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. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. | CANTO XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
576
CANTO XV.
I.
The old Northern Staircase calmly now,Descends the Chief with cloudless brow,
Those mighty Northern stairs,—of yore,
Bathed by the Strelitzes in gore;—
With troubled looks of doubt and pain,
Behind him crowd his anxious train!
Towards fair Petrowski they proceed,—
With dubious, and obstructed speed;—
To fair Petrowski would repair
That homeless, Mighty Wanderer there—
But still, swept round to bar his path,
A sea of flames in wildest wrath;
Blocked were the Citadel's huge gates,—
On every side the Assailant waits!—
His followers and attendants fain,
Some outlet, safe and sure, would gain;
At length a postern gate they found—
577
Down towards the stream—with rocks around,—
'Twas through that gate, escaped they then,
The Monarch, and his staunch-tried men—
But little seemed accomplished still,
Flames rage as from volcanic hill,
Fire wandereth at his own fierce will;
The billows of those Seas of Flame—
Curling on high around them came,—
Broad Seas of Flame!—that tossing far,
Pursued them, with their flying War!
How shall they force their passage through?
Lowers danger of the deadliest hue!
Struggling—but little way they win,—
Deafened by all the uproarious din—
And blinded by the ashes—tossed
On each hot gale—stunned—whelmed,—and lost!—
II.
All undistinguishably blent,The streets one wild abyss present;
Yet, must they push their dangerous way—
More dangerous yet, should prove delay!
The boundless flames, each instant sweep
To heights more high—and depths more deep;—
More ominous, their bellowings grow,
On!—On!—or pause and perish so!—
The guide perplexed—and stunned—remained
Transfixed with dread—with doubt enchained;—
578
Alone their pained regards doth meet;
Yet seems it the entrance more, I ween,
Than the outlet of such awful scene—
Napoleon plunged, with fearless foot,
Through flames that threat, and sweep, and shoot—
On every side—at every turn—
Till scarce might he the path discern,—
Deep in that roaring gulph of doom—
That threatening and appalling tomb!
III.
Hark!—to the crackling flames around,The gatherings of chaotic sound,—
The ear-splitting crash of shattered walls—
Some tower gives way—some bulwark falls!—
Some mighty Fane comes thundering down,
With all its domes and crests o'erthrown;
Or bends some light Pavilion nigh,
Some Pillar stoopeth from the sky!
While through that hideous hubbub dread,
Where ceaseless shock on shock is sped,
At times rose strange, fierce, wailing tones,
Mingling with louder, harsher groans,
Of bursting domes and rending stones;
Mad howlings these—from dogs, that chained,
Still near their masters' gates remained!
IV.
Here sinks some Palace-Hall of state—With sculptured front, and brazen gate!
579
With all its glories, earthwards cast,
With trellised roof, and bowered arcade,
And gilded fence and balustrade!
Here red-hot iron roofs rush down—
There bounds some minaret spire, o'erthrown—
And massive timbers swift descend,
That roar, rebellowing, hath no end,—
While ruins still with ruins blend;
Napoleon, scarce, might force his way
Through all their wild and dark array—
They barred his progress evermore—
Yet moved he dauntless as before,—
Followed by those, whose every glance,
Strains after the Eagle-Chief of France!—
The flames—which with impetuous wrath
Consumed the piles, which lined their path—
Driven far beyond those walls, that shook,
Beneath their blasting lightning stroke,
Spread,—blown and hollowed, by the wind,—
Which seemed the Furies to unbind,—
To one proud mighty arch,—even spread,—
Wide, o'er the endangered Conqueror's head!—
V.
Fire is the ground—and Fire the sky—'Tis flame beneath—and flame on high!
Between two walls of fire they strode,
Who there pursued their dangerous road;
580
Which, parching, pierced through every sense—
Yet keenly watchful, each must strive,
If they would pass unscathed—and live!
All ardent spread that atmosphere—
Winged flames, and drifting ashes there,
Did still, increasing thick appear!
Their throats were all on fire—their tongues
Cleaved to their palates—heaved their lungs;—
Their shortened respiration thick,
Came dry, and agonized, and quick;
The suffocating smoke's excess—
Encompassed them with worst distress!
Their hands were burned, upraised to guard
Their faces,—which scarce better fared;
Despite such frail, and helpless ward;
They sought, too, vainly, to repel,
Ten thousand sparks, that ceaseless fell—
Covering and penetrating fast
Their cloaks of war—close round them cast;—
Still dazzled by that deadly glare,
Faint staggering through that blasting air
Scorched—blinded—deafened—smothered—parched,—
They trod that path with flames o'erarched;—
Dizzied,—by driving gusts opposed,
While seemed their road with ruins closed,
They fought along their frightful way—
In plight no words might e'er convey!—
581
VI.
Just then, distracted, paused their guide,And wildly glanced from side to side,
The way is lost—their hope is o'er—
'Twere vain to strive and struggle more!
Through happiest chance, to save them, came
Some pillagers, that braved the flame—
With hope of spoil and greedy aim;—
They marked, and knew the Imperial Chief,
And rushed to proffer prompt relief!
They recognised that Form adored,
And flew to save their Liege and Lord;
Well steered they—though their farthest glance
Scarce gained the length of Forayer's lance—
Amidst the whirling flames and smoke
And fragments, which their pathway block!—
VII.
Still, forward—still, they struggled on,Till less terrific path was won;
Their steps were towards a quarter bent—
Since morn, that had been razed and rent;—
Still round them rolls, with howl and glare,
That fiery tempest of despair!
Behold!—what strange faint-visioned form,
Seems hanging, hovering, on that storm?
Wild as a winged thing of wrath,—
It darts and drives athwart the path;—
582
Heavens!—'tis a young and beauteous maid!—
Her fluttering robes with furs are lined,
Rich jewels 'midst her hair are twined,
That hair,—which loose and long, waves free,
Uplifted by the winds that flee,
In their mad fiendish revelry!—
Sweeps o'er her shoulders many a curl—
Wreathed with half-loosened ropes of pearl—
And jewelled chains, whose loops hang down,
In scattered light disorder thrown;
Proud plumes, too, nod above her brow—
Defaced and stained, and darkened now!—
'Tis Phrenzy's deep and deadly might,
That fires her eye with searching Light!
VIII.
Yea!—'twas a Maniac, and a Maid,Who, wild, in brain-sick wandering strayed!
She paused—and waved on high her hand
With haughty gesture of command,—
And now, above the storm of sound,
That swelled, and pealed, and gathered round
Her shrill, sharp voice is heard—whose tone
Once streamed, as soft as Music's own;—
“Emperor of France!—I know thee now—
I mark thy pale tremendous brow—
I know thy cruel lip of fate—
That speaks,—but to annihilate!
583
Master of Earth!—behold thy sphere!
Thy sphere—thy place—thy throne behold!
More fitting than thy World of Old!
Here shalt thou rest—here reign and dwell—
Hail!—know'st thou not that this is—Hell?
Reign here!—the Prince Infernal yields
To thee his fires—his fatal fields!—
Enter!—the Fiend forgiven hath been,
Since thou hast surpassed him on the scene!
Enter!—be Emperor here!—but they
Who worshipped him have fled away—
Nor with the Worse might dare to stay!—
IX.
“But I will stay—will stand by thee—Through black Despair's eternity!
For I am sent to torture still,
Administering the Immortal Ill!
Emperor of France!—Hail!—Welcome!—Come!—
Monster of Earth!—receive thy doom!”
Then closed her speech with shriek and yell,
That on their ears tormented, fell—
Hurrying, they now increased their pace—
Stern scowl is on Napoleon's face—
But yet that haunting form pursued,
With supernatural strength endued;
Though slight—though frail,—appeared her frame,
All obstacles that strength o'ercame,—
Her voice rang wildly out once more,—
And pierced the bosom to the core!—
584
X.
“Whither away!—Hush!—Hark!—come back!—Since ne'er must thou retrace thy track!
Know'st thou no Earth is left for thee,
Thy World hath fallen on vacancy!
Thou didst so scourge it—grind and wring—
It waned,—in deadliest withering—
Captain-Assassin!—Prince of Death!—
Thou left'st no Life beside!—no Breath!
Unpeopled, space was taught to be,
By thee!—Lord Chief of Massacre!
Throned Paramount of doom and crime!—
Thou'st banished Life—and murdered Time!
Thou'st slaughtered,—slaughtered,—far and wide,
Till the paled sun forgot his pride;
And, headlong, plunged from Heaven—and left
A boundless chasm—a deadly cleft!—
Then, dread Annihilation deigned
Usurp the Universe!—She reigned!
She reigns!—and the Angels are no more,—
And all with night is shadowed o'er!—
XI.
“But, Oh!—the words I say are wild,My heart is darkened and defiled,
Despiteous,—desperate tyrant! See!
Thou'st made us mad with blasphemy—
We cursed thee!—till all words seemed stung
To endless curses on our tongue!—
585
Till Russia's language grows—a curse!—
Russia!—hear'st thou,—Oh! Man of Fate!
Her name, whom thou'st made desolate?—
Russia!—Our Joy and our Despair!—
Where is our glorious Russia!—Where?
Answer!—thou Chief of Host on Host!
Where is our Russia?—razed and lost!—
Thou stalk'dst along her sacred soil,
To blast, and blight, and scathe, and spoil;
But She,—then withering—changed—and waned—
She ceased to be—when thou hadst stained!—
Indignant, then, She stood—yet free—
When Thou would'st Bend—She ceased—to Be!
XII.
“But They, the Undaunted!—They, the Brave!Who vainly strove—who died to save—
These, We require of thee again,
Hast, thou, their blessed spirits slain?
Give back our Fathers—Brothers—now;—
Then let our Land in ruin bow!
Let Russia be thy slave!—No! No!—
Let Russia still be Nothing!—so
She 'scapes defilement and the Foe!—
But give to hearts that burn and ache,
Our Loved—our own Beloved Ones back!
Say'st thou, foul scorner!—They are dead?
Their dust be mountains on thy head!”
Then fiercer rose her voice on high—
Gathering to one impassioned cry!
586
XIII.
“Where is our honoured Russia?—where?Where hide our loved ones—blessed and fair?—
Destroyer!—taste of our despair!
Think o'er the ruin thou hast wrought—
Be thine Eternity!—that thought!
And what art thou—Dark Fiend of Fate?
Thy Might!—thy Pride!—thy Strength!—thy State,—
Thou equall'dst with the Heavens of late;—
Crowned King of Ashes!—art thou great?
Conqueror of Ruins!—Lo! thy Realm—
Some passing breath might shake and whelm!
But yet should'st thou claim mastery high,
Yet boast strange power, and Empiry;
Monarch of Shadows!—fear thou not!—
Thou hold'st unchanged thy glorious lot!
Those shadows still shall cloud and fold,
Wild mockeries of thy world of old;
And gibbering phantoms shall pursue,
And mouldering bones, thy pathway strew—
And worms and reptiles, round thee cling,
And slimy love, and homage bring!—
Here shalt thou dwell—and here shalt reign!”—
Abruptly ceased the Maniac's strain;
She darted—bounding from the path—
With one wild yell of hate and wrath,—
Full 'midst the flames that glared and tossed,
She vanished, and was darkly lost!
587
XIV.
They onwards passed—and met ere long,With Eckmuhl's Prince—whose trembling tongue,
But ill those raptures strong expressed,
That crowded to his faithful breast—
While thus he found, unscathed and free—
The star of Gaul's idolatry!—
By deep devotion's zeal inspired—
The wounded Chieftain had desired—
Back to be borne through flames and wrath,
Along the already traversed path—
To seek—and save—his Prince, and Lord—
Or perish—with that Chief adored!
O'erjoyed to find him safe from harms,
He flung himself in the Emperor's arms—
And stammering out that deep delight—
Which shook his soul, with hurrying might,—
Seemed stunned—and 'wildered through excess
Of heart-o'erpowering joyfulness!
Napoleon kindly clasped him there—
But with composure's steadiest air;—
Which Danger ne'er saw checked, or changed—
Howe'er by other chance estranged!
Which pain—which peril, ne'er o'ercame,
Which nought should trouble—nought should tame,
But Failure—and the loss of Fame!—
588
XV.
One danger more in dreadful shape—Frowned dark—ere yet they gained escape!—
For they must pass a convoy long,
Of powder—that defiled among,
The fires, that round thick-threatening sprung!
This safely passed, their strength they strained—
And soon Petrowski's towers were gained!
Shift we the scene!—Once more return
To Xenia—doomed to weep and mourn!
She, too, encountered the ill-starred maid—
On whom the cloud of madness weighed—
On whose wrecked brain, dark Phrenzy preyed!
She met her—knew her, too, for one—
Who once the Flower of Moscow shone!
Fair Alexandra!—she had been,
The Star and Light of each glad scene!
But now in ruins lay a mind—
Once calm and bright—and meek and kind!
And shadowed was that aspect fair,
By horror—madness—and despair!
XVI.
Her darksome fortune it had been,To view a dread, and harrowing scene,
Before her, perished in the fire,
Her shrieking Sisters and her Sire!
Accused of kindling some doomed wall—
Whose tottering stones were nigh to fall,—
589
(Whose stony hearts no prayers might pierce!—)
A stern, and torturing fate they bore,
Of deadliest pangs—and sufferance sore—
Those monsters—bent on barbarous deed—
Their ruthless wrath and hate to feed,
Had seized their helpless prey, and flung,
The wild and whirling flames among;
Untouched by ruth—unchecked by shames—
They tossed them living in the flames!
Escaped this fair, grief-stricken thing—
But spared for heavier withering!
Even from that hour, her tortured brain,
Gave way beneath the Crush of Pain!
Her own affianced Lover true—
In battle lost—had perished too!
Approached her gently, Xenia now—
“Oh! Alexandra!—is't then thou?”
The Maniac-Maiden laughed aloud!
“Xenia!—thou walk'st as in a cloud!
Thine eyes look dim—and wildly sad—
Sweet Xenia!—much I fear thou'rt mad!
Oh! rave not!—shriek not!—Xenia dear!—
A shriek would kill my soul with fear!
My Father and my Sisters—nay!—
They shriek not now!—kneel!—kneel!—and pray!”
XVII.
Down on her knees she sank, and low—Muttered some accents faint with woe!
590
“Oh!—Xenia!—look!—they come!—found!—found!—
With her thin finger—wan and white—
She pointed left—she pointed right!
Then sudden changed her shadowed mien—
“Know'st thou whom these poor eyes have seen?
The King of Murderers!—he who came,
To sear our Russia's heart with flame!
The King of Demons!—he, who still
Contrives some new surpassing ill,—
With mysteries of infernal skill;
I bade him stand!—I bade him stay!—
He mocked and spurned—and said me Nay!
To strong Petrowski's Walls of Pride—
He hurrieth now—even there to bide!
In the honoured Palace of our Czar—
While we must seek our graves afar!
They will not let us die—and rest—
Lest soothed—we sleep in Russia's breast;
They will not—will not let us die—
Lest in our Russia's breast we lie!
They hunt us on from place to place—
Art not awearied of their chase?”
Then in a wild and plaintive voice—
Whose tone once bade all hearts rejoice—
She poured—(till the echoes, answering, rang—)
Strains—wakening now, but sigh and pang.
591
XVIII. SONG.
1
“I had a Love!—a Love!—But alack!—he fled away!
And I—I could not move—
For my limbs were changed to clay!
2
I had a Love!—a Love!—And he called me still his own!
Had I thy wings, lost Dove—
Like thee might I have flown!
3
Nay!—call me not!—I pray—With such long,—piteous cry;
They would not let thee stay—
But they will not let, me die!
4
I may not come!—Forgive!Like thee—I shriek and sigh—
They would not let thee—live,—
But they will not let me—die!—
592
5
They sent thee hence!—I strove—To follow and to fly!—
Despite their wrath—Oh! Love!—
I will be free—and die!”
XIX.
These last wild words did she repeat—In mournful accents—thrilling sweet;—
Then seemed her heart's stretched chords to break—
They shrilled into a piercing shriek!
And ere the Echo faint expires—
She plunged her 'mong the savage fires—
One wave of that wild plume alone—
Far streaming from her head was shewn!
And she is in that Gulph of Death—
Deep hid the rolling flames beneath!
Deep—deep—where grief no more shall rave—
Peace finds her in that howling grave!
It is a sad and sombre morn—
Of day's young beams of Beauty shorn—
Pale Xenia to Petrowski hies—
With calm resolve in those mild eyes!
To dread Napoleon's presence fain—
Admittance would the Maiden gain!
593
Upon their peril to refuse!
For wond'rous truths hath she to shew—
Which much behoves it he should know!
Dark secrets of portentous weight,
Of import grave, and interest great!
XX.
And in that Presence now she stands—And well, her anxious heart commands!
She stands with calm, serenest eye,
Before the Imperial Majesty!
Napoleon by the casement leant—
His teeth were set—his brow was bent;
His foot was planted firm, as though
It pressed the neck of some crushed Foe;
His arms, were firmly wreathed and crossed—
He gazed upon the World—half-lost!
He marked that Capital's blazed towers—
That mocked the Master and his Powers!
Low muttering to himself he spoke—
Through sighs the smothered accents broke;
Still gazed he where those Death-flames sweep—
“To us, this bodes misfortunes deep!”
His glance on her did sternly fall—
When she was ushered to that Hall!
He looked upon the Russian Maid—
His brow a sterner frown displayed;
His mien—the imperially inspired—
Then seemed with thousand passions fired!
594
Where flashed the intolerable glare;
On the scorched pane he lightly pressed
His hand a moment—then addressed—
That Maid so grave, and self-possessed!
XXI.
“By Earth and Heaven!—but ye have made,A fire—that had Hell's Fiends dismayed—
Had such been lit below;
Yet yours shall be that self-lit Hell—
I tell you true—I warn ye well—
'Twill burn, for Russia's woe!
It yet shall be her Funeral Pyre—
Her heart shall feel this scorching fire—
Till she be ashes all!
She turns her triumphs—to a tomb—
And this wild déed shall be her doom—
It should be—and it shall!
Now,—Daughter of this rugged Land!
What ask ye at Napoleon's hand?
Make here at once thy fair demand—
Which granted, straight shall be!
Granted—if not for favouring grace,
To any he, of Russian race—
For this, I tell thee to thy face—
Shall none of these, go free!”
XXII.
Low murmured then the saddening maid—“Him for whose weal I might have prayed,
595
Of mortal mercy's ruth displayed,
Or mortal favour, now!
My Father!—done to death was he—
By ruffian hands, and dastardly;—
His fate now hangs not even on thee—
To whom the World must bow!”
Then firm—composed—and calm—though pale,—
The Maiden told her whole sad Tale,—
Nor failed to shew how wrong the blame—
Directed 'gainst De Courcy's name!
Enlarged she on the attempt he made—
Enlightened through her Father's aid—
To warn—as he was warned—even then,
His too-confiding countrymen!
Whose careless sloth—or reckless trust—
Had brought their triumphs down to dust;
Had caused the downfall and the doom
Of that proud City—made their tomb!—
XXIII.
Napoleon started—for he knew,That what that Maiden said was true,
For since that time himself had heard,
How needful caution was deferred;—
And how one faithful tongue had brought,
Strange news, too lightly set at nought!
Still listened he with kindling eye,
To her sad, artless history;
596
He heard her tell that history through,
And failing firmness well restored,
From time to time, with cheering word;
That interest yet was raised—increased—
When spoke she, of Smolensko's Priest;—
Of fallen Smolensko's Priest she spoke,
Whose name a kind remembrance woke!
She told him, 'twas her Sire beloved—
Who then his mighty heart had moved!
Who, seeking aid for the Bereaved,
Prompt grace and favour had received;
Explained she, too, the generous part
He played, despite his Patriot heart;
When striving nobly still to check,
The reign of wrath—the march of wreck;
In hours but lately passed and fled—
Terrific hours—austere and dread!
Still striking down from desperate hands,
The faggots, and the deadly brands;
Still wrenching, fearlessly away,
These instruments of dire dismay;
The while, his honoured voice he raised,
To warn the slaves, who cowered amazed;—
Since he denounced as devilish crime,
The deeds they proudly thought sublime;
Stern, deep anathema spoke even,
'Gainst acts they deemed should win them Heaven!
Those brands they grasped, they onwards bore—
As 'midst our Scotia's hills of yore,
597
To rouse her Warriors, stern and dread;
They bore them on with panting zeal,
As 'twere to stamp the world's fair weal,—
High brandished they their torches so,
With ardent hearts,—like them aglow,
As though on sacred mission sent,
Of charge august and eminent;
Devouring flames to drive o'er all,
Till sank their crumbling Capital!—
For Russia to prepare a pyre,
Of world-enlightening, dazzling fire!
Since this their mission—this their aim,—
Of dreadful weight, and awful fame!
XXIV.
And then she breathed in faultering strain,De Courcy's much-loved name again;
Then prayed she for the Monarch's grace,
With streaming eyes,—and earnest face—
While—pale, and full of doubt, she stands—
With close-clasped, supplicating hands!
Death-pale, and fondly anxious still,
She paused for dread Napoleon's will,
To those who watch and wait around,
The Sovereign turns—her soul lies drowned
In seas of darkling doubt profound—
Comes forth his voice—loud—full—and clear—
Existence throbs within her ear!
598
XXV.
“De Courcy, sentence doth await—In durance strict—release him straight!”—
Nor further word spoke he!
Into the Maiden's hands he tossed
A heap of rubles!—stunned—and lost,—
She scarce might hear—or see!
Floods—floods of joy her heart oppress—
Floods—floods—that flow in deep excess,
Loosed by that melting of distress—
Of the icy weight of mournfulness—
And Fear's cold fettering frost no less,
First feels she these alone!
Then starting—sought she to withstand,
Such offering of his liberal hand—
But the Emperor is gone!
In that young heart, long wrung by woes—
How gathering gratitude o'erflows,—
Her tears rolled thick and fast;
A thousand thoughts approving came—
She almost blessed Napoleon's name—
She pardoned him at last!
| The Maiden of Moscow | |