish—and dismay!
The Lubianka's murderous scene,
Recalled he long with memories keen!
That tragedy—so dark and drear—
Its very Memory frowned—a Fear!
XIV.
The Army leaves the City-Queen!—It is a strange and stirring scene!—
A haughty melancholy seems
To mingle with disturbing dreams!
The Troops marched slow,—with looks of woe—
With Royal Banners furled,—they went!
Their measured tread, seemed dull and dead—
Their gloomy eyes were earthwards bent!
No proud and gladdening signal comes,
From doubling roll of stormy drums!
479
No war-cry through the silence breaks!—
They marched!—They marched!—through Streets of State
Then passed through the old Kalomna Gate!
They marched on slow, with looks of woe—
That lacked brave warrior-cheer!
No glad sound comes—from double double drums—
No blast from clarions clear!
The uncrimsoned air, no standards fair—
No Gonfalons of Pride—
Stirs fluttering light—and spreads to sight—
With blazoned sunshine dyed!
Yet Banners dread, ere long shall spread
Forth shaken—free and far—
To lend the skies, their dazzling dyes—
Their blush of fiery war!—
XV.
These Hosts still slowly passed along—Followed their track a mourning throng!—
For in their train the remnants crowd
Of Moscow's population proud!
Since, though Her roads had groaned, before,
For forty leagues—thick covered o'er
By the Exiles of her mighty heart,
Yet hundreds then, forbore to part;—
Hundreds and hundreds there had stayed,
(In hopes of dear reprieve and aid!—)
480
Now breathe through tears their long farewell,
To homes where they were fain to dwell!
And some among the helpless Poor—
Torn from their cabin's mouldering door—
Their own coarse roof—their own rude hearth—
To them the dearest of the Earth!
With air resigned, and steadfast mien—
Harnessed to humblest wains were seen—
Wherein some suffering child was placed—
Sick—worn—and weak—and pallid-faced!
Some superannuated Sire—
Who leaves his homestead—to expire!
Whose querulous and shrilly tone,
Clamoureth for comforts lost and flown!
Or some pale helpmeet—wan and wild—
Who clasps her slumbering, new-born child!
Sharp cries were heard of deep distress—
And moans of heavy weariness—
As forth the sad Procession passed—
All Moscow's lowliest and her last!
They moved behind the columned host—
In fulness of Affliction lost!
They followed through those Streets of State,
And through the fair Kalomna Gate;—
And all by sorrow seemed subdued—
That hopeless—helpless multitude!
On Mother Moscow back they gazed—
And many a wail of sadness raised!
481
XVI.
“Oh!—Mother Moscow!—Fare thee well!—Moscow of Stone!—where Princes dwell!
Since proud—since regal—still, in death—
Our Monarchs sleep, thy wings beneath!
Dread Kings!—who bound by Slumber's chain,
More glorious in their tombs remain,—
Than other Kings,—on Thrones of State,
'Mid all triumphant pomps—elate!
More glorious in thy tombs by far,
Than these—Our silent monarchs are!—
More honoured in those tombs renowned
Than all Earth's Monarchs throned and crowned!—
The Majesty of Death hath met—
Their Majesty of Splendours set!
Our grey Forefathers lie reclined,
In thy blest dust—Oh! Moscow kind!
Mother of Generations!—Queen!—
And must we leave thy stateliest scene?
Flow!—River of a thousand years—
Henceforth, be turned into our tears!
A stream of tears henceforth be made!—
Weep—wandering, past each pillared shade,—
Save when the armed foes beside thee tread,
Then, turn to founts of fire instead!
Oh Moscow!—Moscow!—Ark and Home!
Thy children's hearts are bowed in gloom,
Farewell!—Be Beautiful!—Be Great!—
Be mighty in thy queenly state!
482
Glean in thy streets but our pale woe!
Still let him wrest—from Thy proud Towers
But these sharp agonies of ours!”—
XVII.
Dies off the noise and movement deep—The City seemeth wrapped in sleep!
But no!—the tramplings scarcely cease—
'Tis lost again—that Pause of Peace!
Another tumult doth begin,—
One Nation like a sea poured in;
Another, like a sea poured out!—
With clang—and tramp—and stir—and shout,
One came—while one in parting rout—
Scattered its shadowy gloom about!
With dreadfulness of strife and din—
One Nation like a Sea poured in!
But all around its path was drear—
Was nought to charm—was nought to cheer!
In the Architectural Wilderness—
Through which the surging numbers press—
Seemed nought of life—and nought of breath—
All like the shadow frowned of Death!
With heaviness of grief and doubt,
Another like a sea poured out!—
But mighty Powers yet hovered near,
Their drooping hearts to nerve and cheer!—
483
XVIII.
The hosts of France there wondering gazed—Mute—and sore-troubled—and amazed!
It seemeth that they there behold,
Some City of Enchantment old!—
Some Genii City fair and vast—
Some solemn Pageant of the Past!
So hushed is all—in stillness dread,—
So hushed,—so lorn,—so chill,—so dead!—
And how, first hailed the Invading Gaul—
Proud Russia's gorgeous capital?
With all her glories—deep and wide—
The sumptuous mysteries of her Pride!
Her dazzlery of rainbowed Light—
Her haughty Queenliness of Might!
Her rich and sight-bewildering show—
Too bright—too fair—for Earth below!
A Vision of supreme display—
Colouring the Sun—and brightening Day!
How had she first—stupendous sight!—
Burst on their view—in power and might?
Slow-paced with cautious care marched on,
The Cohorts of the Unvanquished One!
Before their way—for prudence sent—
Swift scouts innumerable went!
These plunged through all the twilight woods—
And searched the out-hollowed tracks of floods;
And climbing every eminence,
Looked for the expected Foe from thence!
484
One Eminence to climb—'tis gained!
XIX.
Then burst forth simultaneous shouts—Loud echoing from the astonished Scouts—
And “Moscow!—Moscow!”—far and wide—
Rang like a Pæan Song of Pride!
That wond'rous and sublime display,
Then shook their souls with conquering sway!
All hurrying thronged!—All forward pressed!—
With kindling eyes—with heaving breast!—
Wild with the Expectancy's Excess—
And wakening Hope's deliriousness!
In fine disorder rushing came,
That Host like some wild,—wind-driven flame!
Some conflagration fiercely sent—
In reckless free abandonment!
They sweeping strode—their strength they strained—
Hill of Salvation!—now thou'rt gained!
('Tis thus the Russians call the height,
Which first gives forth to Pilgrims' sight,
The view of their fair City's might!
Since on its summit evermore—
They kneel—and breathlessly adore,—
And free to Heaven thanksgivings pour!
Even where their sacred City stands
Before them—Crown of all the Lands!
They prostrate fall—and make the sign,
Of the all-atoning Cross divine!
485
That Holy City's Kingliness!
Heart of the Universe!—to them;—
The wide World's jewelled diadem!—)
The whole French Army now amazed—
On the outspread matchless Moscow gazed!—
Bright glistened then the Orb of Day—
Where thrice ten thousand colours play!
It beams—it burns upon their gaze—
That City of all Pride and Praise—
With Morning and Itself ablaze!
Then burst—as though the heavenly shock
Of Joy did rend their hearts and rock;—
And striking every chord at once
From roused Existence drew response!
Burst from their bosoms loud and high—
The Earth-Electrifying cry;
The skies seemed stirred—the far heavens heard—
And “Moscow! Moscow!” was—the word!
XX.
That long-resounding cry burst forth—And shook the Storm-Throne of the North!
The old North shook on her pillared throne,
At the deep sea-swell of the tone;
In thunderous royalty it rode,
On all the winds of Heaven, abroad!
An Earthquake-burst of ecstacy—
While human joy seemed, heaved on high!—
And “Moscow!—Moscow!”—was the cry!
486
They stamped their feet!—they clapped their hands!—
Winged Exultations proudlier rose,
From the ashes of ten thousand woes!
From Pale Dismay's stern, smouldering wrongs—
Until their very thoughts found tongues!
(Man's passion seems the Phœnix true—
That springs from Ruin bright and new!
Since still 'tis thus!—Past grief and gloom
Lend Joy, his loftiest crest, and plume!)
Still gazed they long entranced—enchained—
Still drunken with delight remained—
While ever and anon burst forth—
Their “Moscow”-shout—to startle Earth!
So mariners, who chance, have been
Long bound to the Ocean's billowy scene—
The waste wide world of waters,—stand—
In tiptoe joy at sight of Land!
And while they smile at hazards past—
“Land!—Land!”—they shout, full blessed at last;
And he—their Mighty Monarch too—
Exulting hailed that stately view!
He hastening flew their bliss to share—
He, too, cried “Moscow! Moscow!” there!
From His glad lips these accents burst—
He gazed with joy unmixed at first!
XXI.
His eyes were rivetted and fixed—On the outstretched scene with joy unmixed!—
487
Crowned Mother of the Mighty Heart!”
He cried—pleased, studying part by part—
“Hail!—far-famed City!”—then aside
Half-turned—and paused he in his pride;—
While sadder accents seemed to throw
Across the triumph—hints of Woe!
Like knells heard through some marriage chime—
Came these cold words—“'Tis Time!—Full Time!”—
City of many nations proud—
Like Pageant bright of sunset-cloud—
That spreads in endless shapes and fair,
Along the illuminated air!
How fair thou lookedst—on that strange morn
Seemed all thy queenliest splendours worn!—
To dazzle with a bright dismay,
Thy daring Foemen from their way!
She seemed in all her pomps arrayed—
Of Rainbows and of Lightnings made!—
Or like some dream in endless change!—
Some gorgeous exhalation strange!—
Some crowd of Exhalations bright—
All trembling off to one rich Light!
Or like Creation's Heaven-born bride—
Hewn from the Sun's own living pride!
Part of his Fire!—most glorious part!—
Breathing and blushing from his heart!
And Thou'st thine own starred Firmament—
Where splendours beam, with splendours blent,
Oh! Moscow,—the Magnificent!
488
And make Earth near thee seem divine!—
Till turns fatigued the o'erdazzled eye
To look for shadows—in the sky!—
Such wildering radiance hangs round thee—
The Enthroned One,—Everlastingly!
XXII.
Nay! hush!—these words are wild and vain—Thou'rt but of Earth!—and even thy reign
Ere long may know the check—the chain!
The Invading Legions in that hour,
High triumphed in their Might and Power!—
And revelled in thy rich display—
That shed intolerable day!
The hour may come when both may pale—
The Glorying—and the Glorious fail!
Like Pyramids of Thrones appeared,
Those Fanes and Towers they boastful neared!
For Victory now shall Kingdoms raise,
On Kingdoms to the Conquerors' praise!
The astounded Universe shall hear,
Their doom-like deeds, and quake with fear!
And all are Conquerors!—all are crowned
With growing glory—without bound!
The nations, wondering, strain their eyes,
To see like suns o'er suns arise—
Those dazzling deeds—that scale the skies!
Thronged acclamations yet shall sound—
And wake a world's long echoes round!
489
Her Pride—that these through Her are shewn!
History shall be one Fame at last—
Theirs!—sounded through that lengthening blast!
Blushing shall she from the outdone Past—
Turn—half-exultant—half-aghast!—
XXIII.
Their age—all ages high above—Shall they yet lift—and far remove;—
So that from their proud day shall date—
Earth's loftier and sublimer state!
Even a new Earth shall she appear—
A nobler and a lordlier sphere!
The lowliest, humblest soldier there,
Enacts on this great theatre—
A solemn and imposing part—
Watched by the whole World's listening heart!
Doth the air miraculously seem
Round these with Prodigies to teem!
Long had they, all the Great surpassed—
They have outshone themselves at last;—
And done—what none beside could do—
Eclipsed the old deeds with glories new!—
Paled their past triumphs' blinding blaze!
And left behind,—all fame—all praise!—
Henceforth must they inactive live—
Renown hath no more wreaths to give!
Such wild presumptuous thoughts and proud,
Within their warrior-bosoms crowd!—
490
XXIV.
Napoleon gazed on Moscow long—The impatience of his heart grew strong!
“On!—On!”—they must not now delay—
Fate calls—and shall not He obey?
The Child of Destiny, who now—
Hails his kind star with lifted brow!
And on they go!—with glare and noise—
High Revellers in their thunder-joys!
The Golden Eagles toss and flash—
The foaming chargers wheel and dash!—
The dazzlery of arms makes Light—
A painful wonder to the sight!
Earth trod by trampling hoofs seemed stirred—
By all she saw—and all she heard!
Loud trumpets pealed—each ringing note,
O'er height and vale did lengthening float!
Now shadows swathed that beaten ground—
Now splendours fired the dust around—
Till sun-sparks seemed to shower about—
From the Ember Earth quick glistening out;
As though herself—the Illumined One—
Was sooth, a half-extinguished Sun!
Warmed back to Glory now once more—
Kindling to all she was before!
And tossing like a freshening sea—
She sparkleth out so restlessly!
Spangling to those bright points of light—
That dart and deepen on the sight!
491
Even those who tread that radiant Way,
In undulating waves of sheen—
A brilliant and a buoyant scene!
On her they tread—as 'twere on air—
They walk on mirrored splendours there!
Their path with Fames and Hopes is strewed—
March on!—thou marshalled multitude!
March on!—and dream while yet ye can!—
Continuance was not made for man!
Enjoy this triumph while ye may—
Hold fast the Present and the Day!
Yet—yet may all be changed and lost—
And Ruin reap your scattered host—
And Shame strike down the unfinished Boast!—
XXV.
Strange seemed it to Napoleon now—While gloomed and lowered his haughty brow—
That issuing from yon princely gates,
Advanced not straight the assembled States!
That Deputation proud and high—
Which yet should greet him fittingly—
And own his dread ascendancy!
(Acknowledging his Conqueror-Power,
In that important fated hour!)
And—all delivering to his hands,
Wait watchful for his high commands!
Where are those bearded Boyards?—Where?—
That yet should haste to hail him there?
492
To him who as their Master comes!
He gazeth towards those gates of pride—
Shall he, be silently defied?—
In vain his anxious eyes he strains—
Thence stream no long and pompous trains;—
And where her brow the City rears
Strange!—Strange!—no sign of Life appears!
On those towered battlements afar—
He marked no scattered men of war!
From all those princely houses broke
No faint blue wreaths of spreading smoke!
Misgivings darkened through his mind,—
Proud Hope—her sky-kissed front declined!—
And they who crowded in his train
Confessed a thrill of boding pain,—
Already seemed a shadow cold—
Lengthening o'er all they, there, behold;—
Chill doubt, and wonder, and dismay,
Uncrimsoned all that joy-flushed day!
Now Poniatowski and Eugene—
Hard by those hostile gates were seen—
And brave Murat the suburbs near,
Did soon with swarms of scouts appear!
XXVI.
Yet poured no Deputation forth,From this Crowned City of the North!
Perplexed—bewildered—and disturbed—
Napoleon scarce his anger curbed!
493
A single messenger was sent
From Miloradowitch—to bear
A message to The Monarch's ear;
And haughtily this speech was framed:
Full time the hostile general claimed,
In tone unshaken and untamed—
To march the rear through Moscow straight—
To march them, scatheless, through her gate;
Else menaced he,—with threatenings stern,
The Imperial Capital to burn!—
Napoleon spoke in prompt response,
And granted the armistice at once,
The foremost troops of the armies twain—
Together mixed awhile remain!—
And intermingling thus—as though
In generous Concord's friendly flow,—
By those, Murat was recognised,
Who well his dauntless valour prized!—
The fierce Cossacks—who swarming round—
Made the air with plaudits wild resound—
Chivalrous Champion!—Fame's bright star!—
Thou Child and Chosen one of War!—
Of War—the terrible!—the wild!—
By thy emprizeful deeds beguiled—
Stripped—shorn of half its horrors so,
Its native hideousness of woe!
And coloured, lit, sublimed, and raised,
Made something to be loved and praised;—
494
A splendid and a proud delight!—
XXVII.
High Chief!—the savage warriors there,Basked in thy warlike presence fair,
Thy battle-breathing aspect spoke,
To souls where restless ardour woke;—
Loud lauded they thy bearing bold—
Thy bravery's eagle-flights extolled—
Wild signs and exclamations well,
Served then, their wondering thoughts to tell,
Some hailed thee as their Hettman brave,
High brandishing their bickering glaive—
A new Mazeppa deemedst thou then,
Thou stoodst, 'mongst those rude, bearded men,
So Flatters still delights—disarms—
To roughest speech gives honeyed charms!—
XXVIII.
Meanwhile sank day—declining slow,Burned the rich west with sunset's glow,
The impatience every heart confessed,
Might scarce be conquered or repressed.
At length Intelligencers came,
With news that fanned the increasing flame—
And what the tidings that they brought?—
They seemed impossible to thought!—
495
Of her thronged habitants bereft!”—
Within the Emperor's breast of pride,
Stern wrath with disappointment vied,
But such emotions he controlled,
Hid in his bosom's deepest fold—
Descended he with countless men,
Salvation's peaceful mountain then!
And toward the city took his way,
Scarce crediting what hundreds say—
“It cannot be!—The tale is vain!—
Yet wherefore should they forge and feign?”—
Approached he then, the Moskowa gate—
There, fain, once more, would pause and wait—
But urged to enter—he advanced—
And sternly round him glared and glanced—
No life,—no movement—dead and chill—
All seemeth fixed and frozen still!—
XXIX.
But ye the will not think 'tis so!—He will not trust this tale!—No—no!—
“Moscow deserted!—Can it be?—
Out on their weak credulity!”—
Then turned he, to his followers round,
While stern his angered accents sound,—
“Go!—bring these dubious Boyards here—
They pause and crouch—in gloom and fear!—
Make speed—and bring them to my foot!”—
His Followers heard him—gravely mute—
496
While doubts still pressed with heavier chill!
'Twas vain!—their mission fruitless proved—
Through lonely streets the wanderers moved;—
Some wretched outcasts sole remained,
Vile slaves and felons—late unchained!
Back to the sovereign they returned—
He heard—he marvelled—and he mourned;—
“Can this, then, be indeed!—is't true?”—
Reflections sad and dark of hue,
Shot, sudden, through his breast anew!—
XXX.
“And have they torn themselves away,From Moscow's walls—their pride and stay?—
Forsaken all their best-loved homes—
Their thousand towers—their clustered domes—
The temples, where their fathers prayed,
Their palaces in pomp displayed,
Their Wealth—State—Honours—Luxuries—Powers,—
All left—in these tempestuous hours?
Strange characters—deep—stern and strong—
These Russians shew!”—He paused!—ere long
Fell other accents from his tongue—
Resumed he thus his speech, the while
Lowered round his lips a stormy smile,
His looks grew powerful to express,
A keen and cold contemptuousness—
His accents—tuned to harsh disdain,
Spoke, too, the sting of angry pain,
497
And thus, with curdling sneer he cried,—
“Ha!—We will teach these Russians yet—
A juster value's weight to set
On all they now forsake—forget!—
On their proud Capital sublime,—
Such knowledge shall they learn in time!—
The effects, themselves they scarce may know,
Which yet shall from its downfall flow!—
But, We in time will teach them all—
They yet shall mourn—their Capital!”—
| The Maiden of Moscow | |