’Twas a night to make the bravest Shrink from the tempest’s breath, For the winter snows were bitter, And the winds were cruel as death.All day on the roofs of Warsaw Had the white storm sifted down Till it almost hid the humble huts Of the poor outside the town.And it beat upon one low cottage With a sort of reckless spite, As if to add to their wretchedness Who sat by its hearth that night;Where Dorby, the Polish peasant, Took his pale wife by the hand, And told her that when the morrow came They would have no home in the land.No human hand would aid him With the rent that was due at morn; And his cold, hard-hearted landlord Had spurned his prayers with scorn.Then the poor man took his Bible, And read, while his eyes grew dim, To see if any comfort Were written there for him;When he suddenly heard a knocking On the casement, soft and light: It was n’t the storm; but what else could be Abroad in such a night?Then he went and opened the window, But for wonder scarce could speak, As a bird flew in with a jewelled ring Held flashing in his beak.“’Tis the bird I trained,” said Dorby, “And that is the precious ring That once I saw on the royal hand Of our good and gracious king.“And if birds, as our lesson tells us, Once came with food to men, Who knows,” said the foolish peasant, “But they might be sent again!”So he hopefully went with the morning, And knocked at the palace gate, And gave to the king the jewel They had searched for long and late.And when he had heard the story Which the peasant had to tell, He gave him a fruitful garden, And a home wherein to dwell.And Dorby wrote o’er the doorway These words that all might see: “Thou hast called on the Lord in trouble, And he hath delivered thee!”
Phœbe Cary, "The King’s Jewel", in Last Poems (1873)
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, 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 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, 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. 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.Quick all at once a sullen bell Upon the gateway tower Broke out, to warn our citizens Napoleon’s savage power Had gone to wreck, and these the waifs Were making fast to land. It bade us look to see the hulk Sucked hellward by the sand.All day the frozen, bleeding men 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, Red bayonets bent, and swords that still Were reeking from the blow.A drunken rabble, pale and wan, With cursing faces turned To where, still threatening in the rear, The port-fires lurid burned. The ground was strewn with epaulettes, Letters, and cards, and songs; The barrels, leaking drops of gold, 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. 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, 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 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 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!”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 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. 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— 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. 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 (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— Tall, gaunt, and wrapped in frozen furs, Hard frozen to his skin.* * * * The wretched hag of the low inn Puffed at the sullen fire Of spitting wood, that hissed and smoked: 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.“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!— 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; 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 To match the Kremlin dome.“Well? well as Beelzebub himself!” He leaped into the sleigh Sent for to bear this Cæsar off Upon his ruthless way. A flash of fire!—the courtyard stones Snapped out—the landlord cheered— In a hell-gulf of pitchy dark The carriage disappeared.
Walter Thornbury, "The Retreat from Moscow (As it appeared to a Polish Abbe, at Warsaw, December 16th, 1812)", in Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs (1875)
