Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/244

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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,