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. |
| XVI. | CANTO XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
599
CANTO XVI.
I.
The Maiden's heart, now soothed and cheered,No longer fainting, mourned and feared;
To Moscow back her steps she turned—
Once more she grieved—once more she mourned!—
Who met her on her hurrying way—
Bowed down—and changed to death-like clay?
One whom she had not looked on long—
Brave Vsevolod—the gay and young!
In other days his heart was given
To Xenia—fair as Light in Heaven!
Yet nought but Pity she bestowed—
On him whose soul with passion glowed!
She might not know him, till he spoke—
Then sad astonishment awoke!
Scared, gazed she—on that spectre pale,
Shivering and staggering 'gainst the gale—
And scarce believed that it could be
That gallant youth, so brave and free!
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In faint, war-broken languishment!
The blood seemed drained from out his veins—
No life-flush on his face remains!
And yet his heart, as dauntless bounds,
Though covered thus, with countless wounds,
He crawls from Battle's reeking grounds;)
As dauntless as when first it beat,
War's opening storm to share and greet!
II.
Enough!—his Country's battles brightHad known his valour and his might!
Battles, that shall immortal be—
Even though they claimed not Victory!
He is content to die—and feel,
The Foe hath felt his trenchant steel!
Xenia, with quivering lip and pale,
Hath told him now, her whole dark tale!
Lo!—strange and wond'rous change was seen,
That rushed abruptly o'er his mien!
He started—as at clarion shrill—
Might dying charger rouse him still!
Swift, changed tempestuously his brow—
'Tis flashing living lightning now!
His eye glares, terrible as Death—
That dark and threatening brow beneath,—
His countenance is storm!—his cheek,
Stained deep with blood-red, burning streak;
Raised proudly, was that form so bowed—
His voice pealed forth like trumpet loud!—
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III.
“And what!—dishonoured thing!”—he cried,“Art thou then, made the Foeman's Bride?
The baleful beauty of thy face,
Seems blistered o'er with black disgrace!
Go!—hide thyself, where none may see!—
Scorn were too proud—too high—for thee!
'Midst Russia's Daughters Thou alone,
Art found a stained and fallen One!
Dare not to die upon her Earth!—
Go!—seek thy Bridegroom's Land of Birth!
Poison the accursed soil—far away—
With thy contaminating clay!
One comfort smiles—dark, scorpion thing!—
Be in his side the thorn and sting!
For whose vile sake thou hast defied—
(Thou—the lost Heretic's lost bride!)
All laws—or human or divine—
So let his anguish equal mine!
Nay!—clasp not thus thy hands!—their part,
Should be—Oh! perjured that thou art!—
To wring thy Country's wounded Heart!
Traitress and Parricide!—The blow,
That most should crush that heart with woe—
Can come not from the alien hand—
Howe'er 'tis armed with biting brand,
Such scourging blow—such stroke must come—
From Children's hands—these—these—strike home!—
602
IV.
“And I have loved thee!—Thou hast beenThe Light and Life of every scene!
Thou shon'st the Star of Battle's storm—
Even Victory wore but thy dear Form!—
I spurn thee like a trampled worm!
Thou mak'st thy Father in his grave,
A branded and dishonoured Slave!
Down to the dust!—Be nothing!—Go!—
And make the last abyss more low!
I joy that I have met thee, too,
And heard the tale, so foully true!
Else had my soul gone home—(dark thought—
Strange sting of terror this hath brought!)
Stained with this loathed and deadly love—
Not thus might it have soared above!
Thee—whom I prayed yon Heaven to bless—
I scarce may curse for bitterness!—
Since Oh!—all eloquent excess
Of words might ne'er my thoughts express!
Those thoughts scarce reach even that dread height
Of execrations which should blight!
Yet—yet—I curse thee!—Now!—in death!—
Curse—curse thee,—with my latest breath!”
Blood gushed from nostril fast—and mouth,—
Sunk to the earth the expiring youth—
Fluttered his limbs—then fixed—grew still—
O'erpowered by Death's benumbing chill!
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V.
Chained down in darkly-bulwarked towers—De Courcy counted the anxious hours—
Awaiting for the day to come,
When fixed must be his sentenced doom!
Shall prompt court-martial soon decide—
(With joy he heard he should be tried!—)
If Faith or Falsehood were implied,
By acts whose treachery he denied!
But while on Expectation tossed—
By Fear and Hope alternate crossed—
Full, perfect pardon he received
By his sweet Xenia's aid atchieved!
Re-solemnized their nuptials were—
With public ceremonials fair—
According to those rites and signs
The awful Church of Rome enjoins—
That union had before been blessed,
In her own Mother Church's breast!—
VI.
Ebbed gradually from wastes of Death,The Conflagration's tides of Wrath—
And Moscow—Moscow—was no more—
Cast, like a foundered wreck on shore!
Scarce a third part remained to tell
The Pride that she had worn so well!
To tower above her ashes pale—
Still smoking on the empoisoned gale;
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Her own magnific monument!
And art thou fallen, indeed,—Oh! Queen!—
And mighty Mistress of the Scene?
Art thou obscured and darkened now—
Thy glory 'minished and brought low?
Is't crushed,—the august, Imperial pride,
Of sacred Moscow that defied
Imagination's powers o'er-tried,
To picture it unseen?
The Beautiful—the Adorable—
The hallowed, by a Heaven-breathed spell—
Honoured and cherished long and well—
Must Earth groan—“She hath been?”
VII.
Oh! Moscow!—Moscow!—sought—desired—Moscow!—the Famous and the Admired!—
Moscow!—the Praised—the Proud!
And must thou vail thy matchless boast?—
And must thou be the Fallen!—the Lost—
The Blighted and the Bowed?
Hail to thy Fall!—Thou would'st not bear
The Invader's Triumph—thy Despair!—
Thou mock'st the Stern and Bold!
That glorious Prize—whose fall shall wreathe
No Victor brows with pride beneath—
Seized in that Eagle's grasp of Death—
Hath perished in his hold!
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Unwithered,—when defiled by stain—
Dishonoured and disgraced!
Foul touch was on her Palace bowers—
Seemed conscious all her shrinking Towers—
She vanished in those dreadful hours,—
The stain was well effaced!
Proud City!—No!—thou didst not fall—
By nobler name Mankind should call—
The Triumph of thy change!
Thine ashes bright, shall seem to form—
Through future times—through shine and storm—
A Phantom City, strange!
VIII.
Ne'er burned such fire—ne'er blazed such flame—It flushed the firmament with fame—
Stupendous and sublime!
The North seemed made a torrid zone,
By that immortal Sun!—Her own!—
That scorched Her startled clime!
A Sun of Soul!—and matched by none—
An awful—and a mystic one—
Earth's holier, and yet heavenlier Sun—
Triumphant through all time!
IX.
The Northern Eagle, bold and proud,Hath found a Sun without a cloud,
With boundless splendours crowned!
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Of vast and widely-spreading might—
That sheds fresh Day around!
And there he claps his sounding wing—
And basks him like the plumèd King—
Resistless and renowned!
But Gaul's foiled Eagle darkly there,
Hath soared, to reach but crowned Despair—
That hath nor end, nor bound!
'Mid the ashes strewn along that air—
From that defying, deathly glare,
The ungenial heat that burns to scare,
Dire brand he wins, he yet must bear,
And Fear and Fate hath found!
X.
Sublimest of all Suns, that e'erShed round celestial lustres fair,
And lit the stars above!
Thy wond'rous glory ne'er shall set,
Till Time his stated rounds forget,
And fails all Faith and Love!
But one proud Star shall shrink and wane—
While spreads and grows its hallowed reign—
And withering change the while!
Thy Star—Oh, France!—that glorious one,—
Nay!—rather Thine, Napoleon!—
Which, in the rising of that Sun,
Fast sets,—o'erdazzled, and undone,—
No more to shine and smile!
607
XI.
Napoleon now returned again,To Moscow—o'er her wrecks to reign!
In saddened, though determined mood—
Her Kremlin—and himself, yet stood!
(Her Kremlin still uplifted high,
Its brow of warlike sovereignty!
A brave Battalion of his Guard,
From doom, its Pride preserved—'twas spared!)
And he with his sublime renown—
That Waste would cheer—that Wreck would crown!
The Camps he traversed in his way—
Strange sights and wond'rous, shewed that day;
Conspicuously displayed around,
Wild Pageants glanced along the ground;
Deep in the fields 'midst clay and mire,
Bright flashed full many a furious fire—
On which was splendid fuel thrown—
That ever strangely-glittering shone!
Rich furniture of mighty cost,
Loose on each crackling heap was tossed;—
Broad shelves of rare mahogany,
Whose perfect polish glassed the sky;
Fair gilded doors of amplest size—
Huge painted skreens of thousand dyes,—
Rich cabinets of scented wood,
In forms of endless beauty hewed,
And carved and curious floors and frames,
Feed evermore the insatiate flames!
608
XII.
Grouped round those fires the Emperor saw—Where littered the earth some foul, damp straw—
Soldiers and chiefs reclined—frail shade,
Some few loose boards, ill-sheltering made,—
O'er their bowed heads all-weary weighed!
They wore a strange and savage look—
Splashed o'er with mire—and smirched with smoke—
Bloodshot their eyes—their hair was singed,
While tattered shreds their garments fringed!
Some lounged on rich, luxurious chair—
Or couch with silken draperies rare;
With canopies, and curtains fair,
While round their feet were heaped or spread—
Deep-stained with purple tints and red—
Cashmerian shawls—of texture fine—
Elaborate in well-wrought design;
And rarest furs of worth untold—
From rude Siberia's climate cold;
And precious stuffs from Persia brought,
And plate fantastically wrought,—
Vessels of silver, wreathed and chased,
Before those shivering groupes were placed!
From their contents, the taste recoiled—
Huge lumps of sinewy horse-flesh broiled!—
Black dough too, on the ashes baked—
That little the appetite awaked!—
609
XIII.
It was a mixture strange, indeed,Of want and splendour—waste and need;—
Of Luxury proud, and rich, and high,
And squalid, shivering beggary!
The City and the Camp Between—
Was spread a stirring busy scene—
There many a troop of soldiers came,
With booty rescued from the flame;
Who bent beneath their costly freight,
Though struggling stoutly 'gainst the weight!—
There, too, were Muscovites descried,
Far scattered o'er the champaign wide—
For the awful fire hath brought to light,
Full many late concealed from sight;
(Dense crowds, that had in stealth returned—
Whose hearts within them, pined and yearned—
To Moscow's walls so long beloved,
Whence bitter Fortune had removed;)
These, too, on their bowed shoulders bore,
Well-rescued wealth and treasured store;
While wandered sad and weary on—
Mother and Daughter—Sire and Son!
XIV.
By dire Necessity oppressed,Weighed down, and chilled, and sore distressed,
And 'wildered, too, 'midst the altered scenes,
To which the heart, unaltering, leans,—
610
In spots their circling foes defile;—
Whose hostile fires they gathered round,
In sorrow and dismay profound!
Amongst those foes, they sadly mixed,
By weariness and woe, transfixed;
And with their enemies remained—
While tyrannous Want's sharp grasp enchained,—
Crushed down, and humbled to the earth,—
Though heaped with wealth,—in helpless dearth;
For gold and silver might not give
Food, warmth, or shade, to bid them live!—
XV.
Some scattered thousands, too, were there,Bowed with a sullen, stern despair,
That yet a martial gait displayed—
And seemed in martial guise arrayed—
Of Russia's armies—stragglers these—
Whom yet the French forbore to seize!
They suffered them their fires to share—
Gave them of their own scanty fare,—
And let them pillage, far and free,
Ofttimes in their own company!
When orders were at length received
These stragglers to secure—(reprieved
So long—and pitied and relieved!)
The greater part 'twas found were gone!
A scanty few remained alone,
611
To Russia's armies—waved the sword—
Against the Invader's ranks abhorred!—
XVI.
The mighty Desolator now,Neared Moscow's walls—so changed and low!
No triumphs brightened round his way,
No homage cheered that gloomy day;
All silently, his kingly state,
Rolled slow through mournful Moscow's gate,—
The gloriously desolate!—
In drear annihilation,—great;—
It seemed as though Napoleon came,
Successor meet, to Waste and Flame!
To act their part—to take their place—
And win their wild, unfinished race;
And yet, in sooth, proved all for him,
Obscured, and cheerless,—lorn and dim,
An humbled thing, seemed laurelled Power,
While lowered that strange momentous hour,
Still Moscow raised her darkened brow—
The Fallen bade the Mighty bow!
XVII.
Some Palace-halls yet, here and there,'Mid smoking ruins, wild and bare,
Remained to tell how fair had been,
The darkened and the discrowned Queen!
612
In solitary gloom bereft;—
There, fragments of huge walls appeared—
Defaced, and blackened,—smirched, and seared—
Or smouldering heaps, of ashes told,
Where mighty structures, stood of old!
It was a sad and wond'rous sight—
Too dreary for the day's proud light,—
There, crowds of houseless Russians roved,
'Midst the embers of the homes they loved.
Among the ruins flitted they—
Like spectres o'er the churchyard grey—
Adding despondence to decay!—
XVIII.
Some crouched beside the half-burned trees,'Midst gardens of old palaces,
Where bowery walk, and high arcade,
Had offered once, enchanting shade!
Some scratched in th' earth—these sought for roots—
By famine, levelled with the brutes;
While some, by fiendish hunger taught—
With birds of the air for carrion fought!
They gnashed their teeth—their feet they stamped—
They struggling writhed—they foamed—they ramped—
With harsh and demoniac cries,
Thus fought they, for their loathsome prize;
There, some, yet farther on, were seen,
With wild Distraction in their mien,
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Where sparkling shone, young Morning's beam—
To drag from thence with desperate hand,
The corn, thrown in, at stern command;
At stern command, there thrown, and cast,
In reckless choice, of wilful waste;
Ere yet Rostopchin hence made speed,
That none their fatal Foe might feed!—
This they devoured at once—nor stayed
For aught of Preparation's aid—
Soured—damaged—spoiled, as 'twas, they yet
This food with ravenous fury ate!—
And gorged their mouldy feast with rage,
Of hunger, this might scarce assuage!
While urged that brutish hunger still
To hideous shifts—'gainst choice and will!
XIX.
The Emperor, onwards still advanced,In speechless thoughts absorbed and tranced;
Dispersed o'er that changed City vast,—
So high and glorious through the past,—
'Twould seem his whole proud Host he saw,
Unchecked by discipline and law!
Oft was he forced to pause the while,
When meeting with some long-drawn file;
Some troop of keen marauders—bowed
Beneath their spoils—full rich and proud!—
Assemblages of soldiers, too,
For ever met the wandering view,
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The entrance of cellars lately found,—
Or portals barred—or close-locked gate,—
Of mighty Palaces of State;
Or doors of Churches—which the Fire
Had seized not in its ravening ire;—
Fragments of furniture were strowed
On every side, to block the road,
And heaps of booty, rich and rare,
All recklessly were scattered there!—
XX.
Haply the plunderers much resigned,With changeful and capricious mind,
For spoils of yet more tempting kind;
Embarrassed—even by the overflow
Of wealth—that tempts where'er they go—
Like children grasping,—seizing, still,
Intent, their greedy hands to fill;
With eager—yet unfixed desire—
To snatch—appropriate,—and acquire;
In loose and undecided state—
Upgathering this—resigning that—
They roamed along their devious way,
Still following on the scent of prey;
Longing on all to seize in vain,
Till even possession grows a pain;
So much is still by them ungrasped—
Seem nought the treasures clutched and clasped!—
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Since oft, by dire fatigues compelled,
The greater part, renounced, must lie
In scattered heaps thrown lightly by,
Flung down,—relinquished and resigned—
Till thick the roads with these were lined,
And left with vain regrets behind!
Abandoned—as with changeful thought—
Though with such breathless ardour sought!—
XXI.
On all sides Soldiers might be seenSore-wearied—after chase so keen,
On bales of costliest merchandize
Reclined—their conquest and their prize!—
Round these were heaped fair spoils and vain,
The produce of the sugar-cane!
The Arabian berry—gum and spice—
And endless luxuries, past all price—
With mantling blood of sun-scorched vines,
The richest, rarest, mightiest wines,
The which, they proffered eagerly,
To yield, in full exchange and free,
Even for some mouldy morsel scant
Of stale, coarse bread—so sore their want,—
Faint with long inanition, some
By sufferings and fatigues o'ercome—
Mad with intoxication reeled
Right 'mongst the flames—their doom was sealed—
Their sufferings—and for ever, healed!—
616
XXII.
'Midst such confusion—wreck—and waste—Napoleon now his steps retraced,—
Re-entered the unscathed Kremlin's walls,
And traversed its resounding halls;
His spirit toiled with thoughts of weight—
Strict mandates must be issued straight!
This fierce disorder must be checked,
Or all shall be destroyed and wrecked!
Soon rapine's reign, spread far and wide,
Was checked and stayed, and set aside;
The Old Guard did stern commands receive—
Their quarters close, no more to leave—
Those Churches, which the 'monished Fire
Had left uninjured, and entire,
Were ordered to be straight restored,
Straight cleared—for worship of the Lord;
That less disturbed and outraged, so,
Might be the feelings of their Foe;
Since there, 'mid jewelled shrine and tomb,
And sacredness of shadowy gloom,
In sculptured porch—in pillared aisle,
Whose sacred grandeurs they defile,
The Cavalry profanely dared
To dwell—(by that dread gloom unscared!)
There stalls and lodgment they secured,
While yet the fiery storm endured;
(Horses and horsemen—crowding close—
There claimed fair shelter and repose!—)
617
To their most hallowed destiny!—
This change,—and many a change declares—
The princely Leader's watchful cares.
XXIII.
Loose plunder's business, too, must beContrived with regularity;
More!—all the Russian peasants—they
Who hither, should supplies convey,—
Must be protected, shielded, spared,
Nor openly attacked, nor snared,—
Encouraged, these should be to bring,
Provisions to the famishing!
Nor to the ravenous rage of such—
And their most lawless gripe and clutch
Should these, unfenced, exposed remain—
Injurious outrage to sustain,
To suffer—helpless and subdued—
Strange depredations fierce and rude,
From that ungoverned multitude!—
XXIV.
Full wond'rous 'twas in sooth, and strange,To mark the swift—the sudden change,—
At once the abrupt reform to trace,
The Order,—in Disorder's place;—
The perfect Harmony restored—
At one attempt—with one accord,—
618
Darkening, and deepening evermore;
But all too late, the change was made,—
Too long was that reform delayed!
The affrighted peasants, vanished all,
And nought might lure them—nor recall!—
It was a dark and desperate thing,
For famine scowled, to pinch and wring;
But bravely still, they struggled on—
And bright, their firm endurance shone!—
Though dismal thoughts at times would throw,
A deeper shade of heavier woe!
| The Maiden of Moscow | |