LXXXVIII.

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,
And human lives are lavish'd every where,
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 with vast and awful splinters,
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.
LXXXIX.

It is an awful topic-but 't is not

My cue for any time to be terrific : For chequer'd as it seems 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.

XCIV.

XCV.

XCVI.

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 mischar
Unto his protégé ; 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 ;

"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, 'mid the din Of our artillery and his own; 't is 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.

XCIX.

"Then up with me!"-But Juan answer'd, "Look
Upon this child-I sav'd her-must not leave
Her life to chance; but point me out some nook

Of safety, where she less may shriek 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."

CX.

That drinks and still is dry. At last they peralds-
His second son was levell'd by a shot;
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherin's
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 botan,
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.

CXI.

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.

CXII.

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.

CXIII.

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.
CXIV.

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. CXV.

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:

CXVI.

But, with a heavenly raj ure 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.

CXVII.

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not "aroint!"
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.

XIX.

"But heaven," as Cassio says, "is above all.— No more of this then,-let us pray!" We have Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall,

Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, Besides fish, beasts, and birds. "The sparrow's fall Is special providence," though how it gave Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd

ΧΧ.

Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony?

Oh, thou too mortal man! what is philanthropy? Oh, world, which was and is! what is cosmogony ? Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean:-Lykan I comprehend; for, without transformation, Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

XXI.

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,

Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er Done any thing exceedingly unkind,—

And (though I could not now and then forbear Following the bent of body or of mind)

Have always had a tendency to spare,Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them :-And nere we'll pause.

XXII.

"T is time we should proceed with our good poem For I maintain that it is really good, Not only in the body, but the proem,

However little both are understood
Just now,-but by and by the truth. will show 'em
Herself in her sublimest attitude:

And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.

XXIII.

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours)-
Was left upon his way to the chief city

Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors,

Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty,

I know its mighty empire now allures

Much flattery-even Voltai.e's, and that's a pity.

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat

Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.