Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back (With some assistance from the frost and snow) Napoleon on his bold and bloody track,
It happen'd was himself beat back just now. He was a jolly fellow, and could crack
His jest alike in face of friend or foe, Though life, and death, and victory were at stakeBut here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take:
For, having thrown himself into a ditch,
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers,
Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich,
He climb'd to where the parapet appears;
But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch-
('Mong other deaths the General Ribaupierre's
Was much regretted)-for the Moslem men
Threw them all down into the ditch again:
And, had it not been for some stray troops landing
They knew not where,-being carried by the stream
To some spot, where they lost their understanding,
And wander'd up and down as in a dream,
Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding,
That which a portal to their eyes did seem,-
The great and gay Koutousow might have lain
Where three parts of his column yet remain.
And, scrambling round the rampart, these same
After the taking of the "cavalier," [troops,
Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of "hopes'
Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear,
Open'd the gate call'd "Kilia" to the groups
Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near,
Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud,
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood.
The Kozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks(I don't much pique myself upon orthography, So that I do not grossly err in facts,
Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography)Having been used to serve on horses' backs, And no great dilettanti in topography Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases Their chiefs to order,-were all cut to pieces.
Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart,
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd
The city, without being further hamper'd;
But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd-
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd,
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners,
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorn-
Then being taken by the tail-a taking
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers-these
Cossacks were all cut off as day was breaking,
And found their lives were let at a short lease-
But perish'd without shivering or shaking,
Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses,
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki:-
This valiant man kill'd all the Turks be met,
But could not eat them, being in his turn
Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet,
Without resistance, see their city burn.
The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn 'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch.
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. 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) [climb
Was made at length, with those who dared to
The death-disgorging rampart once again;
And, though the Turks' 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 steal 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. LXXXIII.
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 mealThe teeth still kept their gratifying hold, As do the subtle snakes described of old.
"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; '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 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
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 or 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, And black silk neckcloth-and replied, "You're Compassion breathes along the savage mind Poor thing! what's to be done? I'm puzzled quite."
A glance around—and shrugg'd-and twitch'd his sleeve
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 insure;
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's 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 among 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 delivered safe and sound,
They should at least have fifty roubles round,
CIII.
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 every where 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 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 skeptics; 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'
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.
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.
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 be-
Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven [sides:-
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 gloriouslyWhen 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.
is 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 honor'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 valor 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 we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
All that the body perpetrates of bad;
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 after times. 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
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 CXXXVI.
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.
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
Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark [haste
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.
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 have drawn much less with a long bow
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing,
But Phœbus lends me now and then a string,
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
What further 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
|