The Maiden of Moscow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Xenia!—ill-fated, hapless Bride!—
Art still at thy De Courcy's side?
Ah!—what is every woe and ill
If he is safe, and near thee still?
Harm—hazards—hardships—all, were dear,—
If thou could'st still soothe his, and cheer;
And carefully, she sought to shroud,
Each doubt—each fear—that thrilled, or bowed;
A steadfast smoothness, still possessed,
Her lessoned cheek, and conquered breast;
And is that fair, forlorn, young bride,
Yet blushing at her lover's side?
Xenia!—thy doom was dark, indeed,—
Thou frail, but tempest-battling reed!
For thence, by hands unpitying torn,
Wert thou, in trance unconscious, borne!
'Twas later in the ill-omened Flight,
That fell this chance, to blast and blight;
Full furious, was the abrupt attack,
Made by the barbarous, fierce, Cossack!

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Where sunk in deep, dark, miry slough—
Did wearied thousands, faultering bow!
And in that choaking rush and press—
In that huge, living wilderness,—
The ill-fated Xenia shuddering fell,
In ice-cold swoon—insensible!

II.

A Cossack Chief, spurred fast among,
The scattered stragglers of the throng;
And, while he bore them, struggling, down,
Confused, and 'wildered, and o'erthrown,—
Abruptly on the Lady seized—
Then, with his swooning prize well-pleased,
Dashed off, at furious, headlong rate—
His steed seemed driven by Death or Fate!
(Scarce taxed the more, by her slight weight!)
O'er moor, and mount—field—marsh—morass,—
They passed,—as might a meteor pass!
Like wind—like light, his courser flew;
The motion, and the air renew
Lapsed consciousness, and breath, and hue;
With maddening shock of strange surprise,
She, opening strained her long-sealed eyes;
Suspended Life, flushed back to be,
One throb of deadly agony!

III.

Nor strove she, her despair to hide—
Aloud, in thrilling tones she cried,—

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“My Husband!—Oh! my Husband!—save,—
Or snatch me with thee, to the grave!”
Surprised, the savage Chieftain heard,
The accents known in each wild word;
Those Russian accents, thrilling deep—
That seemed, from the anguished soul to sweep,—
Burthened with agony and fear,
Yet burst they keenly on the ear;
Implored she now, in fervent strain,
Heart-piercing with pathetic pain,
That spoke the very soul of grief—
The mercy of that rugged Chief!
She prayed—she urged, urged—prayed again,
On fire, was throbbing pulse and brain,—
All winged with woe, and doubt, and dread,
The while her soul within her bled,—
Those words flew forth—till seemed each sound,
Wrung from her being's depths profound!—

IV.

Yet vainly thus, she still implored,
In vain those supplications poured,
That rugged rover's heart unmoved—
No mercy owned—no pity proved;
Then woman's wit, arose to aid,
One effort more, she struggling, made,—
And spoke in haughty tone, and high,
Above the Mounting Misery—

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Aye!—spoke in bold and lofty strain,
That crushed the crushing might of Pain;
Demanded she, in tones of pride,
And firmness that all fears defied,—
To be straight borne, to Platoff's side;
Important tidings to his ear—
Could she deliver full and clear;—
Tidings, herself alone could give,
And none but that dread Chief receive!—
So well she urged her plea—so well,
She urged persuasions forcible,—
That slow consent, her strenuous tongue—
At length, from her rough captor wrung!—

V.

Onward they glanced—away!—away!—
Like scudding cloud, on stormy day;—
They paused at last, where clustering round,
Nations of Cossacks trod the ground!
She gazed—with panic-pallid mien—
Upon the wild and wond'rous scene;—
Her breath came thick, her heart beat fast,
While 'mongst some rude thronged tents, they past;
And many a startling sight and strange,
Before her, spread with ceaseless change!—
What dreadful Form, in wild array,
Starts forth, as though to bar her way?
All demon-like and strange it glared—
And shocked her senses, unprepared;

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In sooth, such dark and dreadful Form,
Might ride and rule, the midnight storm;
Stand o'er the burning mountain's crest,
The spirit of the spot confessed;—
Or where the eddying whirlpools dash,
With thundering roar, and dazzling flash,
Or earthquakes, shattering, rend their road—
Scowl forth—their Genius—and their God!—
But when 'midst mortal men, thus seen—
Too hideous lowered its mould and mien!—

VI.

Affrighted, trembling with surprise,
She, shuddering, turned away her eyes;
But yet, once more, her glance she bent
On this—in wildered wonderment;—
A wizard habit, quaint, it wore,
With shapes and signs thick covered o'er;—
Stuffed serpents—eagle's claws—rings,—bells,—
Strange Forms grotesque—dark scrolls—and spells,
And flag-like streamers,—loops and strings,
Loose fluttering round, like fluttering wings,
Adornment, rude, and horrid lent,
To this most rough habiliment;
A drum was in the monster's hand—
'Twas waved with air of fierce command!—
Inscribed with mixed device it seemed,
Where thousand glittering colours beamed;—
While bright along its surface shone
All the ordered stars—the sun and moon,—

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With monstrous aspects, wildly blent,—
In crowded, close entanglement!
With reindeer,—serpents,—beast and bird—
And many a cabalistic word!
All objects, most opposed,—there joined,
In strange fantastic sort, combined;
While round festooned, hung fringes thin,—
Cast slough of snakes, or dead man's skin!

VII.

It bounded past—the drum it strook;—
The serpent's withered streamers, shook;—
Fast fluttering round that fluttering form,—
Like myriad meteors of the storm!
From rude Tungusia's savage Land—
Formed,—stamped,—by Superstition's hand,—
Well dowered, too, with the Enchanter's name—
The Shaman, and the Sorcerer came!
And he, the trusting Cossacks thought,
Could charm the hour, with dangers fraught;—
Could check the weapon on its way,
When bared to strike, and raised to slay!
The whistling balls and bullets turn,
On their swift passage, dire and stern;
And give,—with spells, and signs, and charms,
The Victory, to their dauntless arms!

VIII.

At Platoff's feet did Xenia bend—
Platoff!—her Father's early friend!

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For so it chanced—and thus did he,
Hang watchful on her history!
Nought—nought from him, her tongue concealed,—
Her Heart,—Fate,—Grief,—were all revealed!
He listened, patient, to the whole,—
Learned the endless sorrows of her soul;
For he had bent in Sorrow, too,—
In heart-deep suffering, keenly true;
All lately, had his soul been torn,
By anguish—more than may be borne;
His Son,—his own—his cherished boy,—
The darling of his age—his joy!—
His warlike Nation's hope and pride—
Had fallen—had perished—at his side!
Platoff and Poniatowski, late,
Had met, where mutual wrath and hate,
Seemed Pole and Russ to animate!
They fought with fury's wildest rage,
And still returned, that strife to wage;
Again, and yet again, forth burst,
That combat,—furious as at first;
Reddened and reeked the smoking Plain,
With mountains of the noble slain!

IX.

Near Vërréia 'twas, that chanced the strife,
Which cost full many a gallant life;
Returning from the Battle's heat—
The Attack preparing to repeat,—
Disdaining failure and defeat,—

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The youthful Warrior fell beneath,
The ruthless stroke of rapid Death!
A Hulan Pole, with fatal hand,
Smote the fair sapling of the Land;
With murderous wrath, and furious hate,
Crushed down, the promise of the State!
And dealt the deep and mortal wound,
That stretched young Platoff on the ground!
His Sire, his snow-white charger saw—
Oh!—sight of agony and awe!—
Rush riderless, and bloodied past,
In masterless career, and fast;
That battle-horse of the Ukraine breed,—
His son's well-known and favourite steed,—
He marked, in maddened course, rush by,—
That Son can but have fallen,—to die!

X.

Then flew the old Chief, with phrenzied mind,—
His doomed,—his dying child to find!
He found!—and one brief moment pressed,
A living son to that fond breast;
But ere was loosed the sad embrace,
The grave rushed darkening o'er that face;—
The soul had reached its own bright place!
And his dead boy did sweetly sleep,
In full repose, and quiet, deep;—
In perfect-painless rest serene,
'Midst all that wild and warlike scene!
Couched on his Father's breaking heart,
That felt 'twas worse than death, to part!

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Far worse than death to see him die—
Who ne'er before had caused a sigh,—
Who made all, sunshine to his eye!

XI.

But ties must burst, and hearts must break,
And hopes must sleep, and tortures wake!
That son had just in earth been laid,
And funeral honours had been paid,
By all his Father's hosts of pride—
To him,—who thus too early died!—
To all, he gave delight beneath,
And disappointed,—but with death!

XII.

First stretched on costly furs, and fair,
Those Hosts beheld their nation's Heir,
His bear-skin mantle, round him spread,
Seemed worthy shroud, for warrior dread;
Then came the old chiefs of high command—
Who stooped to kiss that cold white hand;—
Old-bearded chiefs, who slow advanced,
To greet the dead—in grief entranced;—
Soon, at that Ceremonial's close,
Deep prayers, they breathed for his repose;
Then bore the silent and the still—
To yon fair cypress-covered hill!

XIII.

All, ranged in Battle-order there,
In silence, shrouded their despair;

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While slow, was lowered into the grave—
The young—the beautiful—the brave;—
Those marshalled thousands, sad and still,
Seemed touched by Sorrow's keenest thrill;
Then o'er that grave,—round which stood bowed,
In reverence deep, that martial crowd—
They fired a mighty volley loud!
And when these rites, were meetly done,
Still mourning for their Chieftain's son,
They led their pawing chargers round,
That narrow spot of hallowed ground;—
In hushed, profound, and solemn gloom,
Defiled they round, the new-made tomb!
With down-drooped looks—that saddening fall,—
While earthwards point, their lances all,—
Slow round his tomb, they thus defiled,
Their rugged aspects, changed and mild!

XIV.

His Battle-Charger, too, was led,
Round that long, last home of the dead,
And seemed that startled steed to know—
Some trembling touch of human woe,
So mournful looked his wild, wide eyes,
Dark sorrowing,—as with strange surprise,
So gently paced he round the place—
Where slept that form, of strength and grace;—
And this deep scene had lately wrung,
With grief, untold, by mortal tongue,
That Father's fond and yearning breast—
Which still a softening mood confessed!—

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XV.

He marked sad Xenia's streaming tears,
Her cheek,—death-pale with woes and fears,
His mighty sorrows, freshly flowed,
More deeply pressed Grief's heaviest load!
The kindliest feelings seemed to rise—
And in his aspect, speak—and eyes;
Emotions gentlest, tenderest, best,
Thrilled through that princely warrior's breast;—
So well, with strange, unrecked-of art,
Those tamers of the human heart,
Affection and Affliction,—strong,
To drive the o'ermastered soul along,—
Can bend, and tame, and trample still,
The haughtiest spirit to their will;

XVI.

And these had conquered—these had taught—
Mild weakness to his War of thought!
Had, with their heart-upturning plough,
Loosened all the iron nature now,
And deeply furrowing, through the soil,
Laid its fine fibres bare the while,
Prompt to receive, thus touched and freed,
Chance Sympathy's wide scattered seed;

XVII.

He raised the suppliant from the ground,—
And gazed, with pity's gaze profound!

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Marked that changed cheek—that pallid brow—
So dimmed with clouds of suffering now,—
So beauteous once, with gladness fair,
So beauteous now,—in worst despair!
Till deep compassion, struggled through,
His own self-grief,—yet stirred it, too;
All the aching anguish of his soul—
Confessed strong sympathy's controul!—

XVIII.

He spoke in gently soothing tone,
To hush her sorrow, and his own;
He bade her calm her rushing woe—
The while, his own did freelier flow;
He bade her be of better cheer—
He blamed her grief—and chid her fear;—
He bade her cease, from sufferings sore,
While grew his own,—still more and more;
With each consoling, chiding word,
Which in the mourner's ear, he poured,
Seemed mounting, more and more, the grief—
That wrung the old, proud, and stormy Chief;—

XIX.

That mourner, too, so young and fair,
That supplicates and sorrows there;
Reminds him of his own bright child—
The fair-haired Cossack beauty mild!
For dear resemblance,—sweet, though slight,
There wins upon his softened sight;

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And could he, for one moment bear,
To think of her, in such despair?
No!—No!—the very image seems,
Distraction to his torturing dreams!—
He reassured that weeper faint,
Who still, sighed forth, low prayers and plaint,
He bade her arm her drooping heart,
And cried, “Ere long, shalt thou depart,
When thine exhausted strength renewed,
May serve to bear long journeyings rude;
When, cherished here, and soothed awhile,
Thy fainting frame, may brook the toil,
Shalt thou go forth, with escort train,
To seek thy husband's side again!
A grey-haired Chief, a long-known friend,
On whose tried truth I may depend,
Shall guide your steps—your way protect—
And aid your quest with fair respect;—
To his good guardianship, and kind,
Shalt thou be fearlessly consigned!”—

XX.

“At once!—Brave, generous Chief!”—she cried,
“At once!—Oh, let me seek his side,
Haste!—not one instant let me stay,—
For Fear and Fate are in the day!—
For Life or Death is on my way!—
De Courcy!—Heavens!—What,—what—must be,
Thy doubt—thy dread—thine agony?—

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At once!—at once!—great, generous Chief;
Oh!—hear my heart!—Grant hope to grief!”

XXI.

“Nay! some few hours must thou repose,
Or Death, indeed, will end thy woes,
And not thy Husband's sufferings close!
So weary worn art thou, poor child!”
Answered the Chief in accents mild,
“So languishing, appears the life—
Checked in thy veins—through dread and strife,—
Rest, rest, awhile—and know no fear;—
But be of high and dauntless cheer!
Safe yet, thou'lt pass from hence removed,
Thou shalt rejoin thy soul's beloved!”
He spoke,—and strode away, she wept—
Till, drowned in ceaseless tears, she slept!—