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. |
| XVIII. | CANTO XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
 | The Maiden of Moscow |  |
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CANTO XVIII.
I.
Napoleon—stern, and sadly grave,—Ere long, his strict commandment gave,
To strip the Kremlin's churches fair,
Of all the treasures, glittering there,—
From vane to vault,—from crest to crypt,—
Those proud Cathedrals, shall be stripped;
For all, that might as trophies seem,
Should gild their Army's Victory-dream,—
And o'er their Host's large Triumph beam!
And thus, those sacred spoils, were torn
From their proud Domes,—defaced, and shorn;
Rich spoils! of pride and pomp untold,
Emblazed with gems—and rough with gold;
These he declared,—abandoned all,—
To him, by right, did surely fall;
The Conquerors, thus, had double right,
To seize upon those treasures bright!
First Victory's claim—and more than this,—
The abandonment, proclaimed them his!
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That mighty Cross, which towered above
The Steeple proud,—and fair, and fine,—
Of the great Ivan's Tower and Shrine!
The Russians deemed, were close attached,
Even to this Giant Cross, unmatched,
The Empire's salvation,—glory,—All;—
With this, they feared,—should Russia, fall!
II.
Napoleon was resolved to bear,This sacred Trophy, proud and rare,
To shine, o'er some transcendant Dome,
Hard by his own Imperial Home!
While still, they strove, with toil profound,
In clouds, flapped Ravens,—fluttering round;—
With hoarse, harsh voices, croaking still,
As they would prophesy of Ill!
III.
Tormented with that wearying sound,Which struck the ear, to pierce and wound,—
Sore chafed, by that distracting din,
And pained, by promptings dark within,—
Napoleon in impatient mood,
Exclaimed to those, who round him stood,—
“'Twould seem as though, these flocks obscene,
Of dark, ill-omened birds would mean,
To guard this cross, unawed and bold,
And snatch it, from the Conquerors' hold!”
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Across his mind, might hurrying glance;
For still that mind, was ofttimes vexed,
By dreams, that darkened and perplexed!
IV.
A brilliant Sun, made glad and bright,His daily paths, with roseate light;
He strove, in that auspicious blaze,
To recognize his Star's loved rays;
In that, to recognize elate,
The Angel-Guardian of his Fate!
For surely, 'midst those conscious beams,
Its smile of loving splendour streams!
To others, too, at times he sought,
To teach a like consoling thought!
But all was vain—a settled cloud,
Still round him, wrapped its gloomy shroud,
Drear Moscow's sullen silence deep,
The hush of Death's dull frozen sleep—
That silence, yet more stern and chill,
Preserved by Alexander still!—
(A threatening silence,—dread and dire,
Which well might thousand doubts inspire!)
Sore, on his sickening spirit weighed,
Deep, on his loaded bosom, preyed!
V.
'Twas not the faint and hollow sound,Of steps, which woke dull echoes round—
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'Midst that dim sepulchre and vast—
That now, could rouse him—soothe—or cheer,—
Past—Future—All,—seemed changed and drear!
He felt his conquest, was a name,
A breath—a shadow—and a dream,—
The plains, he left, behind him, stretched
No more were his,—than those unreached!
VI.
He was but master of the groundOn which he stood,—a narrow bound!—
Moscow, he felt, 'twere well to leave—
But where to turn?—what plans to weave?—
What next to compass, or to claim?—
And what to seek of power or fame?
From Moscow he must march!—but say!
What Hope,—what Promise,—lights his way?
Long time, 'twould need him, to prepare—
Could he desert his wounded there?
And let the armed Cossacks, howl their hate,
With triumph, o'er the desolate?
His sick,—his stragglers,—seize,—destroy,—
With drunkenness of desperate joy!
And with exultant mockery smite,
The reliques of the Conqueror's Might?
VII.
'Twould seem, in midst of victory,He chose to fall,—and stooped to fly,
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And blank, leave History's mightiest page!
All Europe would pronounce it thus,—
With judgment, harsh and rigorous;—
Europe! that envied him—that sought,
With zeal of dark indignant thought,
By deep oppression, urged and taught,—
To find some Rival of his Reign,
The while she gnawed, his festering chain!
Some Rival, under whom at last,
Rallying,—she might revenge the past;—
Europe!—that then, would doubtless deem,
This Rival—(the idol of her dream!—)
In Alexander's person rose,
To bid her Tyrant's triumphs close;
He felt, he ruled, as by a spell,
He must be thought, the Infallible!—
Should He then give that blow—the first!
Which straight, should bid the bubble burst?—
Which must, his moral death-blow prove,—
And fond Illusion's charm remove?
Thus leaving, Earth, amazed, to see—
How false, the Infallibility!—
VIII.
“No!—No!” he cried, “whate'er may chance—Let me be true to Fame—and France!
Through me—in me—shall France ne'er fall,—
And mine shall be, no Fame—or all!—
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This heart shall bound, to meet its doom,—
Whate'er may come,—whate'er may chance,—
For Me—for Mine—for Earth—for France!—
I still will stand, unchanged, unchecked,
Though all beside, be lost and wrecked.
And shall I shrink?—and shall I yield?—
And flee, like cowards, from the Field!
No!—I will be,—come weal,—come woe,
Napoleon still,—or Nothing!—NO!”—
IX.
From one step backward in his fate,What wars,—what woes,—what wrongs should date!—
And still alternately im pelled,—
Urged forward still—then backward held,—
By all that can dissuade—decide,—
Sore racked, 'twixt policy and pride,
And torturing hope—and wildering fear—
With nought to stablish—nought to cheer,—
On those chill ashes, he remained,
As by strong Destiny enchained!
X.
Men, well might such position call,Beneath all aspects—critical!—
Close-judged, beneath a warlike view,
And weighed politically, too;
In every phase,—at every point,—
Their dread emprize seemed out of joint;
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Constrained by iron Destiny!
So complicated, each with each,
Scarce Thought, their fearful depths, could reach;—
So complicated, seemed they, still—
To scan them, asked no common skill!
A dread position and a dire
Was his—who ceased not to aspire;—
None e'er existed yet—since Fate,
First Empires ruled,—first made them great,—
So delicately desperate!
And scarce might that high-soaring mind,
Which ne'er had yet, an aim resigned,
So glorious made, through all past time,
By swerveless constancy, sublime;—
Scarce now might that—so fixed—so firm—
To brunt all fortune to its term,—
Its unaccomplished, dear intent,
At once,—to thrust aside, consent;
Scarce,—scarce,—might he—so staunch,—so strong,—
Through good—through ill!—through right or wrong!—
Renounce at once his hope—his scheme,—
His proud design,—his cherished dream!—
That lure, which still, had drawn him on,
Since from Witepsk, his way he won!—
XI.
'Vails not to strive his doubts to tell,—'Vails nought, on various plans to dwell,
Days rolled away!—The first snows fell!
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The illusions, fluttering, round his heart,
Retreat!—Retreat!—thenceforward, filled,
His thoughts subdued, and checked, and stilled;—
Retreat!—nought else!—Retreat, alone,—
The doom's dread truth is stamped and shewn;
Ere long, his mind elastic rose,
With giant obstacles to close;
To staunch Daru he soon confessed,
Those crowding thoughts that shook his breast;—
The trials and the troubles sore,
That pierced his heart's impatient core;—
His Doubts—Hopes—Griefs—not Fears—for still,
Proud faith, he placed, in his proud will!
XII.
Now would he march, at once, he cried,Since needful, seemed it to decide,
March,—march,—on Koutousoff!—in haste!—
And crush, or drive him back, at last;—
Then toward Smolensk, turn suddenly,—
(When thus, he made the Russian flee;—)
“Too late!”—Daru replied,—“too late!
Too flourishing, their army's state,
'Twould be to tempt the gloomiest fate!”—
And then, he strove to paint aright,
Their harrowing and disheartening plight;
And urged, the hope was desperate, so
To check, or to surprise, the Foe!
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Strengthened—might force superior boast!—
Adduced he, further reasons, too,
And sought to change, the Emperor's view!—
XIII.
“Then—Say!—what must be dared and done?”—Broke forth in haste, Napoleon!
The Monarch asked, with brow flushed high,
“What choice—what course were best?—Reply!
What must we do?—Remain! or—Fly!”—
“Remain!”—Daru this counsel gave,
“Remain—unmoved!—stay!—staunchly brave!
Of this huge Moscow, wide and drear,
With stout resolve, with solemn cheer,
Make one strong camp entrenched!—Stay here!—
Make this fallen Moscow—fallen in vain!—
One mighty camp entrenched!—Remain!
Here pass the winter!—Salt and bread,
Shall fail us not,—thus feel no dread!—
The rest, shall foraging supply,
Contrived, and ordered skilfully;
Such horses, as we scarce can feed—
Shall, salted down, well serve our need,—
For lodgings—houses are but few:—
And these are spoiled and injured too,
Scarce warranted, to stand secure;—
'Gainst wind and tempest,—little sure!
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Shall cellars fairly serve instead;
Here—here, till Spring's commencement stay!—
Here let us dwell as best we may!—
Our reinforcements, then, shall fast,
Increase our strength—repair our waste;—
All Lithuania, then, in arms,
Shall rise to join, our mustered swarms;
Rise, to relieve, assist, and aid,
Complete, our conquest shall be made!
Our glorious work, shall shine complete—
And Russia,—fling her, at our feet!”
XIV.
Brief while, in silent, thoughtful mood,The mighty Monarch,—pondering stood,
Then loud, burst forth his answer—“No!—
It cannot—must not—now, be so!
Yet, 'tis a Lion's counsel, this,
And noble, too, and fair it is!
A gallant counsel!—Bold and high!—
Which both can prize!—Both!—Thou and I!
But,—six long months, away from France;—
My presence, needful there, perchance;—
Austria and Prussia haply, too,
Both ripe to seize the advantage new,
It must not be!—my brave Daru!
This must not be!—I feel!—not so!—
A Lion's counsel 'tis!—yet—No!”—
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To strife and tempests, gathering, frowned,
While still, he struggled to repress,
Vain signs of the inward restlessness!—
XV.
At times, he would, exulting, cry,“Ere long, shall quail our enemy!
Millions,—through Fate's untoward commands,
'Tis true, have slipped through our baulked hands;
'Tis true,—this war hath Millions, cost,
Thousands of Millions He hath lost!—
Since Russia's commerce, is destroyed,—
Her efforts paralyzed—made void,—
Aye, for a Century yet to come,
'Tis She hath found, an adverse doom!—
One hundred years, at least, thrown back,
She treads a swift-declining track;
Results important, this must have,—
The Russians yet, for Peace shall crave,
When this first glow, they cease to feel,
Of popular, intemperate zeal;—
When all the enthusiastic burst,
So fervent, and so deep, at first,
Shall die—as o'erwrought feeling dies,—
These stern reflections, then shall rise!
With consternation, grave, to fill,
And all this soaring scorn to chill;
So violent a shock and change—
Abrupt and dangerous—dark and strange,—
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Beyond all grasp of reasoning skill,
Convulsing Alexander's Throne,
Shall leave him weak, and lorn, and lone,
Till driven to bid this warfare cease—
At last, himself, must sue for Peace!”—
XVI.
Bold Koutousoff, unceasing sought,To cheer his hosts—neglecting nought,
That might inflame their patriot thought,—
The echoes of their camp rang loud,
With Salamanca's Victory proud!
“Russians!—Rejoice!”—he cried, “Rejoice!”
And Victory lent him all Her voice,
“The French are from Madrid expelled—
Success, is from their arms, withheld,—
Their hope is tamed,—their pride is quelled,—
The hand of Him, who reigns on high,
Leans on Napoleon heavily!
Full heavily, on him, it weighs,
Who vainly now, his might arrays;
As from Madrid,—from Moscow driven,
The French shall rue, the wrath of Heaven!
The wrath of Heaven and Earth, shall rue—
Crushed in free'd Spain—free Russia, too!
Or Moscow shall his dungeon prove,
Who fain the World would melt or move!—
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Of all his Host—whose darkest doom,
Shall be to share his spirit's gloom;
To share his long remorse, and deep,
Ere yet they share his final sleep!—
Courage!—for Earth's and Heaven's high sake,
Soon France, shall We, in Russia, take!
Take France in Russia's heart!—and shew,
The world, the weakness of Its Foe!”
XVII.
Murat's illusive dream was o'er—The charm dispelled—the hope no more;—
When, at the advanced posts he appeared,
Soon after these haught words were heard,
A Cossack Chief, with hate inspired,
At him,—the gallant Monarch!—fired;
Enraged, Murat pronounced, in haste,
That the Armistice, was o'er and past—
For aye, thus violated still,
On their side, as with hostile will,
No more should this exist—'twas done;—
Let each,—thenceforward,—guard his own!
Napoleon, through those darkening hours,
Stood, rallying, round him, fast, his powers;—
The glorious legions of his might,
He rallied round him, there, aright,
'Midst preparations, proud and high,
Those hours passed on, full hurryingly!
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XVIII.
Accompanied in martial sort,In the olden Kremlin's first great court,—
He stood attentive, to review,
Ney's brave divisions, tried and true!
Spread—circulated fast around,
Strange hints, that touched, with thrill profound;—
Quick ears had caught, the Cannons' sound!
'Twas towards Vinnkowo,—it seemed to be,
That sound, was pealing angrily;
Approaching now, the Sovereign Lord,
Duroc, straight whispered him, the word,—
He started—glared full sternly round;—
One moment clenched his hand, and frowned;
Then fixed in self-command, once more,
His task continued, as before!
Arrived young Beranger ere long,
With tales disastrous, on his tongue;
And this, the intelligence he brought—
A furious conflict, had been fought!
Murat's First Line, had been surprised—
So well, their Foe had enterprised—
With wary movements, well-advised;
And added he,—in faultering tone,
The staggered Troops, had been o'erthrown!
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XIX.
His Left was turned by favour, too,Of skreening woods hard by, that threw,
Their shades—impervious to the view;
His flank attacked—with furious force,
Nought checked, their Foes' resistless course!
And—while, raged far, that Combat's heat,
Cut,—sternly off,—was His Retreat;
Two Chieftains high,—of strength and state,—
On that red Field had found their fate;
Two Chieftains high had found their doom,
And sunk in Glory's weltering tomb!
Cannon were taken, too;—withal,—
Were thousands there, condemned to fall!
Vast stores of ammunition lost—
Impoverished, shrank, the Gallic Host;
And lastly, on that fatal ground,
The King, himself,—had borne a wound!
The Advanced Guard's relics faint, at last,
He rescued from destruction vast—
But through tremendous charges still—
Renewed, with stern and stubborn will,
'Gainst countless troops, that well defied,—
Which then the highroad occupied;—
(That highroad in his rear!—sole way,
For their Retreat, on that dire day!)
XX.
Yet, the French honour, well was saved—The opponents they had stoutly braved;—
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Well, Poniatowski, fired the fight,—
A proud, and long resistance made,
And gallant force, and skill displayed!
With supernatural strength and zeal,
Murat's brave horsemen,—walls of steel,—
Had made the Russ their prowess feel!
And checked bold Bagawout—whose aim
(Which thus, 'twas their's, to turn and tame—
While, like a tempest, on he came!)—
Was still, to penetrate and pierce,
The French left flank, with onset fierce!
Maubourg and Claparéde, meanwhile,
Had cleared Spas-Kaaplia's strict defile,—
Two leagues, in rear of France's line,
Where hostile arms, were seen to shine,—
Since occupied by Platoff, 'twas;
This difficult and dangerous pass!
The Russians, too, dire loss sustained,
Even while the day, by them, was gained!
They, too, among their fallen, might count,
Brave Generals, known too Battle's front;
And crowds of wounded,—heaps of slain,—
On their side, crimsoned to the Plain;
But yet the attack's advantage all,—
The Victory to their lot did fall!
XXI.
Napoleon stood, indignant now,A world of passions, fired his brow—
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Burst, on each wondering listener's ear!
Burst from his teeming, working brain,
Not one confused—not one in vain!
A thousand orders,—fair and free,—
Linked with surprising harmony;
Which no perplexity might mar—
Both general and particular!
As spheres, in separate orbits run,
To serve the same bright Sovereign Sun,
The clear Commandments, issuing came,
To wait on one transcendent aim!
Though differing all, in drift and kind,
So burst they, from that master-mind!
The Hosts were all, in motion seen,
Ere reigned the solemn night, serene;
For Worodownow, marched they on,
Their arms, through thickening twilight, shone!
XXII.
Broussier was towards Fomminskoë sent,Straight there, his punctual steps, were bent;
Brave Poniatowski's troops, must win,
That road, which leadeth to Medyn;—
Before the dawn's enkindling hours,
Napoleon left, fallen Moscow's towers!
He turned him, from Her wrecks forlorn,
With something, of a joyous scorn;
“Straight on Kalouga, let us march!”
He cried,—clear spread his brow's proud arch;
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Heaven dooms, to meet me, on my way!”
Announced he, his intention now,
Still, with the same clear, cloudless brow—
Where none, might doubt, or grief discern,
Towards Poland's frontiers to return;
And by Kalouga thus to pass—
Through Medyn lead his warlike mass,
Through Youknow,—Ellnia,—too, and then,
To halt at towered Smolensk again!
XXIII.
Behold that column vast and long,One hundred, and some thousands, strong;
With fifty thousand steeds, that make,
The ground beneath them, groan and quake;
With near six hundred cannons, too,—
While countless banners, o'er them flew!
Two thousand waggons, might there be,
Withal, of dread artillery;—
A proud and overpowering show,
They still present sublimely, so!
Worthy of warriors, that had made,
The World their prize—in might arrayed!
But after these, what strikes the view?—
A shapeless crowd—a countless crew;—
Like some huge horde, of Tartars wild,
On whom, a rude success hath smiled!
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Back pouring, in abrupt return!
Vast files, of endless length, appeared—
Their choaked-up course, with pain, they steered;—
Confused and heaped—and mixed—and blent,—
In boundless, strange bewilderment!
XXIV.
Cars—chariots—sledges—tumbrils—wains,—Darkened and shook the far-stretched plains;
Some, loaded with adornments fair,
Looked strange, and little suited there!
These, had to owners, rich and great,
Belonged, ere Moscow's days of fate;
Here, dazzling trophies, were upreared,
Proud Persian standards, there appeared!—
And sumptuous Turkish banners old,
Stiffened with 'broideries thick, and gold!
Here Russian colours, gleamed displayed
(That in such hands, should pale and fade!)
And many a glorious prize and spoil,
Rich guerdon of the Victor's toil—
Then towered great Ivan's giant Cross,
To Moscow's endless loss—a loss!
And here, long-bearded Russians bowed,
'Midst that deep, dense, tumultuous crowd;
Their brows still scowled, with smothered ire,
And flashed their eyes,—dark funeral fire!
Prisoners ill-starred!—condemned were they,—
To bear their Conqueror's spoils away!—
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And sufferings of eight hundred leagues?—
Dreamed they that e'er, their France should see,
Those spoils of dubious Victory?
XXV.
Thousands of followers—throng on throng,—Sped, hurrying in the rear along;
A mixed, and mighty multitude,
Their tedious, endless way pursued;
All tongues,—all nations,—gathered there—
Together blent,—vexed earth and air;—
Uncounted tribes, did onwards fare!
Myriads of followers—servants—slaves—
Swept on, in ever-lengthening waves;
Light cars—by pigmy horses dragged—
(That oft o'er-goaded, failing flagged;—)
Fast urged they, on their forward way,
For these, did stores, and food convey!
Women and children, too, were seen,
With anxious air, and pallid mien,
Pressed 'mongst the assemblage, deep and vast,
That there was gathered and amassed;
In sooth,—'twas like some thronging horde,
In strange disorder onwards poured,
It seemed some mighty caravan—
Some Nation, formed in one huge clan,—
Weighed down with wealth—o'erwhelmed with spoil,—
Whose every movement was a toil!
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XXVI.
Napoleon scarce could passage gain,Through this enormous throng and train,
Some hours, along the old road, he sped—
The old road, that towards Kalouga led;—
Then suddenly, at mid-day's hour—
Near Kraznoparchra's castled tower,—
He, with his army's mustered might,
Turned,—having halted,—to the right;
And then, with hurried marches three,
The new road gained, successfully.
XXVII.
Yet fell a heavy rain, the while,The ill-formed and deep cross-roads to spoil—
This chance, constrained him there, to halt;—
Yet failed, to leave his plans at fault—
Though, sooth, the untoward delay,—but ill
Accorded with his need and will;—
The cannon, sunk in sloughs and mire,
Were slow withdrawn, with labours dire;
Yet thus, had masked Napoleon well—
His movement indiscernible!
By Ney's fair corps—the brave and free—
And wreck of Murat's cavalry!
(For this at Worodownow stayed,
And near the Motscha had delayed,)
The Russians,—foiled by such apt skill,—
Watched for the French Grand Army still,
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A frame, inspired by one great soul,
Thus, to the new one, was transferred,
By its Commander's lightning word!—
And had but One more step to take—
Had but One forward march to make,—
To pass them by,—placed well between
Their Armies—and Kalouga's scene!—
XXVIII.
The Emperor's quarters for the night,Were at Borowsk,—he strained his sight
To mark that ground,—while waned the light,—
Which yet might prove, a Field of Fight!
Soon tidings came of happy chance,
Befallen, to flush the hopes of France;—
Delzons,—some four leagues in advance
Malo-Yaroszlawetz had found,
With its commanding woods around;
By their dread foes unoccupied,
Within his reach,—right strong beside,
And the only point, where Russia's force,
Could cut off Gaul's successful course!
XXIX.
Strange!—Russia had not 'stablished thereHer marshalled myriads, fresh and fair,
Since thus, 'twas the only point, where they,
Could thwart the French, upon their way—
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And hasten their defeat, and fall!
These tidings—fraught with hope and cheer—
Fell gladly on Napoleon's ear!—
XXX.
He turned him, from Borowsk, next day,And onward took his martial way!—
His deepest soul, that stirred and wrought,
Seemed buried in profoundest thought;
What sounds surprised his startled ear?
Some growing battle doth he hear!
It is—'tis,—'tis,—the cannons' sound!—
With eager glance far gazed he round;
Then hastening sought an Eminence—
And listening stood, and looked from thence;—
XXXI.
What!—had indeed the watchful FoeHis aim anticipated so?
And thus his scheme, of craft and art—
Had Russia's generals, learned to thwart?—
Had he not used sufficient speed
To serve his purpose—hope, and need?
To pass the Foe's left flank—and still
O'erreach him by superior skill?—
His troops had been o'erladen, true,
With pillage and provision, too,
And marshy ground, had they passed through;
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That yet might all his hopes betray!
XXXII.
He listened—No!—it had not ceased;—Nay!—fast those awful sounds increased!—
“Is't then—A Battle?”—he exclaimed,
His mien was changed,—his brow inflamed,—
Davoust, he urged with word and glance,
Fiery and fervent, to advance;—
While fast he sped with anxious air—
He burns—he maddens—to be there!—
XXXIII.
In vain!—they reached the Battle-fieldWhen that day's destiny, was sealed;—
They reached the stage of strife too late,
To influence, or to change its fate;
Napoleon saw that Battle's end—
Nor might his faithful troops befriend;—
And soon a messenger hath sought
The Sovereign's side—who tidings brought,
Of how the conflict, had been fought!—
Long time that Mighty Sovereign stood,
And hearkening, hailed the tale of blood;
XXXIV.
When Koutousoff the truth had learned,'Gainst Gaul's dread Chief, his scheme he turned,
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Whose steps straightforth, were southward bent;—
These must outmarch the French,—must try,
Yaroszlawetz to occupy—
Or if already, this was ta'en,
They then must struggle to regain!
Stout desperate efforts, they must make,
That strong position to retake!
His camp at Taronntino then,
He straight broke up—and marched again;—
Marched,—with his whole vast army on,
By Lecctatzowow's road—and won
His way so rapidly—that he
Outstripped the Foeman gallantly!
And interposed himself once more,
As he had fairly done before—
Betwixt Kalouga and that Foe—
Whose movements seemed too slack and slow!—
XXXV.
Built on a bold and rugged steep,Whose base, is washed by Louja deep,
(That murmureth in its liquid sleep,
While there its waves all sparkling sweep;—)
'Midst broken, pointed cliffs, the town
Doth, from rude seat, imposing frown;—
Upon the river's northern side—
A narrow plain, the eye descried,—
A Plain of strict and straightened bounds,
And 'twas along its measured grounds,
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That Delzons' troops, now bivouacked,
Were two battalions placed to guard
That town—and keep themselves prepared,—
(Watching the hostile movements still)
Lest dark mischance, should work them ill!
Their Sentinels, kept careless watch—
Well did the Foe, the occasion snatch!—
At earliest morn, when senseless sleep,
Wrapped all, in clouds of stillness deep,
The Russians burst into the place—
Scattering confusion round, apace!
With hideous outcries, fierce and long,
They flung themselves, the French among;—
Like Demons from the Darkness, they,
Rushed forth, and burst upon their prey;
With fierce tremendous shouts, of wrath—
They rushed upon their fearful path!
Drove the battalions from the town—
Pushed towards the cliffs,—and hurled them down!—
XXXIV.
Cannon the Russians there had brought,And wildly, desperately, they fought,
The roar aroused the brave Eugene—
Instant, he hastened to the scene!—
As he approached, with hurrying tread,
An Amphitheatre seemed spread
Before him—terrible and dread;—
685
Thousands of troops, its banks dispute;—
Behind them—from the summits high
Of many a sharp declivity,—
The advanced guards of the Russians, still
Poured down their fire, with zeal and skill,
Poured down their close and raking fire,
With quick precision—dread and dire,
On Delzons' troops, those heights beneath,
Ill-fenced from shattering storms of death;
Beyond,—on the elevated ground,
Where hundreds gazed, with gloom profound,—
Beyond,—on the elevated plain,
See Koutousoff's whole army gain
Swift ground,—still struggling on amain!—
A countless and o'erwhelming force,—
Fast, fast, they speed along their course!—
XXXVII.
They come in long black columns twain,All terrors thundering in their train,
By two broad separate roads, that lead
From Lecctatzowow—on they speed!
Soon they entrenched themselves in strength—
Along a line,—some half-league's length;—
Now Delzons' post was desperate found,
Upon the exposed low line of ground,
Poured ruin from these deadly slopes
On him—and his devoted troops;—
686
Or bold attack—and instantly!
Eugene gave orders for the attack!
Now let them drive the assailants back;
When, by a narrow bridge, and slight,
Ye cross the Louja's currents bright,—
Kalouga's great highroad is seen—
Following the course of yon ravine,
Which towards Yaroszlawetz ascends—
Then with the town's close streets, it blends;
The Russians, occupied in mass—
This sunken way—this hollow pass;—
XXXVIII.
But Delzons, and his followers brave,Rushed, like some furious, headlong wave,
Down on those Russian troops,—o'erthrown,—
While proved the triumph, all their own!
The Foe gave way—from each proud height—
The bayonets of France gleamed bright;—
Delzons conceived the victory won,
To storm the buildings, rushed he on—
His soldiers paused a moment brief,
Fatal that moment, to their Chief!
Struck,—lies he stretched upon the ground,
His Brother sprang, with desperate bound—
And clasped his bleeding body round!
He skreened—supported him—and strove
That senseless sufferer to remove,
687
But no!—himself was doomed!—that day!—
Himself a murderous ball doth slay!—
Honoured in life—in death admired—
The Brothers close-embraced expired!—
XXXIX.
Staunch Guilleminot succeeded then,To Delzons (who thus lived again!—)
And roused the saddened, wavering men;
Boots not to tell how often still,
Plumed Victory, as with varying will,
Fluttering—her favours did divide—
And hovering, changed, from side to side—
Five times, the place was won and lost,
So keenly struggled either Host!
XL.
Now on the heights the combat raged—Fresh Russians still that combat waged—
Fresh swarms of Russians!—pouring down—
From where their gathered armies frown!
At length the thinned ranks of the French—
Cut down—hemmed in—'gan slow to blench—
They pause—doubt—waver—turn—and bend—
Then, driven and urged amain,—descend!
Precipitately, now they press
Down the bold steep's stern ruggedness!—
688
XLI.
Meanwhile the shells—confusion dire!—The town behind them,—set on fire;
The flames,—in this, their mortal need,
Obstructed still, and checked their speed;—
To pitch of phrenzied passion, wrought—
The Russians, fierce as maniacs, fought;—
Till roused once more, the French stood still,
To meet them, with unvanquished will;
Then, there they made their desperate stand,—
There fought they stoutly,—hand to hand,
Fought,—front to front—and foot to foot,—
That ground, by inches,—to dispute;
There savagely, they struggling stood,
Till Earth, grew slippery, with their blood;
The infuriate foes, there maddening met,
(As Fate on that one die was set—
As they would shake the huge World yet!—)
Like tigers glaring and enraged,
Together tortured, chained and caged,—
With thirst for vengeance, unassuaged,
They fought—as though to smite and kill,
Were deeds most worthy worship still;—
Fought, with hands, feet, and teeth,—locked straight,
In dark embrace of wrath and hate!—
689
XLII.
They grappled murderously—scarce breathed,—Forth hissed their hatred fierce,—and writhed,
In their own boiling heart's blood, seethed,—
Till Victors rolled, with Vanquished down
Those steeps, into the blazing town!
Together locked, in close embrace
Of Hate—that knew not time, nor place,—
They rolled down precipices dread,
Blind, and unconscious as the dead!
In Wrath's terrific trance untold,
Not quitting once their rankling hold,
Right in the bellowing flames they rolled!
Nought loosened they their venomed grasp,
Their grinding clutch,—and strangling clasp;
They scarce might feel the torturing fire,
In such a wildering, phrenzying ire—
Their souls, scorched out,—there, racked expire!
Their blackened skeletons, ere long—
Scattered the smouldering heaps among,—
Displayed a strange and hideous sight,—
Full low was laid, the Warriors' might!
XLIII.
Now, proud Italia's sons rushed on—Burned in their veins their own red sun!—
All danger armed, to meet and mock,
They flew to brave, the Battle's shock!
690
In endless, freshening ranks they form—
And all is agonized to storm;
Those freshening, thickening, strengthening ranks,
Roll on, like streams that break their banks;
Seems Nature wrung to throbbing life!—
And all is maddened into strife!—
Such horrors of austere dismay,
Tortured the time, on that stern day!
XLIV.
At length the Victory, on the side,Of France, did finally abide;—
And nobly, had she fought that fight,
Outnumbered by the opposing might;—
O'ermatched by circumstance of chance,
Nobly thou fought'st that Field!—Oh!—France!
And well Italia's sons their aid,
Unshrinking gave, and undismayed!
And hailed they now—that Conflict won,—
Malo-Yaroszlawetz, their own!
XLV.
Near Ghorodinia's murmuring stream—Sore-grieved by many a dubious dream,—
Gaul's mighty Emperor did remain,
With labouring heart, and fevered brain!
By Ghorodinia's glistening stream,
Napoleon weighed deep thought and scheme;
691
For seat of royal majesty!
A foul coarse shed—wherein to bide,
For Place of high Imperial pride!
Shorn of, their boughs—their huge trunks bared—
By serfs' rude hatchets, roughly squared,—
Some forest trees unite to give,
The shade, a Monarch must receive!
Dejected there, that Monarch bends,
Yet far his restless spirit sends;—
That lowliest shed, he may not scan,
The World rolls 'twixt it,—and the Man!
'Twixt every scene, his eyes behold,
And Him—its vanquisher of old!—
And what!—shall he then stoop at last—
So pinnacled on the arduous past?
Even Victory whispers of Defeat—
Success hath hinted but—Retreat!
Fixed in their strong position well—
Moveless and unassailable,—
The hostile Force doth safely dwell!
For those who watchful, near him stand,
A zealous and a faithful Band,
His Mareschalls, and his Counsellors all,
Pronounce this truth of fire and gall;
His Mareschalls brave,—and Counsellors there,
All—all—this maddening truth declare;
And round him thronged, their looks attest
The grief that thrills, each dauntless breast.
692
XLVI.
“Great Heavens!” he cried—“Is't thus, indeed?—Mista'en—yet, 'chance, your doubts mislead!”
Answered Bessiéres,—No doubt might be,—
So fixed was the ill-starred certainty!
Napoleon's brow was Storm and Night,
While flashed his eye with dreadful light;
From that strange Council-chamber mean—
His warlike train dismissed he then!
And 'midst his Mountain-Thoughts he stood,
Tormented with their tempest-mood;
Yet ween I, ever and anon,
His eye, with hope undying, shone;
Burst to his burning lip the word,
“Death to the Land,—and to its Lord!”
And then again, while heaved his breath,
On fire with passion,—“Doom and Death!—
I cite and summon ye!—Come forth!—
Thou proud Napoleon of the North!
I dare ye here, to greet and meet,
With half a War-World at your feet!”
XLVII.
Night passed!—when Morning's earliest hour,Gleamed down, on smouldering town and tower;
Spurred D'Aremberg, with news of fear,
For his unslumbering Master's ear!
693
Still prompt and watchful and prepared;
Favoured by Night, and woods profound,
And the ever-changed, unequal ground—
Had 'twixt the advanced posts, and his place,
Contrived to slip,—they filled the space!
But slighted he, the untoward report,
And cut the strange, grave tidings short!
XLVIII.
At sunrise, mounting on his horse,He, fearless, took his onward course;
Along Kalouga's road, he went—
His thoughts, on various themes, were bent!
Across the Plain, had he to pass—
One league, in length and breadth, it was:
Some few attendants, followed near—
No word—no whisper—met his ear!
XLIX.
The squadrons of his Escort fair,Unsummoned, had not joined him there;
Yet following, spurred they, in his wake,
The dauntless Monarch to o'ertake;
Loud outcries on the sudden broke
That stillness—and of terror spoke!—
Wild groupes disordered,—routed,—scared,—
In flight, on every side appeared;—
Women, and followers of the Host,
In mad Dismay's pale panic, lost,
694
While fear, still grew, more keen and strong;
Hundreds of vehicles, that round
Thronged close—thick covering all the ground,—
Were stopped, in strange, uncertain doubt—
While the uproar grew, one hideous rout!
Their startled steeds, then forward dashed,
Till wain and chariot, thundering, clashed;
Jostling and jammed, together close,
These seemed all movement's power, to lose;
(While thus, yet worse confusion rose!)
Entangled and upset, they strewed,
That ground, in dark disorder rude!
L.
With scornful, misbelieving smile,The Emperor gazed around, the while;—
“They deem the Cossacks scour the ground!”—
By fierce Hourrahs his words were drowned!
They came!—a storm seemed every steed!—
So flashing-furious was their speed!
They burst like Ocean, at its flood—
Yet firm, unmoved, Napoleon stood!
LI.
There stood he,—in his might and pride;—Rapp spurred up hotly, to his side;
His brow, with withering anguish black,—
While thousand fears, and horrors rack;—
“It is the Cossacks!—Back!—Turn back!”—
695
Fixed in proud valour, high and fair!—
His faithful Follower, snatched the reins—
(No nice respect, his arm restrains;)—
The affrighted, plunging steed he turned,
Sharp round—his aid, Napoleon spurned!
Faced to the Foe,—fierce Battle's Lord!
Then straightway drew his dreadful sword,
And braved the approach of that wild horde!
War blazed and threatened in his eye,
As each fired look was—Victory!
LII.
Then Neufchatel, his good blade drew,—Waved his, the Grand Equerry too;—
So placed, left side the road, they stayed,
To meet the shock not long delayed,—
A fiery rush the Cossacks made!
They swept in clouds—they poured in waves—
To hollow half the ground to graves;—
Scarce, forty paces, distant then,
Soon reached the groupe, these savage men;
With hideous howlings fierce they came,
Their steps all hurricane and flame;
With war-whoops wild—and bellowings loud—
Flashed,—swift as light—that thundering crowd;
Rapp, scarce had wheeled, his charger round,
Ere they, close—close—in front were found!—
The foremost, in his fierce advance,
Thrust in the charger's chest his lance,
696
Lay panting with his Lord, flung down!
LIII.
Just then, a portion of the Guard,Dashed, hurrying up,—though ill prepared;
But prompt, they rushed to extricate,
And save the Chieftain fallen, from fate;—
Le-Coulteux's bravery, and the zeal,
Of some score chasseurs—men of steel,—
And more than all, that thirst for spoil—
Which even in midst of Battle-broil,
Still lured these sons of strife and toil,—
Still urged these Children of the Waste,—
Even while War's fiery front they faced,
Preserved Napoleon from the Fate
Which seemed to threaten and await;
Saved him—in such dread danger placed,—
Even him—who had half Earth abased!
The Cossacks knew him not, and passed,
Unheeding by—careering fast;—
Even within lances' length passed by,
Proud Gaul's stern warrior-majesty!
Passed thee,—within brief length of lance,
Dread Sovereign Majesty of France!
LIV.
The War—the World—was in their hands!—Unknown to these Barbarian Bands!
But on they sped—on—on they flew—
Their way, all barriers tearing through!
697
That Fate had thrown thus, in their way;—
While ne'er, their dire mistake they learned,—
Wains—horses—men—they fast o'erturned;
On all sides, mixed, were these discerned,
By those wild riders strewn, and spurned!
Some wounding—slaughtering some—they flew—
Till deepened, Battle's blood-red hue!
Half-tired with their wild feats at length,—
Hundreds they bore, with savage strength,—
Deep, in the enshrouding woods away—
To strip and scourge,—and spoil and slay!
The horses, harnessed to the guns—
(While still, the appalling outcry stuns!)
They loosed—then rushed the Unconquered Ones!—
Fast as the flashing wildfire runs!
Right 'cross the country, swift they ride,
And bear along, each prize in pride!
LV.
Their hour of Victory, seems but brief—Comes rescue quickly, and relief;
For now advancing fast, they see,
The Guard's resistless cavalry!
They left their prey at once, and fled,
Scarce seemed their steeds, the earth to tread!
Yet some in haughtier mood, remained—
As though the Avengers they disdained;
Then, with audacious scorn inspired,
They slowly, sternly, thence retired,
698
The hostile, threatening squadrons seen;
There halting still,—'twixt those proud lines,
To load,—while the eye unquailing shines,
Their pistols and their carabines!
LVI.
With savage wrath, and hate intense,Was joined a fearless confidence,
For well they knew, their coursers free—
If it should suit their need, to flee;—
Could challenge—nerved like mountain roe,—
The exhausted war-steeds of their Foe!
Burthened full heavily were these,
And checked by the inequalities,
Of ground those Scythians, scoured with ease!
LVII.
Without disorder, thus aright,Effected they, their fearless flight!
Oft facing round, with bravery high,
'Gainst following foes, triumphantly;
Then, howling back their barbarous ire,
Far swept they from the reach of fire;
Enticing their pursuers on,
Till shrub-o'ergrown ravines, they won!
While planted well, in order fair,
Their cannon did await them there;
To check the advance of those that strove,
Their chastening vanquishers, to prove!—
699
LVIII.
Napoleon sought the Battle-Field,Where ghastly terrors, spread revealed;—
That Field now heaped, with human clay,
Which lived and breathed, but yesterday!
Terrific had the Conflict been—
Sickening and hideous, was the scene!
Too eloquent, was the o'er-stained ground,
That spoke with still, small voice profound!
Half-bathed in blood, smoked ruins round!
LIX.
The long train of the Dead, alone,Distinguished streets,—thus darkly shown!
The long, long train of ghastly Dead,
Distinguished these!—far stretched and spread;
Appalling track!—and harrowing trace!—
Which Mercy's wish would fain efface!
Forms crushed—from human semblance now,
By those rude cannons' ruthless plough,
That in their dread and dark array,
Were driven, upon their desperate way;
(Driven furiously and fast along,
Hundreds of wretches fallen, among!—
Right 'midst the closely-gathered throng;)
Crushed Forms—distorted all in death—
Heaped hideously, that fearful path!
Even darkening all that dreadful way—
Words fail!—let those who saw it say!
700
LX.
Issuing from out the ruins there,Crawled forth, with deep-singed garb and hair,—
Sufferers—to pangs and anguish doomed—
Their black limbs, trailing,—half-consumed!
Slow trailing on, with efforts dire,
Their scorched, black limbs,—yet half on fire!—
Convulsed with sufferings, sharp and sore,
While torture's last, worst throes they bore;
And uttering wild, heart-piercing cries—
Martyred with hundred agonies!
Napoleon turned him from the sight—
Then fain would he have thence, ta'en flight!
He spoke,—the emotions deep to hide—
That shook his inmost bosom's pride;
“The glory of the day and scene,
Rests all with thee,—brave Prince Eugene!”
Glory!—the Dead and Dying round,
Seemed shrinking, from the mocking sound!
LXI.
Now, near that long-contested Field,The Sovereign Chief, a Council held;
In the Artizan's low, mouldering cot,
'Tis question now of Empire's lot!
The Monarch's Monarch, there remains,
A prey to deep, soul-rankling pains!
(Ah!—doubt ye not, that the Artizan,
Were of these twain the happier man!—)
701
Did in that lowly dwelling crowd,
Whose walls were rent—whose roof embowed!—
LXII.
The fate of Europe's Empires fair,Must be, perchance, decided there!
The doom of armies, vast and dread,
Shall there, perchance, be stamped and said;
A Voice there speaks, that through the past,
All powerful seemed to bless or blast!—
Now crowding fast, reports arrived—
That shocked and startled—pained and grieved;—
All felt dejection and dismay,
And Hope resigned Her short-lived sway:
For all things, darkly seemed combined,
To hint of heavier chance, behind,
Seemed all things, gathering fast to shew,
The advent of a world of Woe;
And hearts—like rocks,—were changed and bowed,
And speechless stood the Brave and Proud!
In that low Council-chamber, broke
Their Chief, the silence soon, and spoke,
“Depart from me awhile!”—he cried,—
“Depart from me!—I will decide!”
LXIII.
And he decided!—and the doom,Closed round him, like a living tomb!
His thoughts swelled on,—like wave on wave,—
The last closed round him, like the grave;
702
The fiat of his working brain;
His kingly counsellors, of pride,
Paused trembling,—till he deigned decide!
Recalled to his dread Presence, then,
Bent breathlessly those mighty men,
His audience proud,—strange sounds must greet—
Strange word for Him and Them—“Retreat!”—
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