PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA.
"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,
