The Maiden of Moscow A Poem, in Twenty-One Cantos. By the Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley |
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| II. |
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| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. | CANTO XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
498
CANTO XIII.
I.
Shake Moscow!—Shake!—ye Towers and Domes—Napoleon and a Nation comes!
A Nation of such Names,—for round—
Stand thousands maddening with its sound;
Who pant at least a part to claim—
Of the endless glories of that name!
There many a one rears crest on high,
Whose mention seems a battle-cry;—
And many a one plants flag unfurled—
That—but for Him—had fired the World!
II.
Murat, unchecked, led proud and free,His columns close of cavalry;
Then entering Royal Moscow's Gate—
They moved through mighty streets, elate!
Looked they as nothing could oppose—
Not flood nor field—nor fire nor foes!
499
These warriors pause—in might arrayed!—
Proved slight that check—and soon once more—
They marched in triumph as before!
III.
First joyously they rode along,And pride was deep, and hope was strong,
But soon the solemn silence round,
Even their high hearts in stillness bound;—
Their horses' measured tramp was heard—
But not a whisper—not a word!—
The palaces that lined the way,
Still rich in splendours of display,
Were all forsaken, and forlorn—
The senseless buildings seemed to mourn;—
The humbler mansions, too, looked drear—
Deserted—deathlike—far and near!—
That load of silence and of gloom,
Made each lorn dwelling seem—a Tomb!
Their clattering horse-hoofs sounded far—
This was not Peace!—this was not War!—
The heavy hush the heart oppressed,
It shook the warrior's haughty breast,
Through bars of brass—and shrouds of steel—
And made him fear—and made him feel!
He feared!—for something vague and chill
Seemed treacherously foreboding ill—
Not Man he feared!—Man's absence 'twas,
That taught through valiant breasts to pass,
Those thrills that mocked at steel and brass!—
500
IV.
Hark!—Hark!—a sound familiar nowHath called the blood to each bold brow!
A shot!—Another!—halted there
That Mighty Column—proud and fair—
Full far, stretched out its lengthened line,
A glorious spectacle—and fine!—
Still covering o'er the field-ways green,
Its latest horsemen might be seen;
Its centre, filled in squadroned strength,
The broad, chief streets of mightiest length;
The while even reached its bannered head—
The old Kremlin's bounds—so wide it spread!—
Seemed closed, the Foemen to repel
The gates of that vast citadel;—
Wild fanatics, of aspect foul,
Thence hailed the French, with hideous howl!
While from the battlements were poured,
By that outrageous clamourous horde,
Volleys of musquetry—whose sound
Shattered that solemn air around!
These wretches, garbed in uncouth dress,
Reeled in ferocious drunkenness—
Fierce, phrenzied imprecations loud—
Yelled forth the whole infuriate crowd;—
In loose, disordered misarray,
Reckless—they threw their lives away—
A horrible and dread display!—
501
V.
Another proof affording so,To their dismayed and wondering Foe,
Of zeal—which mounteth high and higher—
Of their great Passion—stern and dire—
Their barbarous Patriotism's fire!
Another!—still full many a one,
Had they beheld since strife begun!—
Since feud and fray, far round were spread—
And human nature's heart-veins bled!—
Full many a one they yet shall see—
To shock with dread sublimity!—
The warlike king a message sent,
Of favouring, fair advertisement,
To this ungovernable crew—
That sought to make their Conquerors rue!—
With mockery harsh—and challenge rude,—
'Twas answered by the multitude!
With fierce defiance, straight, 'twas met—
Wild boast—and foul, injurious threat!
Then sought the Gauls to force the gate—
Stood firm and fast, its iron weight!—
Still every effort of their might,
Resisted this, in strength, aright,
Till, at the orders of their king,
The battering cannons, there, they bring.
Soon grows the enduring iron weak—
The huge bars yield—the hinges creak—
It bends—it rocks—it falls at last!—
Unchecked—like loosened Tempest's blast,
502
Then inward straight—and onward passed!—
Fast, inward!—onward!—upward!—press—
The shouting French—in all success—
Before them, the o'ermatched herd they drove—
Who crushed, and 'whelmed, yet struggling, strove!—
VI.
One maniac wretch, with desperate spring,Rushed, black and gnashing, at the King!
Seized by a powerful grasp—he sought
To grind his foe—and foaming fought
'Gainst him who had perceived his aim
And interposed a stalwarth frame!
The Gaul—with giant stroke and thrust—
Hurled down the miscreant to the dust;
There, prostrate for a space he lay—
As 'twere a breathless corse of clay!
But once again he rose—he sprung—
Then, like a wounded tiger clung—
And rolled his victim on the ground,
While desperately his arms he wound,
That panting, sinewy frame around,
Those arms were seized, and held, and bound—
And yet, the maddened savage there
Strove with his teeth to strip and tear—
Till,—felled to Earth, he quivering sunk—
His head, half severed from the trunk!—
Brief time Murat, delayed had been,
Thus by the Kremlin's barbarous scene,
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Dispersed, and checked,—he left unharmed,
Onward he past—nor paused again—
Onward with his imposing train!—
VII.
No pause he made—but traversed straight,That city proud, from gate to gate;
Nor deigned to halt within its walls,
For still the Voice of Victory calls!—
He made no pause—no sojourn brief!—
Passed the indefatigable Chief;—
Passed in pursuit—opposed no more—
Of Russia's rear-guard gone before.
Unhesitating—promptly still—
Spurred by quick thoughts—and swerveless will—
His choice left free—his course made clear—
He took the road, with dauntless cheer,
The Asian road, to Wladimir.
Nine hundred leagues—of pain and toil—
Of dearth and danger—care and coil—
And sixty conflicts—nought had tamed
The zeal which yet all zeal outflamed!—
Those leagues of wearying land passed o'er,
That travel, terrible and sore,
These fierce encounters—fought to reach
Moscow—the goal of all and each—
Left him, insatiate, as before,
For Victory!—Victory!—evermore!—
And through that city,—thus attained,
He passed, scarce heeding that 'twas gained!
504
To seek the strife—to strike the blow!—
Tired of the peace of half a day,
His pulses bound in fevered play,
And the Armistice is o'er,—and all
Doth onward—forward—beckoning call!—
VIII.
Some thousand Cossacks by that roadRetreated—o'er which now he trode;
A loud discharge of carbines soon
Proclaimed that the Armistice was done!—
Thus War was recommenced—renewed
The Firing—for awhile subdued—
Which seemed even threatening Asia now,
While cleared the chief's commanding brow!
Ah!—had he known this scarce would cease,
With interval of peaceless Peace,
(So racked by restless dread and doubt—
'Twas still, a breathless flight,—and rout!)
Till scattered remnants of that Host
The World's great Dread—the Conqueror's boast—
With agonizing toil should gain,
The distant banks of smiling Seine,
How different had his feelings been—
How clouded were that now-cleared mien!—
IX.
Napoleon entered slow the gate,Of the proud Kremlin's towering state,
505
To gild Great Moscow's streets forlorn.
Yet when he entered there—the day
Had sent no fair poursuivant ray—
As yet, though midnight hours were done,
The hour of dawn smiled not—nor shone!—
To decorate that saddening scene,
No gentle splendours smiled serene;
The night a gloomy night had proved,
Even troubling hearts—till then, unmoved—
Reports and rumours—deep and dire—
Full oft announced outbreaking fire—
Of Conflagration's neighbouring ill,
Those threatening tidings gathered still;
Incredulous, the Emperor heard,
And answered brief, with haughty word,
Till came stern news, each hope to wreck,
To end each doubt—each dream to check!
The dreaded flames—in hideous strength—
Had burst, and broken forth at length!
'Twas in the City's central part,
Even in the mighty City's heart—
That desolating fire began,
Which later mocked all powers of man!
By him, whom all around obeyed,
Mortier—the Mareschall,—had been made,
The City's Governor—to whom
Entrusted was its state and doom—
And earnestly enjoined was he,
To check all acts disorderly;
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Reproached him with indignant air!—
X.
But Mortier pointed out at once—For all defence—for all response—
The iron-covered mansions near,
Whence issued dense the sign of fear;
Thick smoke and black—while closed and barred—
Untouched by those who watched to guard—
Unscathed without they still remained—
'Twas dark, and strange, and unexplained!—
The Emperor then, with clouded eye,
Entered the Kremlin thoughtfully;
But when he trod its honoured ground,
And marked the various wonders round,
And gazed on palaces of pride—
Which long had mocked at time and tide—
Shewn by the flames' far-spreading glare,
That flashed along the sombre air,
(These promised, to one part enchained,
To spare that Mighty Spot—where reigned
The Pride of Ages—yet unstained!—)
When these he viewed with kindling glance,
As one new waked from dizzy trance,
And raised that piercing glance on high—
Where Temples met midway the sky;—
Where massive piles sublimely stood—
Like Giants fixed in towering mood!
Seats of dread monarchs—haught and bold—
The Rurics—Romanhoffs of old—
507
Which seemed beyond the clouds to climb—
Then downwards gazing—marked the Pride—
The Pomp still spreading deep and wide—
And all the outstretching city viewed,
Glittering in wond'rous solitude,
Beneath that wild and meteor light—
Alas!—too luminously bright!—
A change came flashing o'er his mood—
With beaming aspect there he stood!—
XI.
Hope—Pride—and Triumph—gathered strength—“I stand in Moscow, then, at length!”
Even thus with gladsome tones he cried,
Of wakening hope, and wondering pride!
“I am in Moscow!—in the place
Of the olden Czars—that far-famed race!—
Within their Kremlin's sacred bounds—
'Midst their crowned towers—and trophied mounds!—
Their monuments of Triumphs proud—
Scarce dimmed by Time's oblivious shroud—
Whose Gathered Glories now must yield,
On their own mighty place and field—
Even now must fade—must shrink away—
Like Stars—before the burst of Day—
Changed—changed and bowed—fade dim and fast—
By One—by Ours—by mine, o'ercast!—
Henceforward, these shall speak aloud—
In Russia's heart!—the stern!—the proud!—
508
Thine own—and thy Napoleon's name!”—
XII.
Soon meditations through his mind—Deep—strong—of stern obtrusive kind—
Passed shadowingly—for much is there
To claim his caution—and his care!—
Thus communed he ere long with those,
In whom he best could trust, repose;—
“Now would I compromise the war—
Strike down each stern opposing bar—
Make composition with the Foe,
And staunch the World's great wounds of woe;—
Fain would I thus,—with such design,
While fair doth still, the horizon shine,
Send Peace-Ambassadors straightforth—
To the awful Cæsar of the North!—
And friendly overtures commence,
Nor longer hold this drear suspense!”—
No voice dissentient, there was heard—
None disagreed in thought or word;—
To Peace,—all hearts and eyes were turned,
For her deep rest all bosoms yearned;—
'Twas by the flames' portentous light
Outshining fiercely, strangely bright—
Napoleon traced the important scroll,
Which bore the purpose of his soul!
The important scroll he thoughtful traced,
Then straight dispatched it thence, in haste!
509
Recovered late from dangerous wound—
A Russian noble of the land,
Who 'midst her hosts held high command,
Charged with that letter, straight was sent—
To speed his hope's accomplishment!
When passed that night of wrath and fear—
When dawned at length the Daylight clear,
That Daylight's steady radiance spread,
O'er scenes of turbulence and dread,
Favoured Treviso's efforts well—
The fires subdued,—shrank—faded—fell—
Flash after flash they sank away—
As though ashamed—they might not stay
'Whelmed in the whirlpool bright, of Day!—
XIII.
Say!—shall not now a softened strain,Sacred to tenderest griefs and pain,
Devoted for a season be,
To thine afflictions and to thee?—
Sweet Xenia—launched on troubled sea!—
'Twas Moscow, was thine earliest home,
She nursed thee in thine opening bloom—
Thy life's young flower, there, leaf by leaf
Grew lovely, all unchilled by grief—
'Midst playmates fond—and kindred dear—
Thine hours of infancy passed here—
And thy sweet girlhood's seasons bright,
When all is tinged with rainbow-light,
510
Spread boundless, the architectural sea!—
Thy youthful eyes—enchained—entranced—
With sparkling pleasure, shone and glanced—
While Moscow's wond'rous splendours all,
Girt thee with glories magical!—
XIV.
Well didst thou deem, on earth might nought,Be e'er so dear to sight, or thought,
Well might'st thou feel, that nothing e'er
With Her perfections could compare!—
To thee, she was a place sublime,
Beyond all chance—and change—and time—
Of all things bright and proud a part,
The enchanted City of the Heart!
Full many a sorrow hast thou learned,
Since last thy steps from her, were turned,
Dark griefs on griefs, came crowding fast—
Till seemed it none were left at last—
None left untried—so thick,—so free,—
Had flown those shafts of Misery!
Oh!—she hath suffered strange distress,
The darker for past happiness!—
And struggled 'gainst it with such strife,
As doth but fix it in the life;
As storms that vainly sweep and strive,
But deeper the oak's foundations drive!—
Yet deeper in the faithful soil—
Though seems it bowed and bent the while!—
511
XV.
Yes! she had suffered—she had wept,—With long, long, grief—that never slept!
For others, and herself, had bowed,
Her head, beneath Affliction's cloud;—
And, Oh!—the aching love which wrung
That heart—unshielded and unstrung!—
On that most sad and dreary night,
Of their mysterious hidden flight,
Her father's questions, sore dismayed
That heart—of its own voice afraid!—
The inquisitorial glance and speech,
Her inmost bosom seemed to reach—
Speechless in sorrowing trance she stood—
Back from her cheek ebbed fast the blood—
Her voiceless lips stirred quivering, still,
Like some touched harp-chord's lengthened thrill,
Like some touched harp's long-trembling string—
By finger swept—or breeze's wing!
XVI.
“Alas!—my Child!”—the Father said—Uplifting sad, his stately head—
While seemed his patriarchal brow,
Perturbed with endless trouble now!
“Alas, my Child!—thou 'rt shrinking back,
As in my looks, I bore a rack!—
Shrinking and cowering from my gaze,
As with an anguish of amaze—
512
Through every throbbing, suffering, part,—
And though thyself, hast known before,
The secrets of its folded core,
That knowledge, seems more sternly shewn
Through my pierced thought—than through thine own!—
My Child!—thou lov'st!—thou lov'st!—but rise—
Subdue that darkened love which lies,
Aching with buried agonies!—
A plague-spot at thy heart of hearts—
Or all my dearest hope departs!—
For thee I hoarded every thought,
That yet a gentler promise brought!
I saw my land, all wrung and torn—
With the iron in her deep heart worn,—
Her cities sacked—her homes despoiled—
Her sacred, honoured soil, defiled;—
I saw—as still I see it—still—
And evermore—Ill following Ill!—
But with a governed thought and mind,
I bowed—to many a grief resigned,—
And soothed,—'midst sufferings wide and wild,
Turned from my Country to my Child!
Consoled—while still this bosom mourned
To thee—my light!—my flower!—I turned!—
As though, my Russia—I could see,
Embodied beauteously in thee!—
Still fair—still pure—still radiant-bright—
Shewn in one Heavenly Form of Light!—
513
XVII.
“But now, Oh, Daughter!—can it be,This worst of shame and misery?—
Thou lovest the Stranger—and—the Foe?”—
Sighed forth the Maid, with accents low,
Scarce heard—but felt—“Deliverer too!”—
“Aye!”—groaned her Sire—“'tis true!—too true!
Yet, would we had together died,—
Fallen heart to heart—and side by side—
Ere thus we were preserved—to owe
Such cruel mercies to a foe!
And yet I scarce mean this—not so!
'Twere impious thus to think and speak,
Not this my heart should grind—should break—
(Though bitter still, must be such mood,
Of forced unnatural gratitude!—)
But 'tis to see this love—this love
Which stands 'twixt thee and Heaven above!—
This dark—this hateful love unblessed,
For 'tis a horror unexpressed!
Thus rise, in dire and fatal hour,
The holiest feelings to o'erpower!
Ah!—think that he thy heart adores,
Is one, thine outraged Land abhors!
Since he—Deliverer as he was—
Through strange events to us,—Alas!
Deliverer,—as he thus was made,
Through Heaven's almighty Grace and Aid,
Moves—one of that detested band,
The Murderers of our Mother Land!—
514
“Ah!—would I could!—this clinging heart
Can ne'er be severed from his own;—
Though worlds were wide, between them thrown!—
How can I check my feelings? how!—
How spurn,—forget,—forsake him now!—
How bear to see his sorrow?”—“Fly!”—
“'Twere vain—till death I love!”—“Then die!”—
XVIII.
The unhappy Father could no more;—His breast he struck—his beard he tore,—
Then, wild implored his child to live,
And all his madness to forgive!
Together then, they knelt and prayed,
Imploring each Heaven's blessed aid,
With flowing tears—with murmured prayers—
They wrestled with their heart-despairs!
That gentle daughter, then, at length
Fast gathering, new, unwonted strength,
With steadfast voice—with cloudless eye—
Mastering the Master-Agony!—
Exclaimed, “My Father!—I will go!—
Forgive these tears, that yet will flow—
'Tis meet—'tis right that we depart;—
Lo!—I have crushed my rebel heart!
Yea!—I am ready! let us hence!—
Ere anguish wake yet more intense;—
Ere Sorrow,—in recoil too strong,
Drive all my shuddering soul along,—
515
With new regrets, I sink beset!—
Oh!—Father!—snatch me hence!—Oh! save!—
Even should my refuge be,—my grave!”—
XIX.
With showers of tears—with bursts of sighs—The Father shudderingly replies;—
Then, whispering tenderest words of praise,
Whose faultering tone his grief betrays—
Blesses his daughter's nobleness—
Her greatness 'midst her worst distress!
Her gentleness—and strength—and power—
All, shewn sublime, in this dark hour!
And then—while woe reflected woe—
While griefs to griefs, did gathering flow—
While mute Affliction made reply,
To the eloquence of Agony—
He bore her from that Place beloved—
Where first her soul's life, breathed and moved!
The only spot on Earth where shone,
The Sun for her, from heaven's far throne—
The Awakening and the Enlightening One!
The only spot where seemed to stir
A breath—a dream of Heaven for her!
But Lo!—'twas o'er—'twas past—and done—
The Vision and the Voice were gone!
The Vision of a bliss divine—
The Voice that said—“'Tis thine!—all thine!”
516
XX.
And now that dreadful word—Farewell,Through her crushed soul, must sound its knell—
While every echo there shall wake—
Answer, eternally to make!
So shall it sound—sound on in gloom—
Through her wrung heart—that hollow tomb!
By Memories haunted evermore—
Which, sleepless, crowd that heart's sick core—
And only living on the Past,
Which shone too dazzlingly to last!
Ah!—there is Joy and Life alone—
Now nought but Memory is her own;—
Hope left behind on Life's dimmed shore!—
And Memory—Memory—all before!
But they departed—yes!—'tis done!—
She breathes Farewell to Air and Sun!
To Earth and Heaven—to Life and Death—
There is no rest—no calm—no breath!
Oh! Young Delights!—that sing like birds—
Your inner dreams—too sweet for words!
Like birds too,—plumaged radiantly,
But only plumaged so—to fly!
Ye seemed belonging once to Earth—
But soon, ye spurned its gloom and dearth!
Ye could not, or ye would not stay—
Ye passed to Heaven like clouds away!
Like Sun-touched clouds—that when they part—
Seem melting back to Heaven's own heart!
517
XXI.
Once more through Moscow's streets she trod—Bowed, beneath Grief's stern chastening rod—
Yet beautifully desolate,—
And cloathed in Sorrow's queenly state;—
For Sorrow teacheth noble things,
To those that taste her bitter springs!
Above the World, the wounded heart,
Throned on the dust, can act its part;—
It seemeth lowest—and most lost,—
It conquereth—and it knoweth most!
It shakes the World, from off its wings—
And close to Heaven, it dwells and clings!
Aye!—close to Heaven!—though bowed in dust!—
For there is Heaven where breathes its trust!
XXII.
'Twas Evening's solemn gathering hour—Red clouds paled off,—like flower by flower!
They paled and perished,—bloom by bloom—
While deepened dreamily the gloom!
De Courcy, pondering, moved along—
Moscow's deserted halls among!
Fair, through the twilight, glimmering shone,
Her pillared avenues of stone!
Where hide the hundred nations—where?—
That traversed these proud streets and fair?
When in her palmy days she towered
With wealth and pride, exhaustless, dowered!
518
That in allegiance, fain were bowed;
And many that from Climes afar,
Were beckoned, by her brilliant star—
Who left their homes and lands to dwell,
High on crowned Empire's Pinnacle!
These streets were trod not long ago,
By Rich and Poor—by high and low—
Native and stranger—many a one,—
And naturalized, adopted son!
XXIII.
Calpacked Armenians here were seen—And brave Circassians fair of mien—
The blue-eyed Georgian—smooth and sleek—
The kilted, haughty, striding Greek!
Proud Polanders with flashing eye—
Whose every glance spoke Liberty!
And Jews that crouched with leer and whine—
With girdle coarse, and gabardine;—
And fair-haired Dane—and serious Swede—
And reindeer-vested Samoyede;—
Small-eyed Chinese—and Persian pale—
With robes that on the pavements trail!—
(Whose vestments, fashioned still remain,
As in the old days of Tamerlane!)
Bucharians too, and Cossacks wild—
And sunned Italia's dark-browed child!
And Spaniard swarth, whose fire-glance played
Beneath the broad Sombrero's shade;
519
With quiver light—with opened vest;—
And casque of iron,—such, of yore—
As Attila, the Conqueror, wore!
All thronged these streets—and more—yet more!
XXIV.
Where bide they now?—thus swept away—Like leaves on some autumnal day?
Where dwell the crowds, that hurried through,
Those streets, so mournful now to view?
Where—where are all, those busy scenes,
To which fond memory, lingering leans,
Processions gay—and joyous throngs—
Feasts—dances—sports—and games—and songs?
How oft at such an hour as this—
Pealed, echoing sounds, of harmless bliss?
While in the suburbs—gaily met,
Laughed many a merry-making set!
There did the Balalaika sound—
While danced the youths and maidens round;
With cheery shout, and graceful bound!—
The Balalaika—small and slight—
Whose notes to joy and mirth invite!
De Courcy gazed in sadness there—
And seemed to miss this joyaunce fair!—
For he had read of such—and sighed—
To look on change so wild and wide!
Here, too,—on smiling, festive eve,
When, Labour, freed—its task might leave,—
520
And then,—with graceful pause between;—
Another, calmer, and more grave—
Soft as the motion of the wave!
Reminding with its mazy turns—
Of dance pourtrayed, on the old Greek urns!
XXV.
But all these merry-makings seem,Gone like the sweetness of a Dream!
And banished are the exultant throngs—
The feasts—the dances—and the songs!—
De Courcy, marked a mighty Church—
No pious crowds beseiged its porch—
Of Congregations reft—it stood
Hallowing the solemn solitude!
He entered—and with start and thrill—
Paused at the entrance—mute and still!
A thousand lighted tapers shed
A glorious light—far-glowing spread!
Shone decorated the altars all—
As for some sacred festival!—
Attesting thus—here, late had been,
Displayed a high and hallowed scene!
Here had the Patriarchs knelt and prayed—
And long invoked the Almighty's aid!
With the bowed people,—ere they passed
From Moscow's walls—high act and last!
521
XXVI.
Heaped offerings, rich, were meetly placed—On shrines with artful carvings graced!
And silver vessels fair were seen—
Which grasped by sainted hands had been;—
And precious pictures were displayed—
Whose hues, too hallowed seemed,—to fade!
Eternal as the haloes shed,
Bright,—round some consecrated head!
He turned him, saddening from the sight,—
Ashamed of Victory's boast and might!
He left the Church—all darker frowned,
To his late dazzled senses round!
'Twas that still, deep, delicious hour—
When truths seem tales—when dreams have power,—
A thousand thoughts had swept his soul—
But now, they ceased to shine and roll!
They shrank like stars, when shines the Sun—
Before the Presence deep of One!—
That rose upon his spirit then—
As though it ne'er might set again!
And Loved and Lost One!—could that be,
Aught but a yearning thought of thee?
And now, Love's deep impassioned Dream,
Poured o'er his heart a sunny stream!—
And now, Love's Melancholy came—
To temper thoughts of light and flame!
That Melancholy, deep and sweet,
Where but too many transports meet!—
522
By o'er delight's full depth oppressed;—
Till thoughts of flame and light are crossed
In that more precious darkness lost!—
And now, Love's jealous fears arose—
His self-nursed doubts, and restless woes!
These, wakening would not sleep again—
Settles the hovering heart on Pain!
'Tis still so here!—hopes fleet and fly—
Dreams—of their own deep beauty die—
And sweet rich thoughts—fade, lost in air—
The hovering heart but dwells,—on Care!—
XXVII.
And thus unto himself he said—The while that heart within him bled—
“And doth she love me?—No!—ah! no!—
She could not love her Country's Foe!
It was a passing, baseless dream—
A bright,—but momentary gleam—
Part gratitude—and pity part—
She read my maddening—maddening heart!
She dreamed—perchance, she loved—'twas vain!—
I dreamed it, too!—but woke again!—
Those eyes—to which such soul is given—
With all their Beauty of the Heaven—
Methinks, too often looked on me,
With freezing, frozen brilliancy!
They struck—they smote my heart's deep fold—
Fair—glorious—wond'rous,—bright,—but cold!
523
Like crystal daggers, pierce my thought!
Daggers of ice!—they stab my soul—
Chilling and withering through the whole!
She loved me not!—I feel—I fear—
But Oh!—the love unbounded here!
The unbounded love in this deep breast—
That asks no change—yet hopes no rest!”
XXVIII.
Thus—all his thoughts like mourners moved—But still he desolately loved!
Still fondly doating—he deplored—
And agonizing—more adored!
Still blushed before his dreaming eye,
His matchless Rose of Muscovy!
Though pallid Grief essayed to throw
Her dusky shroud, o'er Fancy's glow!
What shape is gliding through the gloom—
Still,—as some shadow of the tomb?—
With stealthiest step—with dubious tread—
As though on errand dark and dread?
Behind—a Form of statelier height—
Looms dim, upon the uncertain sight!
The foremost of the twain drew near—
Then cried De Courcy loud and clear—
“Thy name and need?—Stand! stranger!—stand!”
No voice replied!—a gentle hand
Outstretched—when ceased, that loud command,
524
And fixed him there, as by a charm!—
Something instinctive,—inly told,
“'Tis Xenia that thine eyes behold!”
XXIX.
“Oh! speak!”—he cried;—“And is't then thou?—My Life!—my Love!—Whence cam'st thou?—How?
And dar'st thou venture here when all,
Fly, scared, and shocked—from Moscow's wall?”
Then glanced he at the stranger tall—
For through the dimness he could see
'Twas not her sire—not Vassilii!
A stately man it was, and old—
Of haughty mien, and lofty mould—
A cloak of ponderous draperies fell,
Thrown round a frame it shrouded well;—
He stood in silence—still—unmoved,—
De Courcy turned to the Beloved,—
“Thou speak'st not!—but that loveliest voice—
Which oft hath bid this heart rejoice—
Thy Voice is in my soul!—I hear
With my full heart—though not mine ear!
That heart—thy voice seems now to fill—
The accents, anticipating still,
To which so oft 'twas taught to thrill,
With Love's own more than magic skill!
Yet Oh!—one word—in mercy tell—
Dost thou in guarded safety dwell?
525
Her voice through tears and tremours broke—
Which rose to suffocate and choke!
XXX.
To the aged man she pointed there—Who stood with deep, abstracted air
As though dark thoughts, oppressed his heart
In grief and gloom—a space apart,
Then murmuring low—she said his home
Had sheltered them 'mid storm and gloom!
That he through Life, had long been proved,
Her father's firmest friend beloved!
That housed in secret—safely well,—
No dangers threaten, where they dwell!
That thousands lodge, like them concealed—
As, chance, ere long, might be revealed!
Then, faultering, said she,—she had come—
From out her subterraneous home—
To seek De Courcy—and to give
Hints—warnings—he must needs receive!
From secret source unknown, her Sire—
Had learned strange tidings, deep and dire—
(Himself, she said, much ill had borne—
By journeyings long, and griefs o'erworn—
And she had urged—and pressed—repose,—
Lest Life should with those labours close!
Else he, De Courcy's side, had sought
To shew his doubt, and speak his thought!—)
Those tidings were of solemn weight,—
Believed they both, 'twas stamped in Fate—
526
Of some most dread catastrophe!
Short space she paused—then faultering still—
Said—watchful care might ward the ill,—
That, even her Father wished to save,
Doomed thousands, from a timeless grave!
Perplexed—De Courcy asked—from whence,—
From whom,—should come the unknown offence?
XXXI.
Then faint she whispered, “Yesternight!”While round she glanced in wild affright—
“Say!—yesternight did none suspect—
Rose not the Fire from lax neglect?
From reckless thoughtlessness of those—
Who deemed they reached their labour's close?
—Alas!”—De Courcy, wondering, prayed—
While still, to soothe her he essayed—
That farther she would yet explain—
Teach,—prove—and prompt,—but 'twas in vain!
Mysterious hints and dubious words—
Alone that quivering voice affords!
'Twas vain, more close details to crave—
These scattered hints, alone, she gave!
XXXII.
Then, calming down his labouring breast—Her yielded hand he fondly pressed—
“And ere I go,—Beloved!”—he cried,
“To warn of woes that may betide—
527
I yet have portion high, and part?
Tell me thou lov'st me still!—for Life,
If not—is all one hopeless strife!
One Agony of Thoughts—whose sting—
Shall long, with killing keenness, wring!
Then—struck by Death's deep, withering chill—
Those thoughts shall writhe in Anguish still!—
Still Reign—Immortal in their Ill!
Oh! say thou lovest me!”—And she said,—
“Shame on thine own dumb heart and dead!
Canst thou still love?—and dar'st thou dream—
Such Love can pass, like Meteored beam?
Such feelings, fade, like rainbowed gleam?”
XXXIII.
“My Xenia!—blessed be thy rebuke—The indignant sweetness of that look;—
Chance what may chance—I now am blest—
My world is all within my breast!
For others, I may watchful prove—
For me—Life—Death—are lost in Love!
Since Life—since Death—for me shall be—
But that deep feeling—full and free,
That Love, my whole of Destiny!
Nay!—part not yet!—sweet Xenia!—think!—
We meet—we part—on Fate's stern brink;
Thou wilt not then!—or canst not stay?
Ah!—dearest!—deign for us to pray—
528
And make our fates thy gentle care!
Then, listening Heaven will surely deign—
Avert our punishment and pain!
Pray for the Aggressors!—Pray for those—
Who rack thy Land from its repose!—
Who come, with brand and bolt, to smite—
Pray for the Dark Ones!—Soul of Light!”
XXXIV.
“For them!—For us!—For all who breathe—All Pilgrims of this Earth beneath!
For all my prayers incessant soar—
I breathe out prayers at every pore!
Since I must pray for Friend—for Foe,—
Blent in mine Oraison's deep flow!
On pitying Heaven, must ceaseless call—
For Foes—for Friends—in risk,—or thrall!—
For those who foil,—for those who fall,
And thee—thee—thee—above them all!”
Nor further word the Damsel spoke,—
Abruptly from his hold she broke;—
And darting down the shadowy street—
With waving veil and winged feet—
Was lost at once to his strained sight—
Whose soul seemed following on her flight!
XXXV.
He turned to where the Stranger stood—In solemn and abstracted mood!—
529
The Stranger stood no longer there!
Nor more De Courcy loitered then—
But, swift, retraced his steps again;—
His Chiefs and high Superiors sought—
To tell those tidings he had brought;—
And well the immediate need pourtrayed,
That all, prepared, should stand, arrayed;
He deemed the Authorities and Powers,
Strict watch should set through those dark hours,
That 'gan to veil proud Moscow's towers;
While seemed impending dangers deep,
Round all—like Night's own shades to sweep!
(Even such, as might,—those shades beneath—
Change half an Empire's sleep—to death!)
But little seemed the tale believed—
Those tidings lightly were received!
And well his thought might blame the excess—
Of their contemptuous carelessness;
Indignant well, Eugene might be,
At their strange sluggish apathy!
And still he watched—while thousands round,
In slumber's deepest thrall were bound!
END OF CANTO XIII.
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