Moskva Rescued

Receive the minstrel wanderer
Within thy glades, thou shadowy wood!
No idle tone of joy be here;
Nor let even Venus’ song intrude!
Fair Moskva’s smile my vision fills--
Her fields, her waters,--towering high,
And, seated on her throne of hills,
A glorious pile of days gone by.

O Moskva, many a nation’s mother,
How bright thy glances beam on me!
Where, like to thee--where stands another--
Where, Russia’s daughter, like to thee!
As pearls thy thousand crowns appear,
Thy hands a diamond sceptre hold;
Thy domes, thy steeples bright and clear,
Like sunny rays on eastern gold.
The treasures of the orient meet
Those of the west: through every street
A stream of wealth and luxury flows.
Thy sons are natural heirs of fame,
Courage and glory shrine their name;
Thy daughters--lovely as the rose.

But war has spread its terrors o’er thee,
And thou wert once in ashes laid;
Thy throne seem’d tottering then before thee,
Thy sceptre feeble as thy blade.
Sarmatian fraud and force, o’er-raging
The humbled world, have reach’d thy gate;
Thy faith with flattering smiles engaging,
Now threatening daggers on thee wait--
And they were drawn--thy temples sank--
Thy virgins led with fetter clank--
Thy sons’ blood streaming to the skies--
‘Spirit of vengeance! now arise.
Save me, thou guardian angel!--save!’
So criedst thou in thy agony.
Thy streets are silent as the grave--
The unsheath’d sword--it hangs o’er thee.

And where is Russia’s saviour--where?--
Stand up--arouse thee--in thy might!
Moskva alarm’d--surrounded there
And clouded, as a winter’s night.
Look!--she awakes--she knows no fear,
And young and old, and prince and slave;--
Their daggers flash like boreal light;
They crowd--they crowd them to the fight.
But who is that with snowy hair--
The first--that stern old man--the tide
Of heroes he leads onward there!
Pozharsky--Russia’s strength and pride!
What transport tunes my lyre!--my lays
Seem glowing with celestial fire:
O! I will sing that old man’s praise;
Shout loudly now, thou heavenly choir!
I hear--I hear the armour’s sound:
The dust-clouds round the pillars rise--
See! Russia’s children gather round.

Pozharsky o’er the city flies,
And from death’s stillness he awakes
The very life of valour.--Lo!
Midst the star’s light, and sunny glow,
He forms the firm courageous row.
Here--there: hope, joy, again appear:
The burghers gather round him there,
And range them for the combat now.

‘And why this crowd?’ a warrior calls
From a high pinnacle--he saw--
His senses whelm’d in fear and awe--
He fled from Kremlin’s royal walls.
‘Sarmatians! to your swords!’ he said;
‘Delay not, for we are betray’d:
‘I saw the gathering enemy
‘Stretch’d like a waking snake along:
‘They gain the city rapidly--
‘The fields are cover’d with the throng.’
’Tis bustle all--’tis all dismay;
What crowds of soldiers fill each street!
Round walls and gates their cohorts meet,
And like a whirlwind urge their way
To where Sclavonian thunders roar!

And see! how bright the heaven is glowing!--
What smoke--what flame--what blood is flowing!
Sword echoes sword the wide plain o’er;
Whole ranks are harvested that stood
Like the firm oak trees of the wood:
The bullets o’er the field are flying--
Here sleep the dead, there shriek the dying:
There, staggering ’neath a lance’s wound,
A wild-horse madly stamps the ground,
Flies--falls--and covers, as he dies,
The turf on which his rider lies:
Still the storm struggles in the air,
And agony is every where.

Death is the conqueror!--death--despair!
They rule o’er village, field, and grove:
A wounded maiden tears her hair,
A hoary sire just looks above,
Then to the ground--and sleeps serenely.
Come, moralist! and study here:
See that poor orphan, suffering keenly,--
His star is sunk; the starting tear
That falls for those whose blood was spilt--
For others’ interests, others’ guilt,
Trembles upon his cheeks; the fate
Of war hath left him friendless--best
Were it for him to join the rest,
Nor live thus drear and desolate.

And thrice the day hath seen the strife,
And thrice hath dawn’d Aurora blithe;
The battle-demon sports with life,
Death waves untired his murderous scythe.
Pozharsky’s thunder still is heard;
He speeds him like the eagle-bird
Following his prey--destroying--crushing,--
Then on the Poles with fury rushing,
He scatters them like flying sands,--
That giant of the hundred hands.
On! On!--What transports of delight!
‘Hurrah! Pozharsky wins the fight!’
The city joins the ecstasy--
‘O yes! our Moskva now is free!’

O memorable morning’s ray!
O ne’er to be forgotten day,
What painter’s pencil shall portray thee,
And in thy natural joy array thee,
And tell each bosom’s rapture then!
Millions in wild delight!--they crowd
Upon the bulwarks, shouting loud:--
The very roofs are made of men.
What flower-wreathes o’er the streets they flung,
What triumph-songs the churches sung;
How high, how bright the banners hung,
And palms crown’d every citizen!

Where is the hero?--where is he
Who led our sons to victory?
List to that cry of eloquence--
‘What--what shall be his recompense?’
Look!--He who made the invaders bleed,
And Moskva and his country freed,
He--modest as courageous--he
Takes the bright garland from his brow,
And to a youth he bends him now--
He bends his old and hero-knee.
‘Thou art of royal blood,’ he said,
‘Thy father is in foemen’s hand;
‘Wear thou that garland on thy head,
‘And bless, O bless our father-land!’

Valiant old hero! Russia’s pride,
And Russia’s love,--I bless thee now.
By the gigantic mountain’s side
May everlasting waters flow;
May marshes turn to groves and woods;
Out of our wastes may gardens grow;
And in our barren solitudes
May cities flourish--and decay:
While generations pass away,
And brighter lights disperse their ray;
Yet thou shalt be the poet’s charm,
And thou shalt be the warrior’s glory,
Through never-ending time to warm
The bosom with thy patriot story.