The Maiden of Moscow A Poem, in Twenty-One Cantos. By the Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. | CANTO XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
531
CANTO XIV.
I.
Deep from an hundred clock-towers broke—The midnight hour's far-sounding stroke—
Which burst upon De Courcy's ear,
With ominous, dull sound and drear!
Rose gradually before his sight,
A dubious gleam of wavering light!
Till sudden,—kindling high and higher—
Flashed out long wreath, and pointed spire!
“Awake!—Ye slumberers!—Rouse ye!—Fire!”—
Full soon was given the wild alarm,—
Prophetic of portentous harm;—
Roused multitudes from sleep now driven
Gazed on flushed Earth and reddening Heaven!
Gazed on the strange and awful sight,
In startled wonder and affright!
Appalled the astonished thousands stood—
A chained and breathless multitude!
532
Bewildered—dazzled—every eye!
Proud Palaces—which seemed that day,
To meet Heaven's sunny beams half-way,
And cast them on the Earth as though
'Twas their own splendour's native glow—
Now reeled and rocked—then sank consumed—
In their own ruins fast entombed!
Fair Fanes—that had for centuries long,
'Gainst Weather—War—and Time—stood strong—
For some brief space all feebly braved,
That Element which round them raved!
Then fell—like Veterans on a field
Where they no powerful arms might wield!
II.
The fierce flames, mount on every side—As threatening Heaven with impious pride!
Loud echo, falling piles that round
Heap ashy mountains on the ground,
That ground—which seems to start and shake—
Where they, brief earthquake, rushing make!
Seem sights and sounds in mockery's mirth—
Thunders and Lightnings of the Earth!
'Twas from the North, on that fell night,
The strong wind, swept in deadly might!
And drove the flames—and fiercely rolled—
Right towards the Kremlin's Sacred Hold!
533
Oh! France!—and Flower of thy dread Host!
Showered sparks, and kindling fragments fly,
Thick, o'er its roofs of Royalty!
III.
But sudden changed the shifting wind—As in capricious transport blind!—
From North to West with favouring haste—
Changed hurryingly the inconstant blast;
Seemed thus o'erpast that danger dire!
The Kremlin shall be spared from fire!
But yet—not so!—they wondering saw—
With deepening dread—and wakening awe—
From new directions wildly burst,
The flames fresh-kindling as at first!
And threatening still, with fearful stride,
The glorious Kremlin's place of pride!
Still pointing thus—still pressing there,
As though they would not save and spare!
Three times the Power that none may bind,—
Three times—the furious-rushing wind,
Changed, in that wild tremendous night,
Of blank dismay, and mad affright!
And three times did those hostile fires,
With all their coils,—and crests,—and spires,—
Dart forth—as with determined aim—
The Kremlin's towering pride to tame;
And those now sheltered by its wall,
To whelm in its o'erwhelming fall!—
534
From some fresh dangerous quarter came;
Howe'er might shift the inconstant blast,
The answering fires, too, shifted fast!
The varying Conflagration dread,
Thus, still the varying gales, obeyed;
And well might strong suspicion seize
Their minds—who mark such signs as these—
And well might they these horrors deem—
Born of some dark and desperate scheme!—
IV.
Moscow!—their Conquest and their Spoil—Wert thou to burn,—their Funeral Pile?—
Shall Moscow perish from the earth
With those who razed her pride and worth?—
This dreadful Patriotism stung,
To pitch of hideous phrenzy—flung
Betwixt Great Russia and Her Foe—
(Threatening the hostile threateners so!—)
This Chaos—desolate and wild—
This Chaos—from Her Ruins piled!
This wreck and fragment of a World,
From pinnacle of Glory hurled!—
They struggled to subdue in vain
Those flames—which seemed to grow and gain;—
'Gainst which they strained their fruitless strength,
Till all was wild despair at length!
Report on dark report was spread,—
Gloomed each, more sinister and dread;
535
Unsoothed,—and breathlessly intense!
Among these vague but dire reports,
Rose one, that the ancient Kremlin's courts
A Powder-Magazine contained,
Unknown to those who there remained—
(Though scarce this tale was ascertained!)
Withal 'twas said, that there had been,
Beneath the Emperor's casement e'en,
Drawn up on that ill-omened night
Of wild disaster—wreck and blight—
As though no fair escape might chance,
To save the unconquered Lord of France,
A Park of dread Artillery,—(placed
Where well that warlike scene, it graced;)
With the ammunition this required,—
Was courted ruin then desired?—
Seemed the act by prompting fiends inspired!—
Such reckless negligence it shewed—
Such murderous harm 'twould seem to bode!—
If they—the French, had placed it there,
In absence strange, of watchful care—
Or if their Foes—with matchless art,
Had stealthwise, played that treacherous part;—
While posted carelessly, and chained,
By slumberous thrall, the Guards remained;
Too blind to threatening dangers, round—
O'erpowered, by wearying toils, profound!
536
V.
Eternal Powers!—each burning brand—Obedient to the gale's command—
Each shooting sparkle,—glittering there,
An Empire's,—Emperor's Fate might bear!—
Thus,—France!—may end in one wild hour
Thy Might—Pre-eminence—and Power!—
With Him who built thee to a Throne—
And bade all realms thy mastery own!—
The Wind's fierce rage rose more and more,
The flames with desolating roar,
From every quarter rushed amain,
The Kremlin's Kingly heights to gain!
The Wind rose more and more, and sped
Fresh devastation still to spread—
Attracted and increased it seemed,
(While free the fiery banners streamed,)
By that combustion, huge and high,
Till boundless raged its revelry!
All efforts seem exhausted now—
The awe-stricken crowds despairing bow!
They struggle,—but to yield and fail—
Their might proves here of no avail!
This giant champion of their foe,
Dread Fire!—they feel shall yet o'erthrow!
It glares like Sword of Cherub, waved
Before the Patriot's Eden—saved!
537
VI.
Nay!—rouse ye!—nerve ye yet again—Yet try what seemeth void and vain!
Shall his triumphant star not shine,
To bid these lurid lights decline?
Think on Napoleon's glorious star—
And wage once more the unequal War!—
'Tis hopeless all!—in savage ire
Spreads the ocean of devouring fire—
The work of thousands still it mocked,
The City's fountains, too, were blocked;
That all might be accomplished well,
Were these made inaccessible!
The numerous water-pipes were all
Found cut,—with care methodical;
The engines that had been employed
With power effective, were destroyed;
Lest, mighty agents,—these should prove—
And danger's deadliest chance, remove;
While the Element—which strengthened rose—
Still laughed at all that would oppose!—
That glorious Element and dire,—
The raging and resistless fire!
VII.
Fast thickening, rose reports confused—Now thousands, shuddered, disabused,
538
'Twas deep design, and purpose drear!
'Twas whispered,—on that first stern night,
When Moscow, bowed to foreign might—
On Prince Trubetskoi's palace proud,
Was seen—though then 'twas scarce avowed,—
Attached and fixed—a fire balloon
That kindled—caught—consumed it soon!
This seemed the signal!—flames at once
Rushed from the Exchange, in fierce response—
Stray Russian soldiers of police,
(Left free, by passive armistice,)
Of desperate and ferocious mien,
Loose scattered, here and there were seen,
Up-stirring still with lances tarred—
The flames, they watched to spread and guard,
Lest these be spent!—and Moscow spared!
Strange that ere this—each thought, each sense—
Seemed fallen on fatal negligence!
That none even chanced to tell or shew—
All they had seen presaging woe!—
VIII.
Fire-balls had been discovered hid,Deserted domes and halls, amid;—
Dread howitzer-shells in many a stove—
(Round which glad groupes did thoughtless move,—
So well their deadly web they wove,
Who 'gainst their foes unflinching strove!)
539
Had spread sharp death, or ghastly wound,—
Maiming and mutilating those,
Who there claimed refuge and repose!
While through that dreadful night of woe—
Still glided figures to and fro—
Wild—spectre-like—whose very look
Was like malignant Planet's stroke!
In hideousness these glanced and glared,
Fierce-eyed, and swarth, and shaggy-haired,
With tattered garbs and phrenzied air—
They sped—the message of despair;
Some, mad with drunkenness, aloud,
Went shouting high—elate and proud—
And grasping in their desperate hands,
Huge torches bright—and burning brands;
Staggering, in their ferocious joy,
And boastful of their dire employ,
They hurrying, took their fatal way,
Still aiding deep Destruction's sway—
Wide brandishing, in reckless wrath,
Those torches—flashing o'er their path
And spreading—with assiduous care—
The gathering Conflagration there!—
IX.
'Mongst these, weird women met the eye,That played their part, right horribly,
540
Foul apparitions—shunned and feared!
Nor sought those wretches, shroud, nor shade,
But passed in triumph of parade,
Throughout those blazing streets—where they
Gave aid to the elements' fierce sway—
Armed with their brandished torches thus,
Were caught these fiends iniquitous!
So reckless they, and madly bold,
That ere their hands relaxed their hold,
The French were forced to strike them down—
With the unsheathed sabres in their own!—
'Twas said this horde of bandits wild—
The obscene, and desperate, and defiled,
This crew of haggard furies foul—
That onwards swept with shriek and howl;
These dregs of dungeons—were unpent,
And loosed in wide enfranchisement—
For this fell purpose—deep and dire—
Sowers and gatherers-in of fire!—
This action—all of Worst and Best,
Could Patriot-love, alone, suggest,
Aye!—nought but Patriotism plan,
Point out—and prompt, to mortal man,
And while even that watched pale and mute—
Guilt—Guilt—alone could execute!—
X.
'Twas straight ordained, that on the spotThe accursed Incendiaries be shot!
541
Stood under arms, and well prepared,
Throughout that awful night of woe
To march—should Fate command it so!—
Masters of Moscow!—must ye then
Track through the wilds your paths again?—
Or bivouacked, watch, without Her Gates—
Where ambushed, chance, the Avenger waits,
Deprived of sustenance and hope,
Shade, rest, and peace—must ye thus droop?—
Masters of Moscow!—shall ye find
Your Conquest,—the ashes on the wind?—
Thus only claimed, to be resigned?—
At length the ghast and dreary day,
That could not dawn with the opening grey,
Of welcomed Morn's first trembling ray—
(For scarce 'twas seen till rose the sun—)
Shone mournfully these scenes upon;—
That Day seemed like that Night's pale ghost—
The dread still there—the splendour lost!—
XI.
Now sought the Kremlin's battled walls,Chieftains,—who staggering, crossed its halls
Where many a one, exhausted, falls!
Mortier himself o'ercome—o'erworn—
With all he had essayed and borne,
Dropped, swooning, at the threshold there—
Weighed down by faintness and despair!—
542
Earth seemed to grow one ardent tomb!
Another night came on at last—
Worse than that Night of Torments past!—
Seemed Heaven—and Earth—deep mingling there,
In one vast universal glare,
All changed to flame—all wildly blent—
Strange Chaos of One Element!—
As though all ruin to rehearse—
A Second Chaos—and a worse!
This seemed to feel, in conscious ire—
There Fire seemed something worse than Fire!—
Wave!—Russia!—wond'rous Russia!—wave
Thy boundless banners, broad and brave—
Thy meteor standards past all pride—
Lightnings of lustres far and wide—
Beyond all glory—boast—and fame,
Uplift the earth-dazzling oriflamme!
Advance thy flags of Fire,—so bright,
With torrid glare—and bloody light!
Shake out those banner-folds—and turn
Rallying once more—thou strong and stern!—
Abroad let these terrific burn!
Glares thy crowned pyramid of pyres,
A thousand lights,—and thousand fires!
As though to drive the spheres on high,
Yet farther,—up the affrighted sky;
And, say!—doth flushed and crimsoned Earth
Thus burst and bound to haughtier birth?—
543
And Upwards—Heavenwards—Onwards—move!—
In that vast star-y-pointing blaze,
Startling all Nature with amaze,
As though she rose a thousand ways;
Aye!—rose on rushing wings of Flame—
With soaring strife—and awful aim!
Say! doth she mount and mount—and make
Progress—with which all space must shake?—
All worlds and systems thrill, if so,
She breaks her bounds—and freed, doth go—
Unchecked—unchained—and flashing far—
A wandering, fresh erratic star!—
Changed to one Comet-world of dread,
Through boundless space, thus urged and sped!
Changed to one Comet-world of wrath,
Shot maddening through its crackling path;
Shot far along its sounding way—
Magnificently dread display!
So seems that festival of flame—
Which none may check—and nought may tame;
That crowning Conflagration dire,
No less—than such a world on fire!
XII.
Lo! men go mad with shocked surprise—With deafened ears—with dazzled eyes—
'Twas made a torture but to see,
That red and racking revelry!
544
As though the Sun himself was there!
The great Sun, lashed to billows high,
Like the mad Sea's storm-agony!—
Such waves of flame and light, toss free—
As though the Sun were made a Sea!—
Rose the equinoctial gales of might,
Still high and higher on that dread night,
While roared that surging Sea—and rocked—
(Till storm was as a vain thing mocked!)
Whirlwinds with whirlwinds clashed and shocked—
Mad Tempests raged 'gainst Tempests fierce—
Might such unbuild the universe!—
De Courcy braved the unbounded ire
Of storm and night—of wind and fire—
And through that blazing tempest moved,
O'erwhelmed with fears for her he loved!
Still tortured by those racking fears,
For one—each hour—each thought endears;
Not long had he, with bending form,
Staggered through that chaotic storm,
Ere he hath met with her he sought—
She, too, with that fierce storm hath fought!—
XIII.
Oh!—Woman!—flood—and field—and flame—Have known thy soul-steeled—heart-nerved frame!—
Aye! There she stands before his eyes,
Strained from their sockets with surprise,
545
For, Oh!—dread Powers!—what doth she here?—
Surrounded by ferocious men,
Heavens!—must he see Her thus again!
The broad illuminating glare,
Too faithfully discovered there,
That scene, which racked with new despair!
'Tis Xenia!—paler than when first
He saw her 'midst a throng accursed!
Yet lovely, past what words may tell,
Bright angel in that fiercer Hell!—
XIV.
'Tis Her!—'tis Her!—Oh! could it seemBut some unearthly baseless dream;—
When did he think on her to gaze,
The star, whose soul-light sunned his days!
And wish, with longings uncontrouled,
That severing worlds between them rolled;—
'Twas Her—and by her side appeared
That Father—with the snow-white beard!—
Burst on his shocked and shuddering sight,
With agonized amaze to smite,
The old Priest's proud form—tall, gaunt and spare,—
And Oh!—wild fullness of Despair!—
That daughter's mild, angelic air,—
In mortal dread, yet heavenly fair;
And must it be their doom to die?—
His soul asks there in agony;
546
Have darkly circled them, and bound;
One victim fallen, already lies—
Hoarse, gasping out Life's latest sighs—
Even now o'er Xenia's head, high raised,
The threatening sabre bickering blazed,
Even now the sheathless dagger keen,
Aimed 'gainst the Father's breast was seen—
De Courcy,—like the impetuous levin,
Through splintered barriers, conquering driven,
With supernatural strength hath sprung,
That wild infuriate groupe, among;—
Hath dashed to earth the murderous brand
From out the maddening monster's hand
Himself hath reeling, staggering sent,
In ghastly fear and wonderment!
His comrades, too, blenched—scattered wide
While plunged he on with sweeping stride!—
XV.
His arms abroad he fiercely flung—With giant strength seemed these new strung!
These seemed with hundred strengths new-nerved,—
The yelling miscreants shrank and swerved!
So through the parted waters driven,
Might glance the armed thunderbolts of Heaven!—
Back, like the loose spray of the sea,
He drove that savage soldiery!
In white-lipped awe, they thus gave back—
Along their blood-stained, slippery track!
547
To bear away, if yet he lives,
But gore is gushing fast—too fast—
From wounds Eugene now marks aghast;—
And, Xenia, loveliest, most distressed?—
Ah!—scarless still her beauteous breast!
She bends in anguish o'er her Sire,—
“Oh!—Father!—Father!”—words expire!—
Sighs die upon her lips—her hands
She wrings—and there half-lifeless, stands!
But now with vengeance-flashing glance,
That scared—that 'wildered—troop advance;
(Though they would cloak their rage awhile,—
Would shroud beneath a specious guile;
And hide their dogged hate and dire,
And disappointment's maddening ire!)
And now, with prompt excuse, they strive
Fair motives, for their deeds to give;
To skreen their guilt—to shake off blame—
Since fain would they make clear their fame;
Nay,—more!—would commendations claim!
Their tongue's harsh strain—their breath's hot reek—
Their injured innocence, would speak!—
And prove their right, unquestioned, still
To crush—to torture—and to kill!
They fain would 'gainst the Youth retort,
Grave charges stern of dangerous sort;
They 'plained them, of the officious part
He played—their rightful course to thwart;
548
That those who torches bore, and brands—
Should die the death beneath our hands!”—
XVI.
But here, the Priest's deep voice was heard,Seemed truth impressed on each clear word,—
“I sought with him who murdered lies—
His generous ardour's sacrifice—
To wrest from those who strove, indeed,
The flames to kindle and to spread;—
The torches that they waved on high,
For this were we condemned to die!—
And well the truth yon wretches knew—
But—mad for massacre—they slew!—
And bared 'gainst blameless breasts, their blade,
So help me Heaven with grace and aid!”—
But murmured oaths are gathering thick,—
“What!—faints the youth so tender-sick!—
For sake of this old patterer's child?
('Twere pity such young fame were soiled!—)
Nay, none shall deem our steel defiled;
Let him who stamps brave men and true
As murderers—pause lest he should rue!—
Lest murderers he should make them be—
To venge such foul indignity!”—
And while they speak they wax more wroth—
Murmur meets murmur—oath drowns oath—
Threats rise on threats—till fiercely turned
De Courcy—and with mockery spurned!—
549
XVII.
“Back!—bloodhounds!—want ye victims yet?—Some orphaned babe may ye beset—
Some old bedridden hag, who crawls
Abroad—all scared by shattered walls!”—
Ere yet the words were spoken through,
Enraged they then their strife renew,
Gnashing their fangs, like brutes of prey,
They drive along their dangerous way—
They swarm—they close—they strive to bear
The wounded from his guardian there!
Fresh wild confusion, gathereth round,
Hoarse shouts, and volleyed threats resound,
Fierce thrusts are given—repelled—returned—
'Mid Fires, that Fiery conflict burned!
And had those flames enwrapped them all,
And circled close, with scorching thrall,
By one, at least, unfelt had been—
Their torturing terrors, quick and keen!
So in De Courcy's breast the flame
Burned high—the Sun's own heat to shame,—
An hundred hearts of hate and scorn,—
That, high and higher,—throbbed, stung and torn,
An hundred hearts appeared to fire
That frame, which quaked with deadliest ire!—
An hundred warriors' strength to be,
In that arm's matchless potency;—
He hurled them fiercely from his path—
Scattered and shattered them in wrath—
550
Toss the gored ban-dogs from their way,—
Not thus the eagle strikes his prey;
At length—unshaken and untired—
With ever growing fury fired—
A wound is dealt him by some hand,
'Mid that infuriate, desperate band!
Still had they sought to bend—not crush,—
Not with his blood, their blades to flush,—
And now they marked the trickling gore,
They urged the unequal strife no more!
They wavered—paused—retreated—fled—
And left him with the faint, and dead!—
XVIII.
A moment staggering back he bent,And 'gainst a pillar's prop he leant;
But quickly rallied from the shock;—
Sharp, but not dangerous, proved the stroke—
He hastened to the side of him,
Whose failing eye grew filmed and dim,
There white, with wordless, tearless, grief—
Knelt Xenia—ministering relief—
Such poor relief as she could give,
To him who wished for her to live;—
She chafed his hands with tenderest care—
Then wiped, with long unbanded hair,
From his changed brow, the death-damps there!—
Now move his ashen lips in prayer—
And hush!—his voice comes faint and mild—
Listens with aching love his child!
551
Entwined,—a prayer for Russia came—
Then Heaven's great mercy he implored—
Even for her enemies abhorred!—
XIX.
“Oh, Father, live! and there shall beNo more of wars and enmity!—
Thy powerful prayers shall these remove,
And bring to Earth the banished Love!”—
Sudden, a thought more sharp than death,
Came drinking up his dying breath,—
“Oh, Heaven!—my Child!—Oh! ghastly thought!—
An hundred deaths by this are brought—
And must I leave thee in thy worth,
Thy loveliness,—alone on earth?
'Midst ruffians—revellers—murderers—here,—
Oh! weight!—Oh!—mountains of that Fear!—
Thou dead, too,—faithful friend—and tried;—
Michael!—stretched breathless by my side!
No friend—protector—guardian!—none;—
'Mid these wild wrecks and deserts, lone!
And wilder men—and wilder Fate—
Must—must I leave thee desolate?”
His soul—in maddening Anguish stern—
Seemed racked on these stern thoughts to burn!
Not Xenia's self could comfort give—
She could but hope to cease to live!—
But pray—to perish and expire
With her much-loved—her slaughtered Sire,
552
What doom, frowns gathering o'er her head—
Still muttered he, with thrilling tone,—
“No guardian—friend—defender—none!”
XX.
Kneeled down De Courcy wildly there—With suppliant and with reverent air,—
“Let me that Friend—that Guardian—prove;—
Oh!—trust this treasure to my love;
Let me that sworn Protector be,—
This instant wed thy child to me!”
He pointed where a Fane towered high
Before them,—“Lo! that Church hard by!—
But thither let me bear thy weight—
There seal our mournful nuptials straight!”
The torturing struggle you might trace,
Upon that dying sufferer's face!
He muttered,—“Must it then be so?
Sweet Saints!—the Frenchman and the Foe!
Oh! must it be?—I faint!—I bleed!—
Death nears!—it must!—Haste! speed!—Yes! speed!”
And with the exertion and despair—
The phrenzied Agitation there—
The black blood wells in swiftlier flow,
From each convulsive burst of woe!
Nor further word De Courcy spoke—
To Xenia threw one anguished look,—
Then raised within his arms that form,
Which yet with breathing life was warm!
553
Nor breathed denial, nor assent!
Her hands sustained that fainting head—
Herself with wonder—misery—dread,—
Aghast and pallid—seemed half-dead!
So entered they the Sacred Porch—
So passed through the aisles of that proud Church!
XXI.
Alas!—there flashed the splendours dire—The fatal radiancies of Fire!
And all the glorious scene around—
With that terrific pomp was crowned!
And glorious was that scene in sooth—
No language could describe its truth!—
No language could its pride pourtray—
The enchantment of the effect convey!
Shone out each rich and jewelled shrine—
As though new-touched, with light divine!
Gleamed many a costly crucifix,
Of ivory and of sardonyx!—
And vessels bright—and treasures rare—
And crowded sculptures strangely fair!
Festooned and fringed around with fire—
That spreads yet wider—mounts yet higher!
In part already these are seen—
Smitten by those red kindlings keen!
The magic scene almost appears—
Such brightness marvellous, it wears—
(Till scarce its various parts can be
Viewed separate—unconfusedly!)
554
Thick stalactites like stars are spread!
The mighty Altar splendid shines—
As with the hoards of hundred mines;
Deep crimsoning with the flames ablaze—
It seems to their uncertain gaze!
Such bright reflections there are shot,
Though yet those flames have touched it not;
The massive gilded pillars near—
Pillars of living fire appear!
Seems all the glorious canopy,
A meteored firmament to be!
The golden Dove—suspended there—
With glittering wings outstretched so fair—
Floats in an atmosphere too bright—
Painful and terrible with light!
XXII.
The brazen table's sacred pride—With hues of burning depth is dyed!
Bathed in a flood of colourings deep—
Its cloth of gold doth downwards sweep!
Burthening the precious pavements old,
With its most splendent kingly fold!
Gold crosses rich, laid there outshine—
Spread on that hallowed slab divine!
And Gospel copies—fair and sheen—
There—clustered thick with gems are seen!
And all are sunned and flushed with rays
Of crimsoning Conflagration's blaze;—
555
They little saw—too much they felt!
Too much they felt while doubt and dread—
And pain and grief—weighed down each head!
XXIII.
The dying Priest with glazing eyes—Pale—bleeding like a sacrifice—
All trembling joins their trembling hands—
And binds them in the holiest bands!
While hoarse, the faint-gasped accents came—
For agony possessed his frame!
And thickening, crept the murmuring Death,
Upon his shortened, fluttering breath!
And blindly groping, sought he now,
To touch and bless each drooping brow!
His quivering hands upon their heads—
Those cold, white, withered hands he spreads—
And faultering faint, the Blessing spoke—
Which from that labouring breast scarce broke!
Still faster—thicker—blacker—gushed,
The outpouring blood that reeking, rushed!
His priestly garments, dabbled o'er—
Where gapes the wound—stream, soaked in gore!—
But all this time, how sadly bright—
That groupe shone circled round with light!
Although to their distracted eye,
Dark—dark was made such dazzlery!
Full on the deep-haired Priest, whose breath
Was hurrying, gasp by gasp, to death;—
556
That showered strange pomp, around his head!
That rained strong radiance there,—which breaks
O'er weighed-down lids, and shrivelled cheeks;
In sooth, in midst of glory there,
He dwells—with Death and with Despair!—
Like Saints, that pictured round, appeared,
Flowed amber-coloured down, his beard;—
His furrowed forehead, sparkling gleamed—
As there a heavenly halo streamed!
The upturned, death-swimming, white-rolled eyes—
Were touched with dazzling brilliancies!
XXIV.
And Oh!—where beauteous Xenia knelt—What splendours round her seemed to melt!
There glanced, and brightened more and more,
Far-flaming gules and flashing or;
And azure bright—and emerald shade—
And argent clear,—that varying played,
These made her garb one sumptuousness—
Till stars and rainbows seemed her dress!
(Roseate and golden, fold by fold,
It heaped the floors of marbles old!
With beauty—wond'rous to behold
Its wave-like draperies glistering rolled!—)
For lit by flames that fast advanced—
The deep-stained windows glowed and glanced;—
Flushed with hot dyes, where stood they placed—
'Mid grot-like arches interlaced—
With shapes, and signs, and shows o'ertraced!
557
The shields and 'scutcheons of the skies!)
Thick showered they round those royal hues;
Their pride to spread,—and to diffuse,
Till flushign dyes were poured around,
With depth of blaze etherial, crowned;
Till tints o'er aisles and shrines were strown—
Such as the tropic Morn pours down!—
Where forests fair, or blue, blue sea,
Burned up with brightness seem to be!
The emblazonings and traceries fair,
Gleamed trebly bright in that vast glare;—
While paintings hallowed and sublime—
Long mellowed by the touch of time,
That teach the heart on high to spring,
As though with strong, and dreadless wing,
Shone bright, like Visions new-vouchsafed,
To mortal souls, by misery chafed!
XXV.
There Angels and Archangels crowned,Made solemn all the scene around—
Apostles, Saints, and Martyrs, stood—
Hallowing that air, dyed red as blood!
As red as their own blood whose flow,
Was blessed—and whose high fruits are so!
And Patriarchs high—Church-Fathers old—
Were made a glory to behold!
Girt round are these—and framed—and wrought—
Beyond the imagining of thought—
558
Half in the enshrouding splendours lost!
Burthened and veiled with ornament—
Around them showered munificent!
And now the glare that hath no bound,
Doth even with tenfold pomp surround;
Great Prophets!—could your pictured lips—
So soon to fade in long eclipse—
Ere yet the fatal fire consumes,
Speak forth in tones to pierce the tombs—
And shew the Destiny of Ill,
That waits the Man of godless Will;
How wonder—deepening, into awe,
Should praise Heaven's vindicated law!
XXVI.
The Priest—the Father—faints!—he dies!No!—roll once more his dull-filmed eyes!
Proffered the absolving cross, his child—
He gazed, with glance serene and mild,
Then clasped it with a death-smile faint,—
The death-smile of a parting Saint!
His limbs stretched fluttering there,—his head
Drooped on her shoulder!—Is he dead?
Aye!—on the wings of Faith and Love—
His soul hath sought their home above!
One shriek from her wrung bosom came
Loud o'er the roaring Voice of Flame—
Then sank she down his form beside—
Still—still—as though she too, had died!
559
More near—more near—wild threatening plays,
The Encroaching Fire—to shock his gaze!—
She clings with strange and frightful force—
To her loved Father's breathless corse!
XXVII.
“My Xenia!—Hence!—Oh! Hence!—behold—More fast yon fiery waves are rolled!
Hence!—or we die!—thou shalt not stay!”
“First hack these faithful hands away!—
Since—Ah!—they are growing to his clay!”
Thus moaned she with such sigh as bears,
The hoarded agonies of years—
Hushed—faint—and low—but well he heard—
Through rush and roar each whispered word!
Hark!—hark!—what wonders fresh are here?—
Flung wide the portals huge appear!
And trampling through those portals rode,
A troop that wild disorder shewed!
A troop of dazzling horsemen led,
By haughty Chief, with high-plumed head;
Within this Church,—which they believed
Yet stood from fiery doom reprieved—
They sought Asylum —purposed there—
To fix awhile their quarters fair;
But erè they might their chargers check—
They marked those flames, that wreathe and deck!
560
That, floundering struck, that slippery ground;—
That smooth, broad pavement-floor,—which ne'er,—
Before such weight unblessed, might bear!
Which ne'er before might groan beneath
Such godless guests in haste and wrath!—
XXVIII.
Resounding long the hoof's sharp clang—Even through the flames' fierce clamour rang!—
Whilst struggling wild and well each steed—
Spur-touched—bounds back, with headlong speed!
(Though some, with laboured effort sore,
Mad plunging, gained their feet once more,
Whose straggling step and faultering stride,
Had rued that polished pavement's pride;)
The Pavement's sounding stones they spurned—
The echoing vaults the clang returned!
Dashed back through those broad portals fast,
The armed horsemen like the furious blast!
The Wind through the opened portals rushed—
The Fires, far-spreading, ruddier blushed—
The passage of that hurrying Band
Their very motions, sure, have fanned
Those flames, to fiercer,—worse command;
They rose—they raged—with dreadful might,
And, fast, shook wide, their deadly light!
With loving violence and haste,
Eugene then clasped his Xenia's waist—
To snatch her, 'gainst her own sweet will,
From that dread scene,—though shrieked she still!—
561
To that beloved—but breathless clay,—
Which there did mute and passive lie,—
All—all of goodness that could die!
She struggled in distracted grief—
Till shook her form like fluttering leaf;
“Bear him, too, hence!”—rings loud that shriek—
But faint with loss of blood and weak,
He, heedless now, must hear her speak!
Her weight can he support alone—
'Tis well her darkened sense hath flown—
She swoons—she sinks—Oblivion's cloud,
Hath wrapped her round with pitying shroud;
Now, loaden with her worshipped charms—
His world within his circling arms—
Staggering—he hurries on to save,
That all he lives for—from the grave!
That rolling, roaring grave—which threats,—
Which gains on every step he sets!
XXIX.
How beautiful she looked—how bright,—All deluged in that streaming light!
Her hair dishevelled—loosed from thralls—
Sweeps the lit pavement where it falls,—
Down undulating,—wave by wave—
As though with molten gold to pave—
That flame-illuminated nave!
Hark!—shield them!—save them!—every Power!—
Down thundering, falls the shattered Tower!
562
Which stood through rolling centuries!
Which seemed both Earth and Time to mock—
It shakes—it falls—with crashing shock!
The deafening din De Courcy hears—
And flies on wings of thousand fears;
For her—for her most cherished sake—
Alone he thus unmanned could shake!
XXX.
Passed were the portals—paused he not—But half way down the street, he shot;—
With that death-pale,—deep-swooning bride—
Clasped to his panting, bleeding side!
Safe!—safe!—his Love!—his Bride!—his Own!—
To Heaven his grateful prayer hath flown—
Ere soft, he sets his burthen down!
Now after some brief moments' rest—
Shall she be borne to sheltered nest—
His Dove!—his own heart-wounded Dove,—
Of matchless tenderness and love!
What measured tread accosts his ear—
To bring strange feelings, touched with fear?—
Such dread for her hath thrilled his breast—
From every sound, he shrinks distressed!
A guard of soldiers, swift approached—
Fresh doubts on his firm soul encroached;
His senses reel—his breath comes thick—
With that most stern suspense and sick;
Not long it lasts—the truth shines clear—
Ah!—well, foreboded this, his fear!—
563
Eugene is made their prisoner!
Attached and seized,—behold him there,
Pause, mute and wildered with despair!
XXXI.
Accused, he stands of having sought—With guilty aim, and treacherous thought,—
To shield those miscreants, in whose hand—
Was waved the exterminating brand!
Incendiarism's tools—the Accursed—
Of vilest criminals the worst!
(Proscribed,—and doomed to instant death!—)
Who fanned the flames with fiend-like breath!
And hurrying on their baleful path—
Spread Conflagration's mustering wrath!
These slaves, he well had fenced,—and freed—
Had stood their friend in their sharp need,—
And, with encouragement and aid—
Had sped the atrocious part, they played;—
Obstructing in their duty those—
Who strove to crush these desperate foes!—
Dark lowered stern Indignation's scow!—
While heard Eugene the arraignment foul!
“So help me Heaven!—'tis false!”—he cried—
Then gazed distracted on his Bride!
Who opened slow, those soft blue eyes—
Affrayed with agonized surprise!
De Courcy spoke no further word—
But proudly rendered up his sword!
564
Followed the Captain of the Guard!
XXXII.
Yet one last look, on her he cast—Who trembling stood, dismayed—aghast!
“Fear not, Beloved!—Oh!—never fear—
Mine outraged fame, shall yet be clear!
Oh! fear not then, my Life!—nor mourn—
Triumphant, yet, shall I return!”
She thought to speak—the imperfect sound—
By bars of brass and steel, seemed bound!
Through those harsh bars it strove to burst—
There come low, fluttering sighings first;
Then faint slight moans the ear did greet—
And then a wailing whisper sweet!
A broken and unearthly tone—
Not Life's—not Death's—was in that moan!
And he hath vanished from her sight—
Tarries the bolt that yet should smite!
Fast died upon her straining ear—
Their measured march—'mid the outcries drear
The Fiend of Fire makes far and near!
Her hand is to her forehead pressed—
Then wildly driven against her breast,—
As she would punish the o'erwrought heart—
For each deep wound—and torturing smart!
For all that helpless heart hath felt—
Each pang that ruthless Fate hath dealt!
Poor heart!—where every anguish dwelt—
Which still will heave—and still will melt!
565
XXXIII.
Sudden, it seemed, a happier thought,Within her mind, awakening, wrought!
She tossed back from her forehead fair,
Those masses of dishevelled hair!—
Whose floating bands, unfettered, swept—
(Like willowy foliage long, they wept!)
Still wreathed 'midst these her bands remained—
As sense and nerve, were bound and chained,—
Transfixed, by thoughts, of weight and might—
While passed the world, from her deep sight!
She stood—as might some Seraph even—
Amazed, to light on Earth—from Heaven!
Relaxed by slow degrees—those hands
Dropped down, and loosened the uncoiled bands;
She stands 'twixt sleeping and awake!
Fresh thoughts came soon that trance to break—
Then falling on her knees, in prayer—
She breathes her sorrows and her care;
And when she riseth—calm and grave—
She moves composed, and meekly brave;
'Twas, surely, some inspiring thought,
Which thus a change, so sudden wrought!—
XXXIV.
Shift we the scene!—how passed those hours,With Him—the Chief of Gallia's Powers?
The second wild and dreadful night,
Which hailed red Conflagration's light,
566
'Twas well, those weighed-down lids should close—
Wished none around that rest to break,
Too apt was he, to watch and wake,
Too oft his fevered front displayed
What need was there of slumber's aid!
Yet vexed and troubled, was that rest—
Did crowding, hurrying dreams molest?—
Haply his many-coloured Past
Came flooding, o'er his spirit fast!—
XXXV.
Ah! say did angry visions riseBefore those sleep-entrammelled eyes?
Did Apparitions stern—distress
His soul's dark aching consciousness?—
Did D'Enghien's bloody spectre start
Before the unsealed eyes of the heart?—
Young gallant D'Enghien!—foully slain—
A deed to cloud a Cæsar's reign!
A crime of more than murder's stain!
The augustly born—whose parting breath
Shewed yet more royalty in death!—
Princely in Life's young flushing flower,
More princely in that Death's deep hour
Wert thou!—with whom—waned—drooped—and died,—
The lilies of the Bourbon's pride!
The stainless Bourbon Lilies,—laid,
Beneath that dreadful Eagle's shade;
(Strange contrast still these symbols shew,
The sunbird fierce—the flowers of snow!)
567
Rise to thy troubled thought aright?
Thy seas of soul to sweep and cloud,
And gloom, as with the Tempest's shroud?
XXXVI.
Did martyred Hofer's threatening shadeFrown to those dreaming eyes displayed?—
And Jaffa's slaughtered sufferers break
Death's bonds—and 'midst thy slumbers wake?
To bid chilled conscience shrink and creep,
Till madness tempested thy sleep,
Did dusk Domingo's tortured sons
Shriek at thy soul,—the ill-fated ones?
By thee still—mocked—destroyed—aggrieved—
Scorned—scourged—racked—maddened—and deceived!—
And he their noblest—He the King
(August in hope and suffering!—)
Of those, who nobly mourned and pined—
The loftiest Freemen—of The mind!—
The King of those who strove and wrought,
Though chained,—in Liberty of thought,—
Of half the world, in Slavery's state,
That yet would prove the Free and Great!
Aye!—King of all the Chained—the Oppressed—
Who yet might boast the enfranchised breast—
Who dug dark Slavery's grave—though through
Their own pierced bosoms tried and true;—
Toussaint!—triumphant in the tomb!—
Whose star yet lights his Hayti's gloom—
Did He, athwart thy slumbers throw
The Terrors, of remorseless woe?
568
XXXVII.
Great Toussaint L'Ouverture!—didst thouMake captive him, who bade thee bow?—
Thy Conqueror and thy Captor!—he
Who with thy chains bound Liberty?
Who would have bound her—had thy soul
Not left behind its bright controul!—
Did Pichegru—Palm—and Wright—rise pale
O'er those racked slumbers to prevail?—
And thousands, thousands, yet beside,
Those thousands, scattered far and wide,
Who bled and struggled—fought and died,—
To build His mountain-throne of pride?—
What woke him from those dreams of Death,
Which scathed the Soul,—through the untouched Sheath?
Even as the armed lightnings melt the blade,
Within such shielding covering laid;
As they, the sword destroying melt,
Doom, by that scatheless sheath unfelt;
What wakeneth him from dreams so dire?—
The day-surpassing dawn of Fire?
Which wilder still, and fiercelier grew,
Still fanned to strength, and triumphs new!
Welcome—though anguish to his thought—
It scared worse terrors, than it brought!—
XXXVIII.
But soon his restless spirit rose,Aroused with wild and varying woes,
569
In haughty trance of thought he stood—
As though he would have uttered “Peace!”—
And bade that Conflagration cease!
Commanding the Element to yield,
And leave him Master of the Field!—
In such an hour his fiery soul,
Would rise to all its old controul,—
Would fain those mighty times recall,
When all seemed taught to brook his thrall!
When he hath tossed the obedient war,
From side to side, a-near or far,
Tossed here and there, from side to side,
The impatient Battle's sounding pride!
Anon he woke,—as wakes the storm,—
Seemed thousand souls in that One Form!
Mandates on mandates issuing fast—
He towered back to himself at last!
XXXIX.
But Lo!—he threw a lightning glance,The lattice, as he passed by chance,
And marked the hideous scene around,
Where Ruin revelled without bound!
Then, changed once more his mood and mien,
He gazed abstracted on that scene!
'Gainst the opened casement leaned he long,
While grief grew yet more deep and strong;
He seemed to some strange suffering doomed—
By those far-circling fires consumed!—
570
Sense—mind—and thoughts—through every part;
But starting suddenly, he turned,
As though that blighting grief he spurned;
Or sought to master and controul
The growing anguish of his soul!
Now through the sounding halls he strode—
Perplexed distress his aspect shewed—
Now paused he, in his hurried walk,
And muttering, with himself would talk;
Then stopped abrupt,—on seat hard by,
Down flung himself, with groaning sigh!—
With wandering glance, or death-like stare—
Or frown, that blackened to despair;
Stern thought still veiled his features proud,
He seemed with mighty misery bowed!
He crossed his arms—he clenched his hands—
His nostrils angry Pride expands!
And now he earthwards fixed his eyes—
Now glared reproaches at the skies!
Then turned to that dread scene again,
As though to feast on Wrath and Pain—
There turned he!—and with shuddering thrill,
He met that maddening Vision still;
Then, burying in his hands his face,
Paused,—fixed and speechless, for a space;
At length he sought to soothe his mind—
To occupations grave resigned,—
He plunged into a labyrinth large
Of business deep—of weightiest charge;—
571
He strove to bend that troubled mind!
Nought—nought—could fix his wandering thought,
Though urgent these—with interest fraught!—
XL.
With words of wonder on his tongue,Each instant from his seat he sprung,
To gaze from the opened windows wide—
And see himself at last—defied!
At last defied—mocked—disobeyed—
He who had Power herself, o'erswayed!
The ejaculations, short and slight,
That broke forth ever at that sight;
Too faithfully and well expressed
The tossing trouble of his breast!—
“Gods!—what a spectacle of awe!—
The world ne'er yet such vision saw!—
And 'tis their deed—their work!—their own!—
They doomed their Capital—o'erthrown!—
'Tis their stupendous scheme alone!—
Such Fanes!—such Palaces!—such Pride!—
A City built for Kings!”—he cried;—
Then muttered low, in tones less free,
“What Men!—what Magnanimity!—
What stern resolve!—and carried through
With what sublime decision, too!—
With what terrific Triumph's might,
Their souls have soared a dizzy height!”
572
And the ondriven flames,—yet spread vast space,
And rolled the Moskowa's river fair—
Between him, and the growing glare,
Yet of his palace the iron roof—
(The strong, the proud, the tempest-proof)
Scarce, though with toil incessant swept,
Could clear from flakes of fire be kept!—
XLI.
A murmured rumour, deep and dull,Came now of hideous terrors full,
'Twas whispered—words of awful kind!—
The Kremlin's self was undermined!—
Fear gasped in many a manly breast,
That ne'er before contained such guest;
That ne'er before confessed such mate,
'Midst terrors proud—'midst dangers great!—
But now too dreadful seemed the doom,
That came to snatch them to the tomb!
Too darkling frowned the appalling brink,
From which the staunchest well might shrink!
Too horrible the inglorious end—
That came from Victory's arms to rend—
That threatening lowered,—were this, in sooth,
The deadly and despairing truth!
How bore Napoleon in such hour
The announcement that might well o'erpower?—
As bears the rock the assault of spray,
Dashing it from its crest away!—
573
Light, careless, and assured the while;
Whilst fast around—of doom and dread—
Industriously these tales were spread!
But still with deeply troubled air—
He gazed on gathering horrors there;—
He saw the encroaching, mastering fire,
Spread—sweep—increase—advance—aspire;—
Consuming, as with fiendish art,
His Sovereign Conquest—part by part,—
Now all the arched bridges this hath seized,
Still raging onwards,—right well pleased!
The Terror took its ghastly way,
With all its Powers in full array,
With hideous hissings, deep and dire,
It crowned the reddening stream with fire;
Through all the paths that point and climb,
Towards his embattailled hold sublime,
All paths of proud access to him,
It rushed—and rolled its smoke-wreaths grim!
Through all the avenues made speed,
That towards his towery fortress lead,
Enclosing him within its space—
Besieging him in that proud place!—
XLII.
Still 'mongst the neighbouring buildings fast,It spreads and spreads—well aids the blast,—
And step by step—and stride by stride—
It nears the Kremlin's crests of pride,—
574
While fierce those favouring night winds blow,
To narrower limits—narrower yet—
Reducing Him, with taunting threat!
Thus to the Kremlin's scite alone
'Twould chain him down,—the rest its own!—
Nor that, shall long, unscathed remain,
But marble seems his breast and brain;
And night—the gloomy night—draws near—
'Midst desolation worse than drear;—
Italia's Viceroy—Naples' King—
Themselves before the mightiest fling,—
Their hands in bitterest grief they wring,—
And round his haughty feet they cling;
Then trembling on their knees implore,
He yet would fly—ere hope was o'er,—
In vain!—their laurelled Prince of Wars—
Lord of that Palace of the Czars,—
All the elements even challenged there,
And scorned to yield a prize so fair!
But hark!—a dreadful phrenzied shout—
Piercing and terrible bursts out!
Hark!—“Fly!”—is now the fearful word—
“The Kremlin is on fire!” is heard!
The Emperor, instant, rushed to mark,
If sooth, the annunciation dark;
Twice had the flames his Palace gained—
And twice extinguished,—these had waned;—
But all yet bodes thick coming ill,
One bulwarked tower is burning still!
The flames still gird that cloud-capped tower,
Still rush to scathe and to devour;
575
Of Moscow's glorious Arsenal!
There, too, that fatal blaze begins,
And fast its way of fury wins!
XLIII.
The accursed Incendiary was found,Within its massive, rugged mound,
Him shrewdly questioned o'er and o'er—
The Emperor—with inquisition sore!
At fixed, concerted signal, 'twas,
He sought to fire that mighty mass;
The Kremlin then—the Kremlin's self—
Was doomed to bleak Destruction's shelf—
The antique!—The sacred!—High and proud!—
That, too, must be despoiled and bowed!
Napoleon's gestures marked disdain—
Hate,—horror,—wonder,—rage, and pain;—
The indignant silence spoke his scorn,—
The wretch was from his presence borne!
But scarce had reached the first fair court,
Ere Life's doomed thread was well cut short;
The infuriate Grenadiers had learned
This slave the Arsenal had burned,—
They rushed—with volleyed oaths and threats—
And pierced him with their bayonets!—
| The Maiden of Moscow | |