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

Napoleon's warrior-millions heard
The fiat of his dread command!—
Now polished be the sword—the brand!—
Now cast,—ye founderies of the land,
Your death-balls at the word!—
Ye armouries, yield your stores, to gird
The mighty that in strength shall stand—
Leagued nations form'd in one vast band,
Nor be the shock deferr'd!
Be th' arsenals well served and scann'd—
The web of operations plann'd—
Seize, marshals!—seize your truncheon wand!—
War stretches wide his shadowy hand,
High soars the victory-bird!
Check'd are the labours of the plough,
The spade, the shears, the axe, the loom,
The trowel, and the flail!—Plume!—plume!—
Thou bird, thy wings,—well know'st thou how!—

Aye! soar and swiftly stormward spoom!
Hark! blows of pond'rous hammers boom
Along the air—a sounding gloom—
Like dreadful strokes of hurrying doom,
(And take the peaceful shuttle's room!),
While hour by hour their tasks resume,
Swarth men with broiling brow!

II.

Declare for why, in startling haste
Are crowded on, till lightning-paced,
(While promptitude with zeal seems graced)—
These preparations now?
Is't for some day of pleasaunce free—
Some glorious joy—some jubilee—
Some festival—some revelry,
All earth shall yet avow?
Not so—she soon shall grieve and mourn;—
Not so—she wakes at War's wild beck—
These works her lightsome mood shall check:
Worse chains are forging for her neck—
Chains—that shall, desolating, deck,
That crushing,—shall adorn!—

III.

'Tis not for festal triumphs fair
A labouring nation doth prepare.
Alas! the giant efforts there
Are but for wreck and waste!—
Fierce Slaughter shrieks along the air!

Red Murther waves her right hand bare—
Arm'd Vengeance dips his cloudy hair,
With upas-wreaths embraced,
In shadowy seas of blood!—While glare,
Mad Battle's horrent pomps!—Beware!
All earth!—and rise to do and dare,
Or thy worst doom is traced!
Fast dawns the swarth day-blush of War,
Fast fades away each gentler star,
That seem'd, while glow'd its soft rays far,
To promise peace and love.
Must Strife all happier prospects mar—
Hope die beneath the conqueror's car—
And Discord lift the deadliest bar
'Twixt earth and heaven above?

IV.

Seem'd those high preparations done!—
Shadowing the earth with too much sun,
A blaze of arms rush'd dazzling on
With fierce portentous light!—
Sure Dread is nought and Doubt is none,
Even now—(what force or fraud may shun
Those hosts that might a world o'errun?)—
Seem thousand towering victories won
By Gaul's o'erpowering might!
Far nations shudder with their dread:
By Conquest's hand those foes are led,
Breast-deep in laurels—Lo! they tread
To gain yet loftier name.

Their swords, with death-dyed victories red,
Unshrouded beams of glory shed;
The sky above them seems to spread
one Firmament of Fame!—
Yet fame to fame they still would wed;
Let fire by fire of glory fed,
By added glories flame!—

V.

Amidst the myriads of that host,
A youthful son of chivalry,
Whose blood was of heroic boast,
Then waved his sabre high!
Amidst those myriads, none might feel
A loftier hope,—a nobler zeal,—
None nurse a purer martial fire,
Than that which did that youth inspire:
Eugene de Courcy was his name.
His soul was frantic-fond of fame!
A brave, high-hearted youth was he,
Of daring mind, and spirit free,—
A gallant and a generous youth:
His soul was fire,—his thought was truth.
From lordly sires the scion sprung;
Tho' wealth he lacked, Fate's gifts among;
Since they,—before that era dread,
Which saw bow'd down full many a head
Of haughty mould and crested pride,
That vainly gloom and doom defied—

Their gold had scatter'd fast and free,
With heart and hand unniggardly;
And lower'd and lessen'd in estate,
Found shrunken means had stamp'd their fate,—
Found th' ills on Poverty that wait—
But ne'er for this did he repine,
That last son of a lofty line!

VI.

Not for the first time now he clasp'd
His helmet firm—his faulchion grasp'd;
When eighteen springs had paled and past,—
It little boots to say how fast,—
When eighteen springs had o'er him flown,
His father's sword was made his own!
And since had he full often worn
That honour'd steel, and proudly borne—
Right proudly, worthy of its weight,—
A dauntless son of strength and state!
And he, baptized in blood, had been
Into the warriors' service keen;
And oft had borne the battle's brunt,
And spurr'd his steed to War's wild front.
Nine glorious years had he borne arms,
And joy'd in Strife's august alarms;—
Nine glorious years had seen his might,
And hurrying valour in the fight:
Yet gentle was his soul, as brave
And prompt to succour and to save;

And oft his inmost heart had bled
With covert wounds more deep and dread
Than those that pierced and plough'd the breast—
At sight of conquer'd foes distress'd;
The fluttering gasp—the faultering groan
Found in his heart an answering tone.
Ill bore the hero others' pain,
Who mock'd his own with brave disdain;—
Ill bore the hero others' woes,
And best-loved friends seemed vanquished foes!

VII.

And he had shared th' imposing toil,
And bask'd in all the sweltering broil
Of Austerlitz' outshining sun,
That smiled his leader's lines upon—
(As proud to be his fortune's star!
Jealous that other light from far
Should beckon—beacon of His War!)
“The Battle of the Emperors,” there
It had been his to see and share;
And Jena's crimson'd field of death
Had given his brow another wreath.
Jena!—which saw high Brunswick's lord,
Wielder of well-redoubted sword!—
In prime of pride, hope, valour—all,
A patriot-martyr—bleed and fall.
Borne from that fatal field of fight,
Ere long was dust his dreadless might.

But deep the oath his followers swore
To venge their prince—alas!—no more!
And Brunswick's shrouded star uprose
To light to death Her chasten'd foes!
Brave Brunswick's unextinguish'd star,
Its rays of glory scattering far,—
Broke forth from clouds of sorrow's trance,
To dazzle-scathe the front of France.
But Jena's long-lamented field
The prince and patriot's doom beheld,—
He, who commanding there in chief,
Closing his bright career and brief,
Thus first might cause his people's grief!
A grief—that never doomed to fade
Their gratitude—his glory made
Eternal—as his guardian shade!
Jena!—whose day of terrors view'd,
The house of Brandenburgh subdued:
Jena had seen De Courcy's arm
Deal—stoutly deal—the desperate harm,—
Had seen De Courcy's prowess shine,
And speak by many a venturous sign.
And when great Warsaw's battled walls
(Where raged indignant, Russia's thralls)
The conquering van of France received—
While hailed her heroes—long aggrieved,
Those heroes (who from fears reprieved)
And liberators well believed,
Those brothers, of their bosoms nursed,
Like them in glory's sunlight burst!—

De Courcy, with his countrymen,
Threaded the throng'd streets' labyrinths then,
And marked how Freedom's startling call
Waked to new hope that capital!
'T was then that Poland placed her trust
In France' proud promises—and dust!—
While Gnesena's palatine adored
Napoleon as creation's lord!—
While many a Polish potentate
Address'd him as almighty-great!—

VIII.

In other strifes had he borne part,
This noble youth—this gallant heart;
And well he loved war's mighty art!
And every battle where he blest
The Victor-Eagle's sun-kissed crest,
The ardent votary keener made
In his beloved, but dreadful, trade.
For him no charms might luxury bring—
The siren there in vain might sing,
He pass'd by pleasures—on the wing,—
Aye! on the wing, even more than they
That smile and shine—but never stay!
For onward rush'd his fiery heart,
To claim in glory's ranks its part;
And forward sped his storm of soul,
More breathless as more near the goal!
Love—melting power!—had never come
To stint his manhood's lofty bloom.

Love—where that eye imperious flash'd—
Had sunk and shrunk away abash'd,
His fires out-beggar'd by the blaze
Of that bright soul whose thoughts were rays—
Whose hopes were beams—whose dreams were lights,
That left deep noons like starless nights.

IX.

And now his childhood's home he seeks,
Where waits, with pallid lips and cheeks,
His mother, to embrace once more
The son, she lives but to adore.
Th' intrepid heart strange tremours feels,—
A softness o'er the arm'd soul steals;
A gush of deepening tenderness
Makes weakness more, and valour less.
The bold—the brave—was coward here,
Th' undaunted learn'd to shrink and fear.
His thoughts, while onward fast he sped,
Began—continued—closed in dread!
His mother's certain, coming grief,
Made his lip tremble like a leaf.
His cheek was blaunch'd, his head was bow'd,—
His forehead darken'd with a cloud;
His hand, no longer firm, in vain
His headlong courser would restrain,
That mocked the light and loosen'd rein!
Wild rushing on, in foaming speed,
Soon bears him—that sagacious steed—

To his old home of boyhood's years.
There, smiles his mother through her tears,—
There, pale, his lovely sister stands,
With the out-stretched arms—with the upraised hands,
That speak affection, doubt, dismay,
And seem at once to bless and pray!
No tenderer mother o'er a child
Ere bent with fondness meek and mild,—
In mood of love more gushing-deep,
That like a sea doth o'er her sweep—
(Although that child, of softest age,
Was new-launch'd on life's pilgrimage)
Than she—that warrior's mother dear—
Bent o'er her stately offspring here,
Who much essay'd to soothe and cheer!—
Whose manly voice, upraised in tone,
To hush her griefs betray'd his own!
No fonder sister ever smiled,
In hopes such griefs might be beguiled,
On brother—best beloved and bless'd—
Than thou, dove-souled, dark-eyed Celeste!

X.

Summer and spring together seem'd
To greet—Heaven glisten'd, and Earth beam'd;
Bright showers of roses seem'd to lie
Beneath, as new-dropt from the sky—
Blushes of angels hither sent,
To prove—Heaven glows—Love's element!—

And round that mother's cottage-home
A thousand roses rain'd their bloom:
Fair trellised was the porch; the path—
The bower, retired as Naiad's bath—
A screen of honeysuckles hath;
While myriad myriad flowers repay
Celeste's sweet fosterage, day by day,
Scatter'd along the garden grounds,
Enriching all their cherish'd bounds!
Not far their home from that bright sea,
The tideless in tranquillity;
In blessedness of Heaven's blue light,
That washes France' proud shores of might,—
Her southern shores, where myrtles load
The gale with lavish scents bestow'd;
And richly clustering orange-trees
Send wealth of fragrance to the breeze,—
Such aromatic affluence
As might be won alone from thence!
De Courcy! ofttimes when a boy,
Thou'st stolen the swimmer's gallant joy—
(Afraid, as now, of causing fear
Or pain to thy lone parent dear;—
Afraid, as now, of her affright,
Yet spurr'd on by thy soul's free might);—
The swimmer's gallant joy thou'st sought,
And well thy billowy battles fought,
And revell'd in that ocean free,
Which seem'd thy wave-wing'd car to be,—

Thy throne of triumph—place of pride—
While breasting thus the surges' tide!
Strengthen'd by struggles, brave I wist,
With that august antagonist,
Thy fearless youth shot upwards fast,
To loftiest manhood's pride at last,
And ever rose thy kindling mood
To heights of finer hardihood.

XI.

Those hours of greeting, deep and dear,
Pinion'd with swiftest plumes appear;—
The hours of Affection's communings
Wear on each moment—thousand wings:
They wane, with every bliss and boon,
Into the parting moment soon!—
He strives to man his heart, and turns
His thought to where crowned Battle burns;—
He dreams he hears the clarion's voice,
And he will rouse him to rejoice!
“My son! my son!” the mother cried,
As on his bounding heart, hers died!
“Thou goest to join the Fieldward host,—
Some dreadful day may speak thee lost!
And all my thoughts to grief must flow,
And all my fears to phrenzy grow!—
Oh! representative to me
Of thy dead father,—lost to thee
While yet in flowering infancy,—

How can I bear from this fond side
To let thee—long estranged—divide?
How can I bear to lose thee now?
Thick rise the dew-drops to my brow,—
The death-damps of the heart—the heart—
It is a murdering thought—to part!—
Heavens! can I bear to see no more
Thy face by his face shadow'd o'er?
The husband of my youth's best love—
That husband still adored—above!
True, oft in battle hast thou borne
Thy loftiest part—and left me lorn;
Yet each fresh parting serves to make
My heart with wilder anguish ache;—
Each parting now my soul must teach
What distant pangs it yet can reach!
As though I lived thus o'er again
These several partings with their pain!
Their separate pains—nor bow'd me prone
Beneath one crush of grief alone!—
Aye! all the accumulated store
I count and recount o'er and o'er;
The scatter'd agonies combine,
And in one poison'd chain entwine,
Commingling every cherish'd throe
In one vast flood of whelming woe,
And gathering each close garner'd care
In one stern wealth of wide despair!”

XII.

Answer'd the son—“Oh! speak not thus!”
Faint were his words and tremulous,
Her rushing passion bore them down,
And thus again she cried—“Mine own!
Thou image of my long-lost lord
To mine imploring eyes restored;
How can I live without the light
In that loved aspect proud and bright?
I ask him—thou art my response,—
I gaze on Him and Heaven at once!—
Thou shalt not rob me of that heaven
Through tears to my rapt glances given:
I will not let thee bear away
My spring, my sunshine, and my day!—
Those smiles where all his spirit stirs,—
Those looks—Love's sweet remembrancers!
Remain, my flower—my pride—my boy—
Remain! to be the widow's joy!”
Her quivering voice, o'erstrain'd, doth fail,—
She stands before him, passion-pale,
With close-clasp'd hands, and labouring breath,
And every loveliest look of death!

XIII.

But changes soon her mien and mood—
Breaks o'er her cheek one blaze of blood!—
In sunset waves it glowing breaks,
And fast a world of wonders wakes!

With other thoughts her spirit teems,—
With other phantasies and dreams!
The sacred-soft Madonna look,
Whose very meekness stirr'd and shook
The pulses of the troubled heart
That deem'd 'twas from dull earth apart—
The sculptured steadfastness of grace,
That reigned o'er that pathetic face,
At once to tumult wild gave place!
Her lip is curved—her brow is knit—
Her cheek is flush'd—her eye is lit!
The Seas of Soul are swelling high,
The mind claims sovereign mastery.
The force of giant feeling gains
The victory—bursts its own strong chains!—
There seemed they wondering to behold
Some mighty prophetess of old,
O'erwrought by passion and distress,
Some dark, imperial prophetess!
The full-swoln veins, the wild-dash'd hair,
The regal risings of despair,
Th' enkindling and the o'erpowering air,
Disturb'd them with a deep surprise,
They scarce might fix her flashing eyes!

XIV.

All—all her form, and all her face
Bore high enthusiast-fervour's trace:
She stood before them in that hour
Fraught with a strangely-wakening power—

A lovely and terrific thing,
Borne far on inspiration's wing!
And thus, while high her aspect glow'd,
Her words like battle-music flow'd!
And thus, while fast her spirit soar'd,
Her tones like trumpet-echoes pour'd!
While ever through those moments stern,
That saw that soul translucent burn
With darkly-glorious dreams intense,
(As though woke there another sense!—)
The Mighty Misery seem'd to move,
And oh! the yet far mightier love!—
The mightier than all death and fate,
Through that changed form of strength and state!
You felt the full, the fiery force,
You felt its fountain, and its source!
And while you heard her thrilling tongue,—
On those transforming accents hung—
Well mark'd you whence the wonder sprung!
The great magician, Grief, had wrought
The miracle, the change had brought!

XV.

“My son! words come to help my woe,
Oh! hear these words ere yet you go.
I grieve, indeed, that we must part,
But other pangs oppress my heart;
Ev'n now I feel—too keenly feel,—
And oh! the thought is sharp as steel!

Thou goest to lift thine hand of might
Against the truth—against the right!
Thou goest thy stalworth arm to bare
In that unrighteous cause which ne'er
Can claim one faintly-murmur'd prayer—
Nay—speak not!—hush!—I must be heard;
A power impels mine every word!
A secret power doth sway—controul
My grief—my glance—my speech—my soul!
I feel as though my shrinking eye
Was looking through futurity!
This lawless enterprise shall fail:
Thy star of victory, France! shall pale;
Thy foes shall tame thy venturous pride,
The Lord of Hosts is on their side!
The God of Battles helps the right,
And gives th' invulnerable might.
The invaders' legions place their trust
In horse and chariots—that are dust!
But th' injured nation lifts the heart
To Him who takes the sufferer's part;
Their hope is stablished on His love,
Their great ally is throned above!

XVI.

“I see—I hear such sights,—such sounds—
As make my soul o'erflow her bounds!
Lo! banner'd hosts with blazon'd pomp,
With hoarse, harsh drum, and clamouring tromp,

With long array of marshall'd pride,
Embattaill'd firm on every side,
Making the earth a furnace where
They crowd with burnish'd braveries fair,
Concentering all the sun's warm rays,
Till added light makes bright their days!
The flash of arms, the streamer'd show—
Gleams with intolerable glow;
And yon fair firmament above—
Yon lustrous dome of light and love,
But seems—such flushing tints are given—
An earth-illuminated Heaven!
While princely banners sweep the skies,
And spread between them and our eyes
Their constellated canopies!

XVII.

“And now a change—a fearful change,
Their order'd march doth disarrange:
I see them scatter'd like the chaff,
While dregs of bitterness they quaff;
And on their heads, all wild and fast,
Th' ashes of utter ruin cast!
Dread portents trouble all the skies;
I see Eternal Nature rise!
Beckon'd by her Almighty Sire,
She fulmines forth—stern fiats dire:
She rises,—awful and alone,
And leans her from her mystic throne.

And th' elements and seasons wait
Around her over-powering state.
Death's mighty angel hears a voice,
And lifts his pale head to rejoice;
For his shall be the time—the hour,
And he shall reign, with untried power!—
His ghastly steed must make good speed,
And bound from Space to Space;
For with all Life, Death seems at strife,
And stretch'd to fearful race.

XVIII.

“Oh, Earth! oh, Earth! thou shudd'rest sore,
Thou art not what thou hast been before,—
Thou seem'st a peopled world no more!—
Th' Incarnate Fiend doth surely reign,
O'er all in evil power and pain;
And makes dark progress of success,
While Ill frowns more, and Good smiles less!—
Earth prostrate sinks at Ruin's feet,
As 'twere the fallen foul angels' seat!
To them given o'er by angry Heaven,
And fast by them despoil'd and riven!—
Abhorr'd by all the good, because
She sets at nought th' eternal laws;
And yields ingratitude for grace,
And harden'd sin in sorrow's place.
Abhorr'd by all the evil too,
Because Heaven loved and would renew!—

Redeem'd—forgave—invited—blest,
And called to beatific rest.
So seems She—scorn and hate of all,
Where even the Fallen must lower fall!
And thus they join to crush and blot
Her sphere from space, till she is not!
Else why these harrowing shrieks and groans,
Those deathful, wild, scarce-human tones,—
Those desolations, vast and deep,—
Those midnight glooms that threatening sweep,—
Those maniac-yellings—gory stains,
That gush as from mankind's rent veins?
The Fiend—the Fiend seems trampling here,
Made lord of Fate, as prince of Fear!
He speeds along, while less and less
Our human hope doth withering wane:
Ten thousand terrors swell his train.
His breath is ruin,—blight, and bane;
His shadow, anarchy;—his gain,
The loss of human happiness!
And must he rule our world, indeed?
And was all Hope and Faith a reed?
And must we yield in truth to him,
And see our holiest trust grown dim?
Must earth, the footstool of the Fiend,
Leave every dream of joy behind;
Each fabric of her bliss resign;
Obliterate every hallowed sign?”

XIX.

Exhausted, and o'er-wrought and pain'd,
The mother for awhile remain'd;
With almost reverential awe,
Her son, bewilder'd, heard and saw,
And follow'd all her words of weight,
As they were the oracles of fate:
While that pale daughter of her love
Seemed fixed no more to breathe or move,—
The soft Celeste, whose deep dark eye
Had lost its meek tranquillity.
But, from th' inspired one's lips once more
The startling accents burst and pour.

XX.

“That Fiend! Ah! whose that sceptered sway
Which sweeps the peace of worlds away?
Which brings the gloom of sorrow down
On nations outraged and o'erthrown?
Who is't—that—dark portentous Birth!—
Shakes on her shuddering axis, earth?
And seems to guide her from her way
Mid marshall'd planets' bright array;
To follow a destructive course,
With discord dire—and fatal force;—
As though Heaven's covenant were void,
And its high purposes destroy'd.
Why shone its rainbow in the skies
If fresh floods—and of gore—must rise?
Why—mightier far display of grace!—
Did her throned king resign his place;

Th' empire of universes yield,
And dwell in mortal mould revealed,
And leave adoring worlds to crave
A torturing cross—a trampled grave?—
If—if, indeed, her doom is still
A hopeless Infinite of Ill.

XXI.

“Yes! earth is wrung e'en to the heart,
And forth her orbit seems to start,
Absolving not her measured round,
To no harmonious circles bound—
For surely did she still rehearse
Her fixed fair part in the universe,
Not thus could Desolation wring,
And mad misrule distract and sting—
Not thus could yon proud sun but seem
Like lurid light of some dread dream—
Not thus could morning, sad as night,
Whisper of death upon her flight!—
The lovely stars and radiant spheres
Blot out the heavens, like trembling tears—
For thus it seems—while woe on woe
Doth gathering o'er creation go;—
And whose the sway, and whose the power—
Who rules through this terrific hour?—
Who lifts the scourge, and deals the stroke,
And fits the intolerable yoke?
My son, my warrior-boy!—reply—
I read it in thy conscious eye!

XXII.

“Monarch of myriads! Liege and Lord!
Thou sceptered with a blood-red sword!—
Tremendous Name!—stupendous Will!—
Wilt thou indeed be slave of Ill,
Oh! trust not in th' embattailled world;
Crush'd be thy crest, thy banners furl'd;
If thou with Evil leagued indeed,
For rocks of strength shall trust a reed—
For all thy myriads vainly then
Shall fence thee round—dread man of men!
Yes! they shall fail, and thou shalt fall—
Totters thy blood-cemented wall,
(With which thou fain wouldst circle round
Creation all, and mete and bound!)—
Trembles thy force-upheaven throne,
Unutterably guilty one!
Dark is the mystery of thy mind,—
Oh! evil one of mood, and blind,
The Chaos—Heaven forbade to reign
Seems in thy soul to live again!—
Again to hideous life to start—
In thy deep midnight of the heart!—
And lengthening thence, o'er all to spread,
More dark,—more dire,—more drear,—more dread:
Since things of loftier mould must now
Its hateful influence deep, avow,—
Since th' elements of sense and thought
Sink—to the ruinous vortex brought!—

XXIII.

“And thou, my son, must thou go forth
Among the spoilers of the earth;
'Midst fratricidal fiends who burn
Love's holiest lessons to unlearn,
And joy when reeking blades are press'd
Against their human brother's breast;
Shalt thou, my boy, go forth to play
As dark a part, as mad as they?
The weight of blood shall yet bear down
The wearer of a crime-stain'd crown;
And his shall be the world's disdain—
A proud almightiness of pain,
And pestilential pangs of fear—
Of the everlasting sufferance near!
For his are sins of demon hue,
The cause of crimes in others too!—
The Almightiest, to avenge, shall rise,
And with deep counsels shake the skies;
But think not, mortals!—He shall need
His shattering thunderbolts to speed,
To crush Ambition's slave misled;
No! lightest flakes shall serve instead:
Heaven's breath shall phalanx'd lines o'erthrow—
Sent in chill airs to work their woe.
No special terrors 'gainst them hurl'd—
Silently wither'd from the world!
So shall they wane,—droop,—drop away,—
Though miracles start not to slay,

Nor cloud the common light of day,
Though man, regardless, seems to spare;
They fade—they fall, fast-fleeting there!
As though he muster'd not His wrath
To blast them on their onward path,
But His bright countenance withdrew,
Nor deign'd His heavenly grace renew—
Suspending His protecting might—
And they were nothing—fallen on night!”

XXIV.

She ceased—no more the impulse burn'd—
The soft and love-touch'd looks return'd—
Her hands unclasp'd—her cheeks unflush'd—
Mild tears beneath her eyelids gush'd;
Once more she spoke, but sad and sweet
Her voice the willing ear did greet.
The o'er-troubled mood, in sooth, was past,—
Too wild and stormy-strong to last;
Feeling, and love, and doubt, and ire,
Had lent the prophetess's fire;
Feeling and love forgot once more
All but themselves, and brooded o'er
Their own deep truth and mightiest lore;
And having snatch'd that deep relief,
The seas of soul closed o'er their grief,
As the ocean o'er some mournful wreck,
Betraying scarce a tell-tale speck!
But was it thus? No! Part indeed
Of that vast grief doth speechless bleed

Within the secret holds of heart;
But pines—and plains yet other part—
Her tears, her tongue, her tremblings shew,
The workings of that inward woe!—
She dash'd those tear-drops from her cheek,
And steadfastly essay'd to speak;
Yet faulteringly the accents came—
The sweet sound flickering like a flame!—

XXV.

“Yet should we not be thus cast down,
Although on evil seasons thrown?
Let Faith and Hope yet smile and dance
Even in the face of human chance;
And in the heart of human love,
That throbs and heaves itself above,
That, beat by beat, seems borne more high
To yon blest regions of the sky;
And thrill by thrill doth purer grow
As further from this earth below.
“Mother!” the young De Courcy cried,
“More gently judge whate'er betide,
Nor thus the soldier's idol blame—
The battle lord of power and fame—
The King of Victories!—he who wields
The sceptre of war's laurell'd fields!”
“Alas!” the mother answer'd, sad,
“Of all man's crimes in scarlet clad,
None can a hue so deadly wear,—
None bring such madness of despair,—

None plunge the lost, in fate so far
As unnecessitated war!—
A war commenced on trivial grounds
Shall blight the soul with all the wounds
Befallen within its sanguine bounds!—
The soul that dares to kindle first
That conflagration's light accursed.

XXVI.

“Beware, triumphant chief!—beware!
Mock'st thou Earth's universal prayer?
While myriads, hurrying at thy call,
Hasten to die and crowd to fall,—
Shower sacrifice on sacrifice,—
That heart of iron and of ice
To please,—though at immortal price!—
To think of all the souls unshriven
Upon their path of terror driven;
Of all the unpardon'd—the unprepared—
That desperately their doom have dared,—
Chills—awes the soul with horror's worst:
Is not the Anarch then accursed?
The danger threats—the downfal comes—
Hark! voices from ten thousand tombs!—
The day is near—the doom at hand,—
Vainly thou armest proud band on band.
'Tis not the storm of adverse spears
That now should rouse the conqueror's fears,—
It is the childless widow's tears!

Dread not the avenging hordes that rise—
Dread—dread the accusing orphans' sighs,
The fatherless, bereaved ones' cries!
Shrink from th' unspoken curse no less,
The unchilded parent's looks express!
Those register'd in heaven remain,
Recorded deeply—not in vain!
Empires in arms could ne'er o'erthrow
The doom-defying victor so!
These—these shall ruin—these bring down
Th' embattailled throne—the fiery crown!
The sun-eyed eagle of the war—
The firmament o'erflowing star!”—

XXVII.

The son, still saddening, faulter'd low,
“Thy blessing, mother, ere I go!”—
And many a blessing doth she shed
O'er that beloved and lofty head,—
And many a tear with these lets fall,—
Last tears and blessings!—tortures all!—
He rises, as in act to part,
One gush of feeling rends her heart!
While hanging on his neck she said,
“Still in thy dark and slaughterous trade,
Oh! spare the mother and the maid!
The aged and the child,—
Think of thy mother—sister, here—
Think of thy treasured blessings dear,—
Let them before thy soul appear,
Then be the mighty—mild!—

Ye are too wolvish oft, and prey
On lambs and pitilessly slay—
Remember retribution's day,
Eschew th' abhorrent deed!
For our sakes pause—for our sakes spare—
Think we are tender pleaders there!
Who wars upon the weak must dare
Heaven's wrath! Hear! hear, and heed!”

XXVIII.

He heard!—he look'd away her fears!—
While on his lids hung vouching tears,
Whose hallow'd promise more endears;
But th' envious moments speed!
He strove the emotion to disguise,
Kiss'd the reproach all loving-wise
From those relenting, trusting eyes,
And vaulted on his steed.
A moment yet he rein'd him back:
Such parting hours the heart-strings crack,—
Profundity of pain!—
A moment yet he paused—he stay'd—
One little moment he delay'd—
'T was Time with all his train!
Whole centuries of memory flow'd
Fast on his being and abode
As never more to part!
With labyrinthine lengthenings too,
Th' Unreal—streamed mingling with the True,
The worlds of sense and heart!

Th' outward and inward worlds appear'd,
Their farthest faint horizons clear'd,
All thoughts,—all truths,—all things—
The soul's great universe was shewn,
The kingdoms too of the Actual known,
His dreams were worlds on wings!—
While in one hurrying moment brief,
He drank the cups of joy and grief,
Of doubt and strength sublime!
Ah! surely that deep moment's reign
Was link'd not with life's common chain—
Eternity—not Time!
Slow part by part were vision'd not
Those realms o'er which his spirit shot,
In earth-o'er-gazing flight!
One mighty picture of the past,
Where colourings of “To Come” were cast,
Spread vast as very light!
One picture thought did then present,
Deep-traced, where mystically blent
Seemed traceries of all themes,
That ere the imagination wide,
Or sterner judgment occupied,
All dooms, and deeds, and dreams.
While yet he check'd his snorting steed,
Nor his impatient ardour freed,
The mother stood beside—
The sister, too—the mild and meek,
With snowy tokens on her cheek
Of sorrow's in-pent tide!

XXIX.

Her voice uplift, the mother, then,
Her dove-soft, mother-voice again:
“Remember—oh! mine own!—
Remember—oh! my noblest son!—
When some vast purple victory's won,
Some foe is overthrown!
These filial foldings—mother's tears—
These tendernesses—birth of years—
The thousand ties Heaven's self endears,
And makes its blessing known,
(By yielding its sweet sanction true
To such affection—Nature's due—
Within the deep heart sown:
Oh! 't is a blessed thing to think,
Heaven thro' our souls doth deeper sink,
With all the love we feel!)
Then let these memories melt thy mind
To purposes sublimely kind,
Thy guarded breast unsteel!
So by thyself ev'n dearly wooed
In that heart-humanizing mood,
May mercy's angel deign,
Hovering o'er that vast host, to smile
When thousands of thy mates the while
Pray comfort for their pain!
So for the sake of one pure heart
Midst the army's huge array—apart,

May Justice yet delay
The chastening stroke,—the o'erwhelming doom;—
Nor let high Vengeance sweep in gloom
O'er all—to scowl and sway.”

XXX.

One look of love, one low farewell,
One struggle with the bosom's swell—
The clattering hoof resounds;
The courser urged to fleetness there
Seems shooting thro' the very air
With wild impetuous bounds!
The loving mourners, watching still,
As if to taste Pain's every ill,
Yield all to sorrow's own wild will,
And sob full loud and deep:
The mother and the sister stay,
As though their souls had flown that way—
Their mute lips bless—their dim eyes pray—
Their very hands do weep—
The two are made One Agony,
One sad and sorrowing sympathy,
One dream of doubts and fears!—
Oh, Nature!—thou art a Niobé!—
Our human nature!—deep and free;—
There, everlastingly we see,
A death-in-life of Sorrow—Thee!
Imperishable tears!
Like earth's self seem'st thou motionless
(With thy despair's swift-whirl'd excess—

A silence and a sleep.)
But thou art tears—all tears, and so,
Since these are all that thou may'st know—
All that doth pause, or freeze, or flow,
Within thy marble-mould of woe,
Thou dost forget to weep!
Else shouldst thou shed thyself away,
Nor might the station'd sorrow stay,
In thee for ever night and day,
Transfix'd—entranced—entomb'd!—
A Deluge, frozen and repress'd—
Seem the ocean-waters of thy breast
To tideless torpors doom'd!

XXXI.

Fresh smiled the morn, fresh blew the breeze,
In diamond armour gleam'd the trees,
Rare panoply of pride!—
'Twas sparkling shield and glittering helm—
The peers of Charlemagne's warrior realm
Ne'er thus attired might ride!
Th' adorning dew far dazzling shone
Like jewell'd harness new-braced on—
Out-shimmering far and wide—
Awakes the breeze—those warriors seem
To move, to clash, to flash, to beam—
Or sheathed with stars,—to bide!
Now pass'd he o'er a vine-clad plain,
Where Plenty seem'd with Peace to reign;
The scene's enchantment stole

With winning influence o'er his brain,
And brought, of gentlest dreams, a train,
To soothe, yet grieve his soul!
“I go from haunts of peace and rest,”
Thus sadly cried he, “bright and blest,
To scenes of death and strife,
Where man with man shall meet in blood,
In deadly hatred's foulest mood,
(Instead of gracious brotherhood!—)
And hurl from love and life!

XXXII.

“But, no! I will not dwell on this—
War hath its own mad, stormy bliss—
War hath its landscapes fair!—
On days of Victory's jubilee,
Proud waves the thick-plumed forestry
Of helm'd heads on the air!
While seem brought nearer to the ground
The sunset-pageantries,—where round
The banners float, in flame!—
With broidery rich—all rough with gold—
A nation's glories on their fold—
Their silken field of fame!
And glistening arms, like glassing lakes,
Where the broad sun lives, leaps, and quakes
When crisping gales just stir—
Bright flooding all the moving scene,
With unimaginable sheen,
To splendour minister.

And death, the warrior's haughty death,
When fast he clasps the trophied wreath,
Is dawn to honour's life—
His soul shall kiss the exalting steel
That bids him join the commonweal
Of heroes ripe and rife!
The death of glory these would claim—
'Tis still their warrior's birth to fame—
Their proud Nativity of Name,
And royal-brave renown!
'Tis still their Hope's transcending hour—
Then—then they reap the enlaurelled dower,
That well their deeds shall crown!
And nations' thoughts shall celebrate
Their fall, their triumph, and their fate,
Through ages evermore—
Shall glorify them long and late,
And their example elevate,
To beacon Victory's shore!”

XXXIII.

His pawing courser's sides he lanced,
Away! away! at once he glanced,
Like flame from stricken flint:
The greensward scarring broad and deep,
Whence fast his heels of thunder sweep
The soft dew's silvery tint.
There fell no rain for many a day,
It chanced—to wash that trace away,
That long enduring dint:

Ah! woe for human hope and trust,
The traces that we leave in dust,
Or on the grass that fades,
May longer than ourselves endure,
More steadfast and more strong and sure
Than we—light fleeting shades!
Ourselves, our business, and our cares,—
Our mighty interests, joys, despairs,
Our weighty hopes and fears,
May long have been erased—forgot,
Lost, lost, 'mong the old things that are not,
While stamped on some late-trodden spot,
Our foot-print yet appears!
The coal-black charger's hoof of speed
Doth answer well the rider's need,
And faithfully, I trow.
And thus, with mingled pride and pain,—
By one of war's tremendous train
The first steps of that march were ta'en,
Whose end all kingdoms know!