It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red:
For the first time the eagle hung down its head.
Sombre days! The Emperor slowly came back,
Leaving behind him Moscow smoking and black.
Like an avalanche winter burst amain,
One white plain past, spread another white plain.
Nor banner nor chief any order could keep,
Late the grand army, now bewildered sheep.
The wings from the centre could hardly be known.
It snowed. Dead horses and carts overthrown
Sheltered the wounded. Bivouacs forlorn
Displayed strange sights, sometimes, as broke the morn
Trumpeters were seen, upright at their post,
Mute, on the saddle, and covered with frost;
Trumpets of copper that gave out no tone,
Fixed, as for ever, unto lips of stone.
Bullets, grape-shot and shells, mixed with the snow,
Rained as from heaven upon the troops below.
Surprised to find themselves trembling with cold,
Who ne'er trembled from fear, these veterans bold
Marched pensive; on their grey moustaches clung
The hoar-frost; torn above the banners hung.
