THE YELLOW snow-fog curdled thick, | |
| Dark, brooding, dull, and brown, | |
| About the ramparts, hiding all | |
| The steeples of the town; | |
| The icicles, as thick as beams, | 5 |
| Hung down from every roof, | |
| When all at once we heard a sound | |
| As of a muffled hoof. | |
| |
| ’Twas nothing but a soldier’s horse, | |
| All riderless and torn | 10 |
| With bullets; scarce his bleeding legs | |
| Could reach the gate. A morn | |
| Of horror broke upon us then; | |
| We listened, but no drum— | |
| Only a sullen, distant roar, | 15 |
| Telling us that they come. | |
| |
| Next, slowly staggering through the fog, | |
| A grenadier reeled past, | |
| A bloody turban round his head, | |
| His pallid face aghast. | 20 |
| Behind him, with an arm bound up | |
| With half a Russian flag, | |
| Came one—then three—the last one sopped | |
| His breast with crimson rag. | |
| |
| All day the frozen, bleeding men | 25 |
| Came pouring through the place; | |
| Drums broken, colours torn to shreds, | |
| Foul wounds on every face. | |
| Black powder-wagons, scorched and split, | |
| Broad wheels caked thick with snow, | 30 |
| Red bayonets bent, and swords that still | |
| Were reeking from the blow. | |
| |
| The ground was strewn with epaulettes, | |
| Letters, and cards, and songs; | |
| The barrels, leaking drops of gold, | 35 |
| Were trampled by the throngs. | |
| A brutal, selfish, goring mob, | |
| Yet here and there a trace | |
| Of the divine shone out, and lit | |
| A gashed and suffering face. | 40 |
| |
| Here came a youth, who on his back, | |
| His dying father bore; | |
| With bandaged feet the brave youth limped, | |
| Slow, shuddering, dripping gore. | |
| And even ’mid the trampling crowd, | 45 |
| Maimed, crippled by the frost, | |
| I found that every spark of good | |
| Was not extinct and lost. | |
| |
| Deep in the ranks of savage men | |
| I saw two grenadiers | 50 |
| Leading their corporal, his breast | |
| Stabbed by the Cossack spears. | |
| He saved that boy, whose tearful eyes | |
| Were fixed upon the three— | |
| Although too weak to beat his drum | 55 |
| Still for his company. | |
| |
| Half-stripped, or wrapped in furs and gowns, | |
| The broken ranks went on; | |
| They ran if any one called out | |
| “The Cossacks of the Don!” | 60 |
| The whispered rumour, like a fire, | |
| Spreads fast from street to street, | |
| With boding look and shaking head | |
| The staring gossips meet. | |
| |
| “Ten thousand horses every night | 65 |
| Were smitten by the frost; | |
| Full thirty thousand rank and file | |
| In Beresina lost. | |
| The Cossacks fill their caps with gold | |
| The Frenchmen fling away. | 70 |
| Napoleon was shot the first, | |
| And only lived a day— | |
| |
| “They say that Caulaincourt is lost— | |
| The guns are left behind; | |
| God’s curse has fallen on these thieves— | 75 |
| He sent the snow and wind.” | |
| Tired of the clatter and the noise, | |
| I sought an inner room, | |
| Where twenty wax-lights, starry clear, | |
| Drove off the fog and gloom. | 80 |
| |
| I took my wanton Ovid down, | |
| And soon forgot the scene, | |
| As through my dreams I saw arise | |
| The rosy-bosomed queen. | |
| My wine stood mantling in the glass | 85 |
| (The goblet of Voltaire), | |
| I sipped and dozed, and dozed and sipped, | |
| Slow rocking in my chair, | |
| When open flew the bursting door, | |
| And Coulaincourt stalked in— | 90 |
| Tall, gaunt, and wrapped in frozen fun | |
| Hard frozen to his skin. | |
| |
| The wretched hag of the low inn | |
| Puffed at the sullen fire | |
| Of spitting wood, that hissed and smoked; | 95 |
| There stood the Jove whose ire | |
| But lately set the world aflame, | |
| Wrapped in a green pelisse, | |
| Fur-lined, and stiff with half-burnt lace, | |
| Trying to seem at ease. | 100 |
| |
| “Bah! Du sublime au ridicule | |
| Il n’y a qu’un pas,” | |
| He said. “The rascals think they’ve made | |
| A comet of my star. | |
| The army broken?—dangers?—pish! | 105 |
| I did not bring the frost. | |
| Levy ten thousand Poles, Duroc— | |
| Who tells me we have lost? | |
| |
| “I beat them everywhere, Murat— | |
| It is a costly game; | 110 |
| But nothing venture, nothing win— | |
| I’m sorry now we came. | |
| That burning Moscow was a deed | |
| Worthy of ancient Rome— | |
| Mind that I gild the Invalides | 115 |
| To match the Kremlin dome. | |
| |
| “Well? well as Beelzebub himself!” | |
| He leaped into the sleigh | |
| Sent for to bear the Cæsar off | |
| Upon his ruthless way. | 120 |
| A flash of fire!—the court-yard stones | |
| Snapped out—the landlord cheered— | |
| In a hell-gulf of pitchy dark | |
| The carriage disappeared. | |
| |
