Part 19

Another column also suffer’d much:— And here we may remark with the historian, You should but give few cartridges to such Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on: When matters must be carried by the touch Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, Keep merely firing at a foolish distance.

A junction of the General Meknop’s men (Without the General, who had fallen some time Before, being badly seconded just then) Was made at length with those who dared to climb The death-disgorging rampart once again; And though the Turk’s resistance was sublime, They took the bastion, which the Seraskier Defended at a price extremely dear.

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers, Among the foremost, offer’d him good quarter, A word which little suits with Seraskiers, Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. He died, deserving well his country’s tears, A savage sort of military martyr. An English naval officer, who wish’d To make him prisoner, was also dish’d:

For all the answer to his proposition Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead; On which the rest, without more intermission, Began to lay about with steel and lead— The pious metals most in requisition On such occasions: not a single head Was spared;—three thousand Moslems perish’d here, And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.

The city ’s taken—only part by part— And death is drunk with gore: there’s not a street Where fights not to the last some desperate heart For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. Here War forgot his own destructive art In more destroying Nature; and the heat Of carnage, like the Nile’s sun-sodden slime, Engender’d monstrous shapes of every crime.

A Russian officer, in martial tread Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel Seized fast, as if ’twere by the serpent’s head Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel: In vain he kick’d, and swore, and writhed, and bled, And howl’d for help as wolves do for a meal— The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, As do the subtle snakes described of old.

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot Of a foe o’er him, snatch’d at it, and bit The very tendon which is most acute (That which some ancient Muse or modern wit Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through ’t He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish’d it Even with his life—for (but they lie) ’tis said To the live leg still clung the sever’d head.

However this may be, ’tis pretty sure The Russian officer for life was lamed, For the Turk’s teeth stuck faster than a skewer, And left him ’midst the invalid and maim’d: The regimental surgeon could not cure His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed More than the head of the inveterate foe, Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.

But then the fact ’s a fact—and ’tis the part Of a true poet to escape from fiction Whene’er he can; for there is little art In leaving verse more free from the restriction Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart For what is sometimes called poetic diction, And that outrageous appetite for lies Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.

The city ’s taken, but not render’d!—No! There’s not a Moslem that hath yielded sword: The blood may gush out, as the Danube’s flow Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe: In vain the yell of victory is roar’d By the advancing Muscovite—the groan Of the last foe is echoed by his own.

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, And human lives are lavish’d everywhere, As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves When the stripp’d forest bows to the bleak air, And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves, Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.

It is an awful topic—but ’tis not My cue for any time to be terrific: For checker’d as is seen our human lot With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific Of melancholy merriment, to quote Too much of one sort would be soporific;— Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, I sketch your world exactly as it goes.

And one good action in the midst of crimes Is ‘quite refreshing,’ in the affected phrase Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, A little scorch’d at present with the blaze Of conquest and its consequences, which Make epic poesy so rare and rich.

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay Thousands of slaughter’d men, a yet warm group Of murder’d women, who had found their way To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop And shudder;—while, as beautiful as May, A female child of ten years tried to stoop And hide her little palpitating breast Amidst the bodies lull’d in bloody rest.

Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child With flashing eyes and weapons: match’d with them, The rudest brute that roams Siberia’s wild Has feelings pure and polish’d as a gem,— The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild; And whom for this at last must we condemn? Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?

Their sabres glitter’d o’er her little head, Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead: When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, I shall not say exactly what he said, Because it might not solace ‘ears polite;’ But what he did, was to lay on their backs, The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.

One’s hip he slash’d, and split the other’s shoulder, And drove them with their brutal yells to seek If there might be chirurgeons who could solder The wounds they richly merited, and shriek Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder As he turn’d o’er each pale and gory cheek, Don Juan raised his little captive from The heap a moment more had made her tomb.

And she was chill as they, and on her face A slender streak of blood announced how near Her fate had been to that of all her race; For the same blow which laid her mother here Had scarr’d her brow, and left its crimson trace, As the last link with all she had held dear; But else unhurt, she open’d her large eyes, And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix’d Upon each other, with dilated glance, In Juan’s look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix’d With joy to save, and dread of some mischance Unto his protege; while hers, transfix’d With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase;—

Up came John Johnson (I will not say ‘Jack,’ For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace On great occasions, such as an attack On cities, as hath been the present case): Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, Exclaiming;—‘Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace Your arm, and I’ll bet Moscow to a dollar That you and I will win St. George’s collar.

‘The Seraskier is knock’d upon the head, But the stone bastion still remains, wherein The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, Smoking his pipe quite calmly ’midst the din Of our artillery and his own: ’tis said Our kill’d, already piled up to the chin, Lie round the battery; but still it batters, And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters.

‘Then up with me!’—But Juan answer’d, ‘Look Upon this child—I saved her—must not leave Her life to chance; but point me out some nook Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, And I am with you.’—Whereon Johnson took A glance around—and shrugg’d—and twitch’d his sleeve And black silk neckcloth—and replied, ‘You’re right; Poor thing! what ’s to be done? I’m puzzled quite.’

Said Juan: ‘Whatsoever is to be Done, I’ll not quit her till she seems secure Of present life a good deal more than we.’ Quoth Johnson: ‘Neither will I quite ensure; But at the least you may die gloriously.’ Juan replied: ‘At least I will endure Whate’er is to be borne—but not resign This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.’

Johnson said: ‘Juan, we’ve no time to lose; The child ’s a pretty child—a very pretty— I never saw such eyes—but hark! now choose Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;— Hark! how the roar increases!—no excuse Will serve when there is plunder in a city;— I should be loth to march without you, but, By God! we’ll be too late for the first cut.’

But Juan was immovable; until Johnson, who really loved him in his way, Pick’d out amongst his followers with some skill Such as he thought the least given up to prey; And swearing if the infant came to ill That they should all be shot on the next day; But if she were deliver’d safe and sound, They should at least have fifty rubles round,

And all allowances besides of plunder In fair proportion with their comrades;—then Juan consented to march on through thunder, Which thinn’d at every step their ranks of men: And yet the rest rush’d eagerly—no wonder, For they were heated by the hope of gain, A thing which happens everywhere each day— No hero trusteth wholly to half pay.

And such is victory, and such is man! At least nine tenths of what we call so;—God May have another name for half we scan As human beings, or his ways are odd. But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan— Or ‘sultan,’ as the author (to whose nod In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call This chieftain—somehow would not yield at all:

But flank’d by five brave sons (such is polygamy, That she spawns warriors by the score, where none Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy), He never would believe the city won While courage clung but to a single twig.—Am I Describing Priam’s, Peleus’, or Jove’s son? Neither—but a good, plain, old, temperate man, Who fought with his five children in the van.

To take him was the point. The truly brave, When they behold the brave oppress’d with odds, Are touch’d with a desire to shield and save;— A mixture of wild beasts and demigods Are they—now furious as the sweeping wave, Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods The rugged tree unto the summer wind, Compassion breathes along the savage mind.

But he would not be taken, and replied To all the propositions of surrender By mowing Christians down on every side, As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. His five brave boys no less the foe defied; Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who Expended all their Eastern phraseology In begging him, for God’s sake, just to show So much less fight as might form an apology For them in saving such a desperate foe— He hew’d away, like doctors of theology When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.

Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell, The first with sighs, the second with an oath, Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, And all around were grown exceeding wroth At such a pertinacious infidel, And pour’d upon him and his sons like rain, Which they resisted like a sandy plain

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish’d— His second son was levell’d by a shot; His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish’d Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot; The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish’d, Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, Because deform’d, yet died all game and bottom, To save a sire who blush’d that he begot him.

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, As great a scorner of the Nazarene As ever Mahomet pick’d out for a martyr, Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, Who make the beds of those who won’t take quarter On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen, Those houris, like all other pretty creatures, Do just whate’er they please, by dint of features.

And what they pleased to do with the young khan In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess; But doubtless they prefer a fine young man To tough old heroes, and can do no less; And that ’s the cause no doubt why, if we scan A field of battle’s ghastly wilderness, For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, You’ll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody.

Your houris also have a natural pleasure In lopping off your lately married men, Before the bridal hours have danced their measure And the sad, second moon grows dim again, Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure To wish him back a bachelor now and then. And thus your houri (it may be) disputes Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.

Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight, Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, But bravely rush’d on his first heavenly night. In short, howe’er our better faith derides, These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, As though there were one heaven and none besides,— Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven And hell, there must at least be six or seven.

So fully flash’d the phantom on his eyes, That when the very lance was in his heart, He shouted ‘Allah!’ and saw Paradise With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, And bright eternity without disguise On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart:— With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried In one voluptuous blaze,—and then he died,

But with a heavenly rapture on his face. The good old khan, who long had ceased to see Houris, or aught except his florid race Who grew like cedars round him gloriously— When he beheld his latest hero grace The earth, which he became like a fell’d tree, Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast A glance on that slain son, his first and last.

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, Stopp’d as if once more willing to concede Quarter, in case he bade them not ‘aroynt!’ As he before had done. He did not heed Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint, And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, As he look’d down upon his children gone, And felt—though done with life—he was alone

But ’twas a transient tremor;—with a spring Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing Against the light wherein she dies: he clung Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; And throwing back a dim look on his sons, In one wide wound pour’d forth his soul at once.

’Tis strange enough—the rough, tough soldiers, who Spared neither sex nor age in their career Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, And lay before them with his children near, Touch’d by the heroism of him they slew, Were melted for a moment: though no tear Flow’d from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, They honour’d such determined scorn of life.

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, Where the chief pacha calmly held his post: Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, And baffled the assaults of all their host; At length he condescended to inquire If yet the city’s rest were won or lost; And being told the latter, sent a bey To answer Ribas’ summons to give way.

In the mean time, cross-legg’d, with great sang-froid, Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking Tobacco on a little carpet;—Troy Saw nothing like the scene around:—yet looking With martial stoicism, nought seem’d to annoy His stern philosophy; but gently stroking His beard, he puff’d his pipe’s ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives, as well as tails.

The town was taken—whether he might yield Himself or bastion, little matter’d now: His stubborn valour was no future shield. Ismail ’s no more! The crescent’s silver bow Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o’er the field, But red with no redeeming gore: the glow Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses; All that the body perpetrates of bad; All that we read, hear, dream, of man’s distresses; All that the devil would do if run stark mad; All that defies the worst which pen expresses; All by which hell is peopled, or as sad As hell—mere mortals who their power abuse— Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.

If here and there some transient trait of pity Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty Child, or an aged, helpless man or two— What ’s this in one annihilated city, Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew? Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.

Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don’t forget Such doom may be your own in aftertimes. Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland’s present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley’s glory.

But still there is unto a patriot nation, Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation— Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! Howe’er the mighty locust, Desolation, Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne— Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.

But let me put an end unto my theme: There was an end of Ismail—hapless town! Far flash’d her burning towers o’er Danube’s stream, And redly ran his blushing waters down. The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown: Of forty thousand who had mann’d the wall, Some hundreds breathed—the rest were silent all!

In one thing ne’ertheless ’tis fit to praise The Russian army upon this occasion, A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, And therefore worthy of commemoration: The topic ’s tender, so shall be my phrase— Perhaps the season’s chill, and their long station In winter’s depth, or want of rest and victual, Had made them chaste;—they ravish’d very little.

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less Might here and there occur some violation In the other line;—but not to such excess As when the French, that dissipated nation, Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess, Except cold weather and commiseration; But all the ladies, save some twenty score, Were almost as much virgins as before.

Some odd mistakes, too, happen’d in the dark, Which show’d a want of lanterns, or of taste— Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark Their friends from foes,—besides such things from haste Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark Of light to save the venerably chaste: But six old damsels, each of seventy years, Were all deflower’d by different grenadiers.

But on the whole their continence was great; So that some disappointment there ensued To those who had felt the inconvenient state Of ‘single blessedness,’ and thought it good (Since it was not their fault, but only fate, To bear these crosses) for each waning prude To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged Were also heard to wonder in the din (Widows of forty were these birds long caged) ‘Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!’ But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, There was small leisure for superfluous sin; But whether they escaped or no, lies hid In darkness—I can only hope they did.

Suwarrow now was conqueror—a match For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch Blazed, and the cannon’s roar was scarce allay’d, With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch; And here exactly follows what he said:— ‘Glory to God and to the Empress!’ (Powers Eternal! such names mingled!) ‘Ismail ’s ours.’

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, Since ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel,’ and ‘Upharsin,’ Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. Heaven help me! I’m but little of a parson: What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord’s, Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on The fate of nations;—but this Russ so witty Could rhyme, like Nero, o’er a burning city.

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it— For I will teach, if possible, the stones To rise against earth’s tyrants. Never let it Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;— But ye—our children’s children! think how we Show’d what things were before the world was free!

That hour is not for us, but ’tis for you: And as, in the great joy of your millennium, You hardly will believe such things were true As now occur, I thought that I would pen you ’em; But may their very memory perish too!— Yet if perchance remember’d, still disdain you ’em More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.

And when you hear historians talk of thrones, And those that sate upon them, let it be As we now gaze upon the mammoth’s bones, ‘And wonder what old world such things could see, Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, The pleasant riddles of futurity— Guessing at what shall happily be hid, As the real purpose of a pyramid.

Reader! I have kept my word,—at least so far As the first Canto promised. You have now Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war— All very accurate, you must allow, And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; For I have drawn much less with a long bow Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. What farther hath befallen or may befall The hero of this grand poetic riddle, I by and by may tell you, if at all: But now I choose to break off in the middle, Worn out with battering Ismail’s stubborn wall, While Juan is sent off with the despatch, For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.

This special honour was conferr’d, because He had behaved with courage and humanity— Which last men like, when they have time to pause From their ferocities produced by vanity. His little captive gain’d him some applause For saving her amidst the wild insanity Of carnage,—and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.