Part 32 (1/2)
THE SEAMAN'S SONG.
_(”Adieu, patrie.”)_
[Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.]
Farewell the strand, The sails expand Above!
Farewell the land We love!
Farewell, old home where apples swing!
Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!
Farewell, riff-raff Of Customs' clerks who laugh And shout: ”Farewell!” We'll quaff One bout To thee, young la.s.s, with kisses sweet!
Farewell, my dear--the s.h.i.+p flies fleet!
The fog shuts out the last fond peep, As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep.
Farewell, old home, young la.s.s, the bird!
The whistling wind alone is heard: Farewell! Farewell!
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.
_(”Il neigeait.”)_
[Bk. V. xiii., Nov. 25-30, 1852.]
It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red!
For once the eagle was hanging its head.
Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.
The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain.
Nor chief nor banner in order could keep, The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep.
The wings from centre could hardly be known Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown, Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn: Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad.
The sh.e.l.ls and bullets came down with the snow As though the heavens hated these poor troops below.
Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold, Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold Marched stern; to grizzled moustache h.o.a.rfrost clung 'Neath banners that in leaden ma.s.ses hung.
It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze Whistled upon the gla.s.sy endless seas, Where naked feet on, on for ever went, With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.
They were not living troops as seen in war, But merely phantoms of a dream, afar In darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim,-- A mystery; of shadows a procession grim, Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim.
Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold, A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense, A shroud of magnitude for host immense; Till every one felt as if left alone In a wide wilderness where no light shone, To die, with pity none, and none to see That from this mournful realm none should get free.
Their foes the frozen North and Czar--That, worst.
Cannon were broken up in haste accurst To burn the frames and make the pale fire high, Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die.
Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.
'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised O'er regiments. And History, amazed, Could not record the ruin of this retreat, Unlike a downfall known before or the defeat Of Hannibal--reversed and wrapped in gloom!
Of Attila, when nations met their doom!