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. |
| XVII. | CANTO XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
619
CANTO XVII.
I.
Meanwhile, on leaving Moscow's towers,The Russian,—with his martial powers,—
The unshaken Empire's fence and stay,—
Had towards Kolomna bent his way;
Thither Murat, still panting wild
For Battle—Victory's own spoiled child!—
Was drawn, but to that point, where flowed
The Moskowa stream athwart his road;—
Since there, well sheltered by the night,
That skreened those mighty Hosts from sight,
Abruptly turned his Foes, to foil
His 'stablished plan, and mock his toil,
With rapid movement undiscerned,
Abruptly to the right, they turned,—
By their high-minded Chief led on—
Who calm, his cautious progress won!
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II.
His Army's gathered force to throw,'Twixt Moscow, and Kalouga now,
That Chief, with skill and art refined,
In his deep purposed thought, designed,
His Hosts would he withdraw, unseen,
And baulk his Princely Foeman, keen;
Thus stood his plan!—'twas well borne through,
By him and them—the staunch and true!
Their midnight march, is grave and stern—
That Army sees its Moscow burn!—
Begins the wild and furious Fire—
To spread its threatening lustres dire;—
It casts a swarthy glow around—
And reddens fast, the air and ground!—
III.
Solemn the march of Russia's powers,Around their Moscow's blazing towers,
That shook, and rocked,—and crashing fell,
Their thunder-tale of doom to tell;
The loud—loud—mighty-rushing Wind,—
Which raged in fury—strong and blind—
The flames and ashes, wafted fast,
(While surged and swelled the infuriate blast,)
Where they in sombre silence passed!
Showered down upon them evermore,
To light, as on their hearts' deep core,
621
Their Moscow but a dream!—a name!—
Right awful was that midnight march,—
The Sky spread,—all one blood-red arch—
And they were lighted on their way,
By many a dread and deadly ray,
That told of Ruin and Despair—
Blasting the blue and hallowed air—
Torch-bearers need they none,—far round,
Shines like Phosphoric Sea the ground!
And they were lit, through that wild night,
By Conflagration's Comet-Light—
The Conflagration that consumed
Their Moscow—torched them and illumed!—
IV.
The cradle of their Empire falls!Now bend their fortressed—centuried walls—
Ne'er more may shine,—proud,—great,—and free,
Their high Religion's Sanctuary!
Fallen is their Russia's bulwarked boast,
The centre of their Commerce lost!
Well may their hearts, swell high with wrath—
In silence, trode they all, that path—
Deep, solemn, awful silence, 'twas,
Scarce seemed to breathe that moving mass,—
There rose no shout—there came no word—
Their measured footsteps, sole were heard,—
Monotonously dull, that sound
Even pierced through all the tumults round;
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Like the red riot of the War;—
And deafening howlings of the blast—
That fiercely swept those regions vast!—
V.
They view their Moscow's giant form—Like some dread Bark amidst the storm;
Still battling 'gainst the dreadful ire—
Of towering and tempestuous Fire,—
Yes!—like some Princely Bark that rides
The angry and infuriate tides,
They see their glorious City now,
Uprear and droop Her stately brow,
With shrouds, and sails, and rigging rent—
And mighty masts all bowed and bent,—
For still her spires, like masts rose high,
For ever pointing at the sky—
Like masts arose her haughty spires—
To fall before the billowing fires!—
While laboured she with efforts sore,
Against that storm for evermore,
And now, within that roaring sea—
She seemeth swallowed drearily—
She plungeth down its crimson deep,
Where all its wildest surges sweep!
Yet said I not that fierce proud Fire,
Whose conquering wreaths rolled high and higher,
(Which,—while men nurse one bright desire,
Extinguished even, shall ne'er expire!—)
623
All splendour round its place to shed!
Hence!—lesser Images and Dreams!
Such—such, in sooth, it proudly seems,
And all The North is burning now,
With that triumphant, tameless glow—
Shine! Royal Sun!—whose deathless rays
Are worthiest of all pride and praise;
Shine! Royal Sun of Russia!—Shew,
Her Strength, her Stature, to Her Foe!
Her bravery and her boast display,
By that broad blaze, of more than Day.
Thou makest, with thy transcendant birth,
An Empyrean, on the Earth;—
What spheres of thought, shall round thee roll,
What blazing systems of the soul!
How yet shalt thou illumine all,
Great Light!—of sway majestical;
Hail!—Hail!—thou Conflagration bright!
That mak'st clear noon of deepest night—
Crowned Constellation!—all of Suns!—
What orb a race so glorious runs?
For thy high course is still to check
Oppression,—on his march of wreck,—
To wither up his cruel veins,
And melt a world's unworthy chains;
Oh! well might seem that boundless Flame—
The glory of the Heaven of Fame!
Thou!—Patriot-Love!—the pure—the true—
Whose wing still fanned it, as it flew,—
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None other, thus, might brighten Earth!
There thou shalt sit, 'midst triumphs won—
Uriel of that undying Sun!—
VI.
Still on, marched Russia's mighty powers,Right round their Moscow's crashing towers;—
(Those crashing, blazing Towers, that fall
As stooped a world, with each proud wall!
Like steel on the anvil glowed afar
Their City—rapt in whirling war;—)
In sullen silence marched they on,
Seemed each, 'mid countless thousands—lone!
For each, in deep resentful mood,
Doth o'er his wrongs enormous, brood!—
While endless Indignation starts,
Even in their secret Heart of Hearts;
And still that dreary, awful light
Wild flashes, oft made strangely bright,
Then might the warrior's haughty mien
And looks of savage rage, be seen!
A tempest in the tempest drear—
That nought shall calm—that nought may clear!—
A Conflagration, keener far,
Than yon swart Conflagration's star!
The sombre threatenings of their glance,
Might scathe the heart of ruthless France!
This well betrayed the deep revenge,
That ne'er must know decline, or change—
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Boundless, and dark, and full of fate!
That ne'er decline, or change, must know—
Till they have 'venged, their Country's woe!—
And well betrayed it too, that grief
Which spurned all other vain relief—
That giant anguish, which devoured
Their hearts, with rage and pain o'erpowered!—
VII.
Well through the whole vast Empire spread,That thirst for vengeance,—deep and dread;
And thousand, thousand victims fell—
Its triumph and its truth to tell!
Right solemn was that Midnight March—
Beneath the sky's dark crimsoned arch—
And dreadful were the thoughts that rose,
To madden, o'er their wrongs and woes,
In those proud hearts of passion high—
That, shuddering, raged tempestuously!
On!—On!—brave Warriors!—Serve—defend,
Your menaced Country to the end!
Yet other Friends—Defenders—Powers—
Hath she through these o'ertroubled hours—
The firm-fixed Faith that will not quail—
The holy Hope that dares not fail—
The high unalterable Will,
That gathers—grows—and glories still—
The will that makes the weakest heart
A sovereign Citadel apart!—
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VIII.
Thy Bulwark, Russia! stands confessed—The Invulnerable Soul!—the best!—
In this shouldst thou untrembling place
The confidence, no dread may chase;—
Thy march is all thy People's mind,
In one proud Mountain-Strength combined!
A march,—as of the moving Seas—
Gathering their billowy energies—
That march is through the Heavens and Earth—
From world to world!—from worth to worth!
From strength to strength—and height to height—
Till nears it, the endless Throne of Light!
So doth each step advance—exalt—
Those who may die, but never halt;
Thine arms are sharpened on the sill
Of Sepulchres of Ages still,—
Still sharpened on the stones that heap—
The grave-grounds where the Silent sleep—
Then the strong heart makes strong each hand,
That, following Duty's deep command,
Best wheels and wields keen axe and brand—
For those whose Silence saith “Withstand!”—
Their Fathers—and their Fatherland!—
Lo!—even their slumbering Sires shall call,
And bid them shrink from yoke and thrall;
For shall the Invaders spurn and slay—
Aye, slay their high and honoured clay?—
627
Corruption teaching there, beneath;
Corruption—fouler, loathlier far,
Than aught the grave can bring to mar;
That shames the worm at her dim work,
Till grows the under-gloom more murk—
Yea!—shaming so the very worm
That thus ne'er wronged the mouldering form;
No!—No!—defiance to your doom!
If but for their sakes—in the tomb!—
IX.
Defiance to thy doom, proud Land!Now mock at axe, and torch, and brand—
Defiance hurl 'gainst scythe and spear,
And high thy stainless banners rear!
Thine aids are Shrine—Grave—Hearth—and Fane—
(And ne'er can such proud aids be vain!)
Country, concentered and combined
In one invulnerable Mind!
Thy Patriots seem inspired to move,
With soaring steps, from Love to Love;
Their holy guerdons—Heaven and Home—
Shall well, make these, defy their doom;
Call to the self-destroyers,—“Come!”
Proud Patriots!—free from doubt or gloom;
Proffer them Peace—and perfect Rest!
Let every Grave receive its Guest!—
628
X.
Oh!—well may these Defenders stand,Each, like the Saviour of his Land;
Fast round them Brother-Bosoms beat—
With answering zeal's exhaustless heat—
And hallowed ashes fire their feet!
Soul soars with soul—heart bounds to heart,
And nobly shall they act their part;
Where'er they look, they see their own!
In Russia's heart these trees are sown;—
Through Russia's air those stars smile down—
On Russia's blessed earth they tread,
And Russia's Heavens are o'er them spread;
Where'er they stand 'tis holy ground—
Her Quick and Dead are gathered round—
Where'er they look—'tis Love and Home—
From loftiest star, to lowliest tomb!
Their Country's soul breathes through the sod,
Theirs is their Clime—Land—King—and God!—
Fame—Patriotism—Religion, make
Themselves, thrice-blessed, for their high sake,
So gloriously their spirits spring,
Great Love!—on thy far-rushing wing!
Thou!—that art still a Heaven in Heaven,
To thrones, and dominations given;
Thou, that the Archangel's Angel, art—
Of deep divinity, a part!
Yes! such is Love—and still his reign
Shall stand—while worlds and systems wane,—
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The rapture of the heavenly rest;
The Archangel's Angel!—He that gives
The Life in which the Immortal lives!—
Brave Patriots!—with what bright controul,
He fires the fervour of your soul;
'Tis he that nerves and steels your hearts,
Till Hope returns, and Strife departs;
Those Lovers of their Country know,
The eternal feeling's loftiest glow!
Their hearts' dread will—unbowed—unbent—
Stands like Heaven's chrystal battlement—
And the Immemorial Ages rise—
Embattailled with their Energies!—
XI.
The fair-haired Daughter of the Czars,The Imperial Anne assists the wars,—
The Queenly-souled and Patriot-maid—
She nobly grants her generous aid!
Crowned magnanimities of thought,
To that fresh maiden-mind are brought;
In sunrise-youth—in flush of power—
With every greatness for her dower!
Glory and Empire at her feet,
All earthly pomps round Her starred seat,
Contending Kings to claim her hand—
And catch the breath of her command,—
She turns from all, to think alone,
How best to serve that Land—Her Own!—
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To proffer her, his homage proud—
And bade her rule, his wide-stretched zones,
And share with him, an hundred thrones,
Her lofty spirit might not bend—
With His—Her Destinies to blend;—
Greatness for Her exalted mind,
But shone with Goodness, too, combined;
From her angelic heights of thought—
Seemed mere Earth-Sovereignty as nought!
Thence gazed she down, with radiant smile,
That glorified, even that, the while;
She looked with calm, undazzled eye,
On his triumphant Destiny;
She—who while bright, and broad, was spread
His reign of conquest—proud and dread—
While blazed his Victory-flag unfurled—
Refused Napoleon—and a World!—
XII.
Profuse, her hand showers liberal gold,Her gallant thousands armed, behold;
On their dear native soil they stand—
A valiant, and resistless band;
Prompt, there, to die all deaths—endure,
All wrongs—their Country's wounds to cure—
Prompt, even to Earth's last wilds to wander,
For Russia—Anne—and Alexander!
Imperial Anne! how proud wert thou—
No blood-bought crown oppressed thy brow!—
631
Thy mounting spirit well disdained,
This thou would'st share not—nor claim part—
In the o'er-stained Thunder-splintered heart!
Oh!—Queenly Anne!—No loftier soul,
Through Russia, rose 'gainst dire controul—
No mightier mind upsprung elate,
Than thine, to stand 'gainst Fear and Fate,—
To smile at threats 'gainst honour hurled,
And bid defiance to a world,—
Thy Blood-Imperial blush, rose bright—
Like suns o'er snows, of purpled light!—
XIII.
That world, he summoned forth to aid,It might not make thy heart afraid;
Though all Earth rose to speed his will,
Thy heart—thy soul—had scorned him still!
Greatest in conquering Gentleness—
That promised most, to shield and bless,—
To bring down Angels from above,
And strengthen all the Land with Love;—
Till grey-haired warriors, seamed with scars,
Blushed at the memories of their wars!
And sought to learn from thee how best—
To guard their honoured Land distressed!—
XIV.
Now high-souled Alexander learned,His sacred Capital was burned,—
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To act yet more than Warrior's part!
A more than Hero's part to play—
He strove on that unhappy day,
And more than conquered—more than reigned—
While fear and grief, his soul disdained;
With Empire, amplest in his Breast,
His sorrowing subjects he addressed!
With Victory, loftiest in his Thought,
High consolations, thus he brought:—
“No weak dejection!—no distrust!—
Defiance should be ours—and must!—
Defiance,—till we drop to dust!
Freedom and Victory, we must have,—
Freedom and Victory—or the Grave!
Annihilation!—or the acclaim
Of our own hearts—Earth's noblest Fame!
Let Russia's Name be mentioned still—
Through power and danger—good and ill,—
Through all her length of destined days,
With reverence,—homage,—pride, and praise;
Still pure from soil—still free from stain—
Or never be it breathed again!
Blot it from History and from Earth—
If aught should stain its snow of worth!
XV.
“Redoubled courage, fire your hearts—Perish the Foe's infernal arts!
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He dwells as 'twere in some stern tomb;
No Strength,—Dominion,—Glory,—Power,—
Shall mark or magnify the hour!
No pride, no homage, and no sway,
To gild the cold and clouded day!
Scarce, 'midst its wild and ghastly scenes,
Discovereth he Life's common means!
Scarce food to cherish life he gleans!
The bubbles of his Hope have burst—
His Hundred Thousands, roam dispersed;
Desertion—Famine—and the Sword—
Have left him but of half—the Lord!
He dwells in Russia's royal seat,
With not a Russian at his feet!
In Russia's heart, abideth he—
Nor winneth One, through Treachery!
Lowers his horizon, drear and dim—
While we enclose—and 'compass him!
A mighty Population waits—
To crush him with o'er whelming hates!
Our gallant Armies gird him round—
And keep in check—and bar, and bound!
Full soon to 'scape from Famine's sway,
Through these, he yet must cut his way!
Who then shall shield him—what shall save—
From Ruin,—Failure,—and the Grave?
XVI.
“Shall we then pause?—shall we recede,—When France is at her sorest need?
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With hope, and high encouragement!
Shake wide our Banners, all unfurled—
Set we, the example, to the World!
Let the flagitious heart be bowed—
Turn every Standard to a Shroud!
Each standard, that our Foes abhorred,
Dare wave on Russia's air adored!
That they in mad presumption dare—
To fling against our Russian air!—
Down with the Despot!—Down with all,
That seek their Brethren to enthrall!
Shake wide the banners of our boast,
And burst on that devoted Host!
Up with those banners, brave and bright,
And Lo!—'tis down with Gallia's might!
Up with those banners, broad and brave,
'Tis down with Tyrant—and with Slave!
The Fiend of France shall fail—shall fall—
With his weak slaves shall feel our thrall!
Aye, Slaves!—for Glory's self and Fame—
Leave those he rules, no nobler Name!—
And kiss we, reverently, even now,
(The while though raised on high we bow!)
The mighty hand that beckoneth us,
To such high doom and calling thus,—
To be of all the Nations first,
An impious Slavery's chains to burst!
Then rouse ye!—rouse ye!—dastard Fear,
Should be afraid to tremble here;
635
Foul fall the Spoiler's fiendish arts!
Foul fall the treacherous arts accursed,
Of Wrong's own vilest sons,—and worst!”
XVII.
The march of Koutousoff, by night,Had served his purpose bold, aright!
Murat, for three long days had lost
All trace of him, and of the Host;
The Russians thus, fair leisure found,
For studying o'er the chosen ground;
Meet time, they snatched, to watch and weigh,
Each vantage chance, for Conflict's day!
And build entrenchments strong and good,
By which their Foe should be withstood!
XVIII.
A mighty mansion—Luxury's dome—Rostopchin's ancestorial home,—
With vast domains, far round it stretched,
The Advanced Guard, now, well-nigh had reached;
When hurrying spurred, before them fast,
That gallant Chief—as though a last,
Long look upon his home to cast!
And soon deep-rolling clouds of smoke,
Forth from that Princely Palace broke;
'Twas he, himself, the Dome had fired,—
By ardent scorn and hate inspired;
Prompt, he refused all proffered aid—
The stern resolve was deeply made!
636
By his own firm, determined hand—
They saw him dart with dreadful joy—
Eager and earnest to destroy!
He smiles at Desolation there—
The Invader shall not find it fair!
Then passed from thence the Russian force—
Like Cataract, foaming on its course!
XIX.
Ere long before their Foemen's eyes—Astare with wildered, wild surprise—
Appears the inscription—proud and stern—
Which teaches much, they yet should learn!
Hard by that Mansion fallen—defaced—
This on the old iron gate was traced,—
(That to the neighbouring Church belonged,
Which fire and ruin scarce had wronged;—)
“Frenchmen!—for eight long happy years—
Unscathed by griefs—unscourged by cares—
It proved my pleasure and my pride,
To deck this spot,—than all beside
Far dearer—through Creation wide!
Here—'midst a Family beloved—
I dwelt from Life's vain toils removed!
And Here—I breathe my long Farewell,
To joys, that but with Freedom dwell!
The Inhabitants of this Estate,
Deign not your loathed approach to wait—
637
Dwelt in your presence—on your breath!
Whilst I have given to flames the abode,
Where once mine hours' glad currents flowed!
That such loathed presence, foul and base,
May ne'er pollute the hallowed place!
Frenchmen!—in Moscow ye will find
Proud Palaces, for ye resigned!
Two princely Palaces of mine—
Where luxuries crowd—where splendours shine,
Still wait ye, if contented there,
Ye claim your harsh and hostile share,
Pass on!—in proud and reckless cheer—
Pass!—nought but ashes waits ye here!”
XX.
'Twas near this sad and solemn spot—Murat with keen pursuit and hot—
O'ertook the Russian Chief—and soon,
Thick, sulphurous clouds, obscured the noon!
Towards Czerikowo growled the fray—
And sternly on a later day,
Vinnkowo shook, to Discord's sway!
There, Miloradowitch, in might,
Too closely pressed, made furious fight;—
And with twelve thousand horsemen turned—
(While boundlessly the conflict burned,—)
On the ardent French that knew no dread—
By brave Sébastiani led!
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XXI.
Yet was the shock full fierce and rude—And wild disorder had ensued;
But joined them, Poniatowski then,
With his fine, fearless Polish men!
Till nightfall murk, the combat raged—
While host with host was close engaged!
At length, repulsed on that red Field,
Brave Miloradowitch must yield!—
Meanwhile Napoleon still remained,
In Moscow's blackened wreck, and stained;
Six days of flame their worst had done,
A desert 'twas, he looked upon;
Yet there, even fixed as moveless Fate,
Would he for Reinforcements wait;
Convoys, supplies, and stragglers all,
That yet should hear, and heed his call;—
Rallied and gathered, all should be,
By thy bright name,—crowned Victory,—
By Booty's hope—by that proud sight,
Of Moscow, captive to his might—
And more than all—his Glory's light!
His Glory—that did streaming smile,
From that huge Ruin's Chaos-pile!
The gloom spread round, to gild and mock,
Like some fair Beacon, from a rock!
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XXII.
Twice from Murat, despatches came,Traced by his Warrior-hand of flame!
Announcing—with a proud delight—
A near approaching field of fight!
Twice, had Napoleon thought to pass,
From Moscow's wrecked, and wildering mass—
But twice, the orders given, were changed,
His purpose, was anew estranged!
The affairs, accumulating fast,
Of Empire, filled that mind so vast;
(Or if, perchance, they failed to fill,
They cheered—and they beguiled it still;)
Courier, and Post, and Estafette,
In Moscow's streets, fast-crowding, met;
The Expresses from his distant France,
Seemed thick, and thickening,—to advance;
Yet Genius!—thy quick power supreme,
Made business vanish like a dream!
His giant intellect would ask
Some mightier field—some loftier task!
His thoughts—his mind—still forward flew—
Till nought was left to dream and do!
Then languished the over-life within—
Scant occupation, this might win!
Yet still, in Moscow he delayed—
And lingered there, and dubious stayed!—
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XXIII.
His Host, to Europe's self-crowned Lord,But slight employment could afford;
'Twas organised, withal, so well—
On this his mind, scarce long, might dwell;
All echoed to his least command,—
He held the wires within his hand!
The Administration free and fair,
So well was concentrated there,
And such experience, clear and just,
Had those acquired, who shared his trust;
Eleven days even thus were spent—
No answer Alexander sent—
While Alexander's Mighty Foe,
Fixed in the heart of the Empire so—
Appeared resolved within its core,
To root himself for evermore!
Moscow in ashes—ruined—bowed—
Wrapped in Destruction's deadliest cloud,—
Waning beneath each glimmering moon,
Received a Chief Intendant soon;
And formed Municipalities,
As she should yet from ashes rise!
Commands were issued, far and wide,
In tones of high and stubborn pride,—
That she should be provisioned straight,
For Winter's months—months, full of fate!
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XXIV.
'Midst fragments dim—dark mounds among—A Theatre was built ere long;
And buskined artists from afar,
Were called—to while the thoughts of War—
Were bade to hasten there, and fling,—
(Where all seemed scathed and withering,—)
Light mimic scenes, of magic charm,
O'er scenes, of gloom and dire alarm!
Italia's warbling throats called forth,
The wondering echoes of the North;
The old Kremlin's stern, indignant air,
Those echoes bland, must waft and bear;
Music and Splendour rose to reign,
Where Pleasure's self looked pale as Pain!
October's mellowed month came on—
Was Alexander's answer—none;
He deigned not—stooped not to reply—
'Twas insult, and 'twas injury!
XXV.
Napoleon called his Mareschalls round—His brow's pale hemisphere, profound,
O'ergloomed with lowering tempest, frowned,
He spoke like one disturbed—aggrieved!—
“Hear now the plan, I have conceived;—
Moscow's remains, we straight must burn—
Our steps, from her wide desert turn;
To Petersburgh by Twer, march on—
Would that great goal were reached and won!
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Davoust,—our Rear-guard—and Murat!”
He ceased—dull frigid faces met
His glances keen, and sparkling yet;
For as he spoke, his aspect glowed,
His countenance like lightning shewed—
Changed—cleared—and flushed with Triumph's hue,
His mighty forehead proudly grew;
Fast o'er his features, Victory flew!
Once more his clarion voice was heard,—
A Battle-burst seemed each proud word,—
“What!—doth this hope not rouse and warm?—
Doth this not fire your souls, and charm?
Shall this not quicken and inflame—
Can your high hearts be dead to fame?—
Ye,—who beside Napoleon stand,
And hear the voice of his command?—
Think of the pride, 'twill be to say,
When Victory gilds our glorious day—
With the whole startled World to cry—
‘Three months have scarce rolled hurrying by,
Since we, from Conquest evermore,
Flashing to Conquest as before,
Have all subdued—all forced to yield—
Victors of every purple field!’
While fall—as all before us falls—
The North's two sceptered capitals!”
XXVI.
But stern objections, soon, were raised,He heard, half angered,—half amazed;
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Must Contradiction's voice appear!
Yet while he heard, deep pondering still,
He weighed the various Good and Ill!
Boots not to tell, each change—each turn—
The plans, his soul would seize, or spurn;
At length, his firm resolve was made,
To seek Negociation's aid,—
Then treat of terms of Peace at once
With him, who deigned him no response;
On this his mind, now fixed, was bent;
And Lauriston, straightforth, was sent,
To speed that scheme's accomplishment;
To Koutousoff, he first must go,
And claim safe conduct, from the Foe,
To Petersburgh, and Russia's Czar,
Then seek to close, this fatal war!
Napoleon urged him still to try,
To force, that Princely Foe, and high,
For Peace,—to sue and to apply!
Himself, the first fair steps to take—
The first free Overtures, to make;
Thus urged Napoleon, warmly still,
With ardour of an earnest will;
But his last words, pealed full and clear,—
“Remember!—Peace may cost me dear!—
But Peace I need!—We must have peace,—
Hostilities must surely cease!
Solely my kingly honour save!—
Remember!—Peace, We now must have!”
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XXVII.
Set forth, at once, brave Lauriston,His way to Russia's camp he won,
And the interview he claimed,—obtained;—
But no safe conduct might be gained!—
The Russian General, bade him know,
His powers thus far, must fail to go;
But offered he, at once, to send,
In hopes, these gloomy strifes to end,
Wollkonsky, with that letter bland—
To give unto his Sovereign's hand;—
Pacific protestations, too,
Were poured forth, through that interview,
Fair Armistice was offered then—
Till sped Wollkonsky back again;
These tidings to Napoleon sent—
Were hailed, with strong and deep content;—
He summoned all his Generals round,
Announced a speedy peace profound;
And told them,—pass one fortnight more—
The War should finished be—and o'er!—
XXVIII.
None but himself, he cried, well knew,That character, his glance pierced through,
The Russian Character!—which they,
Misunderstanding—scarce could weigh!—
Soon as the Czar, his scroll received,
Full deeply, he, with joy, believed,
645
With glad Illumination's light!
Well rivalling that dismal glow,
'Twas Moscow's hapless fate, to shew!
Still the Armistice dissatisfied,
His judgment—prudence—and his pride;—
He willed Murat, without delay—
Should break it off—but,—strange to say,
'Twas yet continued, day by day!
XXIX.
Full curious its conditions were,Might these, unmeet constructions bear,
Three hours' fair notice should suffice—
At once to end this Armistice!
To either camp's broad front confined,
For hidden reasons unassigned,
Not to their flanks, might this extend—
But there, 'twas understood to end!
Or such the Russians, willed, should be,
The interpretation,—loose and free,—
Borne by that act of warranty;
Proved this, the interpretation shrewd,
'Twas feigned—they seized, and understood,
Of that fair compact, which released
From toil, and War's wild ills decreased;—
Yet, though at first, it promised this,
Such prosperous end, it seemed to miss!
For many a petty feud arose—
That closed, in bitterness and blows;—
646
Nor send chance Bands, for foraging,
Without a struggle, and a fray,—
So dragged the war on,—day by day!
Save, where to thy proud arms,—fair France!—
Most welcome, this, had proved, perchance;
Most welcome, and most useful!—There,
'Twas checked, and stayed, with strenuous care!
XXX.
And yet, should this not prove a time,Of startling weight, and sway sublime?
Should this not prove a conquering hour,
Of influence deep,—and thrilling power?
See!—Two vast Empires, proud and high,
Take counsel in their Sovereignty!
Each calleth to the Other now,
Each lifts its crowned and dazzling brow,
And gloriously the echoes sweep,
While loud they cry,—as Deep to Deep!
Crowned Majesty with Majesty
Shall commune loud,—as Sea with Sea,—
For Hark!—Napoleon's voice comes forth—
Napoleon calleth to the North!—
Napoleon's voice of thunder leads,
That voice of war and tempest pleads!
And Alexander hears and heeds;
Hark!—Hark!—Napoleon speaks to day!—
And Alexander answers!—Nay!
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Proud Russia spurns the Conqueror's call—
He answers not!—no breath—no word!—
No sound of fair reply is heard;—
And that Grand Silence seemed to be,
In its august austerity,
The Electrifying Eloquence
Of burning scorn, and hate intense!
More strong than thunders, thus it stirred
The heart that felt,—what was not heard!
Napoleon spoke!—and answer sought!—
But Alexander answereth not!—
XXXI.
Murat delighted, seemed, to shewHis dazzling presence to the Foe;—
And well the Russians did agree,
To soothe his princely vanity;—
To their videttes, his orders free,
He gave—obeyed obsequiously,—
As even, he gave them to his own,
Such deference to his will, was shewn;
And if to occupy some ground
They occupied,—while gazing round,—
Some freak—some fancy, seized his mind—
To him, straightforth, 'twas then resigned!—
Part of their Cossack chiefs, indeed,
(Each wilder than his own wild steed!)
That vanity to fan and feed,
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While feigned they,—wondering, to adore!
Believed he well, these ne'er would take
Fresh arms 'gainst France—for his proud sake;—
'Twas said, a dream he entertained—
Which soberer judgment, had disdained,
King of the Cossacks, to become,—
(Creation wild, of Fancy's loom!)
And stamp even thus, proud Russia's doom!—
XXXII.
Napoleon nought of this believed,Napoleon, scarce might be deceived!
Soon he complained, in bitter tone—
Where deep, deep discontent, was shewn—
Of the endless warfare, he complained,
By hovering partizans maintained;
He knew and felt, his much-wronged Foe,
Still harassed and oppressed him so—
Despite all outward, peaceful show!
He knew and felt, that thus he bore,
Disastrous harm,—and injury sore;
Pacific demonstrations, vain,
Concealed of ills, a mighty train!
While countless Cossacks, did appear—
Still prowling on his flanks and rear,—
Even some Dragoons, of his Old Guard
Had been surprised—when unprepared,—
And chased by them—chased hot and hard!—
649
Were challenged by that savage crowd,—
By those Barbarians, wild and rude,
In their audacious hardihood!
And this took place, but two brief days—
(Strange, wondering, varying doubts to raise;)
After that Armistice was signed,
Which little seemed, such hands to bind,
'Twas on Mojaisk's highroad beside—
(On his own line—extended wide,—
Of operations)—these defied,
His high puissance and his pride!—
That road, by which his hosts alone,
Carrying communications on,
With their fresh aids—their magazines—
Their reinforcements—men, and means,—
Could keep up th' intercourse, which still
Must stablish hope, and ward off ill;
That road by which himself, too, held,
Communion with broad Europe's Field!—
XXXIII.
His harassed troops,—still, day by day,—Were forced to track, their wearying way,
To find provisions, for the need,
Of famished man, and starving steed,—
And ofttimes, from their painful quest,
Horsemen, and horses, sore distressed,
Came, sharply needing, ease and rest,
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Soon doomed to tread, once more that ground;—
While some, returned not thence, at all,
In skirmish rude, condemned, to fall;
Since, still hard fight, must they maintain
For each scant treasure, they would gain;—
And still, each bushel-load of rye,
Must they dispute with the enemy;
For every truss of forage, fight,
Exhausting so, their o'ertasked might;—
And strive, with long and desperate strife,
For scantiest means to cherish life;
Whilst evermore the evil grew,
To wilder heights—with threatenings new!—
Surprise succeeded to surprise,
Skirmish from skirmish—seemed to rise,—
And struggle after struggle, shook
Their strength, whom failing hope forsook!—
The outwearied frame, o'ertaxed,—gave way,
Beneath the pressure of dismay,—
The energies but ill endured,
No brighter prospects reassured!—
While ceaseless watch all peace denied—
And Wrath scowled dark from every side!—
XXXIV.
The peasant-herds, with dogged hate,In ambushment, would watch and wait,
And seize on stragglers, and destroy,
With fury of malignant joy;—
651
Who proffered food, unto their foes—
Who sought for gain, their aid to give,
And helped those hated hordes, to live;
While some, their Villages burned down,—
Their Homes—their All,—they called their own,—
To drive those foragers from out
Their much-loved haunts—chase,—check and rout,
And yield them to the Cossacks wild,
Who pitilessly scathed, and spoiled,—
Who kept them in a state of siege,
And barred them every privilege;
Well played those patriot hordes their part,
With zeal's indomitable heart;
For aye, found watchful to annoy,
To scathe, to injure, and destroy;—
Seized Vérréia, too, these patriots good—
Fair town, in Moscow's neighbourhood!
A Priest assembled these—and armed;—
(Glad hundreds, round his banners swarmed,)
He led them on, and marshalled well,
They hailed the watchword, and the spell!
“Strike home!—for Russia!—Death to France!”
And loud they urged him, to advance;
Some few scant troops, he gained,—then spread,
Confusion round,—and doubt—and dread;
Ere Day, had chased Night's shadows black,
The signal of a false attack,
On one side, caused he, to be given,—
And when his artful plan, had thriven,—
652
He made his bold assault and free,
Attacked—well covered by the shades,
The Foeman's warlike palisades,
Destroyed them—entered, swift, the town—
Where all, was in disorder thrown;
And well his way, triumphant, won,
Straight slaughtering Gaul's whole Garrison!
XXXV.
Thus the endless War frowned every where!—'Twas on their Front!—Flanks!—in their Rear;
Their Flanks,—their Front,—their Rear must feel,
The sharpness good, of Russian steel;
As still, their Hosts more weak did grow,
More enterprising grew their Foe!
Murat himself,—that soul of flame!—
Staggered and vexed, at length became;
And he—even He,—in dubious mood,
Surprised by hesitation, stood!—
He saw with sorrow, day by day,
His 'minished numbers, melt away;
The Russians, at the advanced posts still,
Exaggerated even the ill!
When meeting there, with Chiefs of France,
They breathed but threatenings, and mischance;
They prophesied but coil and care,
And wrack, and ruin, and despair;—
They shewed them, countless savage steeds,
Of different climes,—of various breeds,—
653
As in their native forestry;
With streaming, long, tempestuous manes,
That swept to clouds of dust the Plains!—
Fast sweeping all the Plains around
To clouds of dust,—where'er they bound!
XXXVI.
The Russians pointed out with pride,These coursers rude, and those who ride;—
“Behold!”—they cried, “from scenes afar,
What myriads come, to swell our war!
From our vast Empire's verge extreme,
They pour, in one unceasing stream!
From the old Caucasian Hills of pride—
From China's frontiers—far and wide,—
They crowd—they speed—they breathless come—
Like eager travellers, hurrying home;
For still their home is Russia's heart—
Still crowd they there, from every part,
To serve, deliver, and defend—
Or with her dust, their dust to blend!”
And true it was, that evermore,
Fresh myriads spread, their eyes before,—
From hills remote—from distant shore—
Fresh legions, did untiring pour!
Thousands on thousands, gathering fast,
Joined Russia's gallant hosts and vast!
Though long their journeyings—rough their way,—
True to the place,—the point,—were they!
654
Displaying high enthusiast cheer;
To join their Country's ranks, they rushed,
With fury fired—with ardour flushed!
The national appeal and call—
Heard—echoed—answered—blessed by all—
On no unkindled sense might fall!
XXXVII.
And loudly rang that proud appeal,To wake a boundless burst of zeal,
They heard that mighty voice which cried,
“Up!—heart-leagued Nations! in your pride!—
Arm!—Russians!—'gainst the Invaders, stand!—
Arm!—Russia needs each red right hand!—
Arm!—ward away the hostile brand!—
Arm!—let the Leaguerers heap the Land,
With ruin's worst—as well they planned!—
With ruin's worst, shall this be strown,
But let it,—let it, be—their own!—
Mountains of Death, they yet shall rear,
Which, but our trophies shall appear;
The boastful Foe, who came to blast,
Shall kiss the dust, he stained, at last!
Thy dust, Oh! Russia!—which his tread
So stained—he shall but honour—dead!
Aye!—living seemed he, to debase,
But his pale Corse shall bless and grace!
The Conquered Conquerors fail!—They fall!—
They feel a new and crushing thrall;—
655
They yet shall faulter—yet shall sink!—
Then Forward!—To the Field!—Advance!—
Arm!—Arm!—and seal the Fate of France!
XXXVIII.
“March!—Muscovy the Mighty calls,March!—many a much-loved brother falls;
March!—Chiefs are bearded in their halls—
March!—March!—'venge Moscow's smouldering walls!
Down with their hellish schemes to dust,—
Defy their power!—o'erthrow their trust—
Haste!—meet your Foes!—and meet them even—
As they met Hell,—who charged from Heaven!—
The living world, shall start and rock,
To that unearthly thunder-shock!
Then March!—and leave, where Vengeance glows,
But heaps of dust—for hosts of foes!
March!—let the Earth be glad and free;—
March!—March!—and Victory go with ye!
She sits upon your swords—and waves
Her banners o'er their opening graves!—
As burning Moscow reared on high
Her Solar Standards, to the sky,
Those Solar Standards, wild and free,
Of Fire's most regal revelry!
When throned on flames—she challenged all!—
Towering and glorying to—her Fall!”—
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XXXIX.
All Russia rose!—majestic rose!—To hurl defiance 'gainst her foes!
Each Russian mother, wept for joy,
O'er her beloved, and blooming boy,—
When heard she, with a brave delight,
That he was claimed—and called to fight;
That he, fair flower of all her Life,
Selected stood—for Storm and Strife!
She welcomed, even with joy intense,
That glorious, fair intelligence;
His parting steps, accompanied,
With mantling hope, and mounting pride;
And with him trembling, gladdening, went,
In triumph's pleased bewilderment,
To see him with the Cross divine,
Signed,—the Crusader's hallowed sign!
And hear him,—as he grasped his sword,
Shout forth,—“It is thy will!—Oh! Lord!”—
XL.
Then added they,—“A fresh ally,Comes soon to join us!—Fly!—Oh!—Fly!
Behold!—we shew ye countless hordes,
Vast tribes, led on by warlike lords,
Hundreds of thousands,—hurrying here,
To nerve their Country's heart and cheer;
Yet soon shall come to work our will,
A more Tremendous Warrior still!
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A more resistless Chief by far,
Our Winter!—Warrior, dread and dire—
Whose frosts, shall rival Moscow's fire!—
XLI.
“Our mighty Winter comes to blast—To blight you—and to crush at last!
Pass but one fortnight more,—and Lo!
Life in your veins, shall fail to glow!
Your nails, shall then drop off—your blood,
Stand still—a fettered frozen flood!
Your stiffening hair shall stand erect,
Your faultering footsteps shall be checked;
Half dead, shall ye in anguish bend,
Ere Death, come pitying to befriend!”
XLII.
The Cossack Chiefs, too, loudly cried,With triumph stern, none sought to hide—
“What!—in your own neglected Land—
(Tell us!—that we may understand!—)
Had ye not corn enough?—declare!—
Enough of Earth—enough of Air;
Enough of Homes—Graves—Water—Sky,—
Even room enough, to live, and die?—
That thus ye speed, so far from home,
To seek but torture,—and the tomb?
To fatten thus—for all your toil—
With your shed blood, a foreign soil?
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To feed the cold earth—far away?
The Stranger's Country so to bless,
With wealth of fertile store's excess!”—
XLIII.
Then added they, with smile of scorn,“Ye rob the Land, where ye were born!
That should ye cultivate—defend,
Bless and embellish, to the end;
To that,—when Death must o'er ye sway,
Ye owe the tribute of your clay—
Its gifts of goodness, to repay!
From that,—your bodies, all were ta'en,
To that,—should these be given again!
It nourished them in life—then learn,
Dead,—they should nourish it in turn!”
| The Maiden of Moscow | |