Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: On with the cohorts, on! -- a darkening cloud Last Line: Is better passport at the gate of heaven. Subject(s): Beresina River (russia); Russia; Soviet Union; Russians | ||||||||
ON with the cohorts, -- on! A darkening cloud Of Cossack lances hovers o'er the heights; And hark! -- the Russian thunder on the rear Thins the retreating ranks. The haggard French, Like summoned spectres, facing toward their foes, And goading on the lean and dying steeds That totter 'neath their huge artillery, Give desperate battle. Wrapt in volumed smoke A dense and motley mass of hurried forms Rush toward the Beresina. Soldiers mix Undisciplined amid the feebler throng, While from the rough ravines the rumbling cars That bear the sick and wounded, with the spoils, Torn rashly from red Moscow's sea of flame, Line the steep banks. Chilled with the endless shade Of black pine-forests, where unslumbering winds Make bitter music, -- every heart is sick For the warm breath of its far, native vales, Vine-clad and beautiful. Pale, meagre hands Stretched forth in eager misery, implore Quick passage o'er the flood. But there it rolls, 'Neath its ice-curtain, horrible and hoarse, A fatal barrier 'gainst its country's foes. The combat deepens. Lo! in one broad flash The Russian sabre gleams, and the wild hoof Treads out despairing life. With maniac haste They throng the bridge, those fugitives of France, Reckless of all, save that last, desperate chance, -- Rush, struggle, strive, the powerful thrust the weak, And crush the dying. Hark! a thundering crash, A cry of horror! Down the broken bridge Sinks, and the wretched multitude plunge deep 'Neath the devouring tide. That piercing shriek With which they took their farewell of the sky, Did haunt the living, as some doleful ghost Troubleth the fever-dream. Some for a while, With ice and death contending, sink and rise, While some in wilder agony essay To hold their footing on that tossing mass Of miserable life, making their path O'er palpitating bosoms. 'T is in vain! The keen pang passes and the satiate flood Shuts silent o'er its prey. The severed host Stand gazing on each shore. The gulf, -- the dead Forbid their union. One sad throng is warned To Russia's dungeons, one with shivering haste Spread o'er the wild, through toil and pain to hew Their many roads to death. From desert plains, From sacked and solitary villages Gaunt Famine springs to seize them; Winter's wrath, Unresting day or night, with blast and storm, And one eternal magazine of frost, Smites the astonished victims. God of Heaven! Warrest thou with France, that thus thine elements Do fight against her sons? Yet on they press, Stern, rigid, silent, -- every bosom steeled By the strong might of its own misery Against all sympathy of kindred ties. The brother on his fainting brother treads; Friend tears from friend the garment and the bread, -- That last, scant morsel, which his quivering lip Hoards in its death-pang. Round the midnight fires, That fiercely through the startled forest blaze, The dreaming shadows gather, madly pleased To bask and scorch and perish, -- with their limbs Crisped like the martyr's, and their heads fast sealed To the frost-pillow of their fearful rest. Turn back, turn back, thou fur-clad emperor, Thus toward the palace of the Tuileries Flying with breathless speed. You meagre forms, Yon breathing skeletons, with tattered robes, And bare and bleeding feet, and matted locks, Are these the high and haughty troops of France, The buoyant conscripts, who from their blest homes Went gayly at thy bidding? When the cry Of weeping Love demands her cherished ones, The nursed upon her breast, -- the idol-gods Of her deep worship, -- wilt thou coldly point The Beresina, -- the drear hospital, The frequent snow-mound on the unsheltered march, Where the lost soldier sleeps! O War! War! War! Thou false baptized, who by thy vaunted name Of glory stealest o'er the ear of man To rive his bosom with thy thousand darts, Disrobed of pomp and circumstance, stand forth, And show thy written league with sin and death. Yes, ere ambition's heart is seared and sold And desolated, bid him mark thine end And count thy wages. The proud victor's plume, The hero's trophied fame, the warrior's wreath Of blood-dashed laurel, -- what will these avail The spirit parting from material things? One slender leaflet from the tree of peace, Borne, dove-like, o'er the waste and warring earth, Is better passport at the gate of Heaven. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 259 by LYN HEJINIAN A FOREIGN COUNTRY by JOSEPHINE MILES THE DIAMOND PERSONA by NORMAN DUBIE IN MEMORIAM: 1933 (7. RUSSIA: ANNO 1905) by CHARLES REZNIKOFF TAKE A LETTER TO DMITRI SHOSTAKOVITCH by CARL SANDBURG READING THE RUSSIANS by RUTH STONE THE SOVIET CIRCUS VISITS HAVANA, 1969 by VIRGIL SUAREZ A PROBLEM IN AESTHETICS by KAREN SWENSON COLUMBUS [JANUARY, 1487] by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY |
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