AN ANECDOTE
Of Alexander, Emperor of Russia, recorded in a newspaper several years ago.
Great Alexander, it is said,
Once conquer’d all the then known world:
From clime to clime, with fury mad,
War’s desolating rage he hurl’d.
Ambition thirsting still for blood,
Th’ infatuated tyrant drove,
To shed it in a sanguine flood,
As if to extirpate man he strove.
Though after ages hear his fame,
Preserv’d in history and in song;
Humanity detests his name,
And all the war-delighted throng.
At present I would sing of one,
An Alexander of more worth,
Humanity’s exalted son,
The potent Emperor of the north.
A humble muse who never soar’d,
Nor e’er to sing of Monarch try’d,
One royal action to record,
Counts both her pleasure and her pride.
Fam’d Alexander, who doth sway
The Russian Empire, large and broad;
It chanc’d that lately on a day,
At distance from his train he rode.—
It chanc’d;—No! Providence did send,
That hour, the Emperor out with speed,
To prove himself Compassion’s friend,
And to perform a noble deed.—
He rode at distance from his train,
For, innocent, no harm he fear’d,
And deem’d all hir’d Protectors vain,—
His people’s love a surer guard.
Out from a river’s rapid force,
He saw some peasants who convey’d,
With toil, a seeming lifeless corse,
Which on the grassy bank they laid.
Then all his sympathetic soul
Was mov’d with pity’s keenest zeal,
Was mov’d at nature’s kind controul,
As minds ignoble never will.
The peasants look’d with silent gaze,
No farther service they can do;
“Be active,” Alexander says,
“And I myself will aid you too.”
Then quickly on the ground he stands,
Fast by the fatal river’s verge,
And rais’d the corse with cautious hands,
The oozing water to discharge.
Just then his whole attendants came,
The sight, no doubt, surpris’d them all;
Their sloth he stops not once to blame,
But loudly does a doctor call.
Physician he of skill approv’d,
From fam’d Britannia’s distant isle;
He was the Emperor’s friend belov’d,
And sprung with haste to share his toil.
An artery quick was opened now,
In hopes that wound might life restore;
But ah! no blood from thence would flow,
’Twas ev’n more hopeless than before.
Yet still the Emperor persever’d,
Inspir’d with kind philanthropy,
And patient, all about him cheer’d,
That yet they might successful be.
And still his temples gently chaf’d,
And still rub’d all his body o’er;
For two whole hours he nothing left
Untri’d that might the man restore.
At last life’s current flow’d anon,
And from the wounded vessel stream’d,
And now he faintly breathes a groan:
Then his preserver glad exclaim’d—
“O God! this is the brightest day
Of all my reign—of all my life.”—
Such bliss will generous bosoms ay
From truly noble deeds derive.
His handkerchief was rent in haste,
As bandage for the wounded part;
A trifle added to the rest,
Which spoke the goodness of his heart.
O Russia! of thy monarch boast,
Who well deserves the world’s thanks;
Be not his bright example lost,
But may it influence all ranks.
Ye Russian subjects eye the throne,
Correct your manners, harsh and wild,
Copy your Emperor’s, hate your own—
’Twill make the rudest of you mild.