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Short speeches pass between two men who speak
No common language; and besides, in time
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime

Is perpetrated ere a word can break

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime

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LXII.

Crime came not near him-she is not the child
Of solitude; health shrank not from him-for
Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild,

Where if men seek her not, and death be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts abhor-
In cities caged. The present case in point I
Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety;
LXIII.

And what's still stranger, left behind a name-
For which men vainly decimate the throng,-
Not only famous, but of that good fame

Without which glory's but a tavern song-
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong; An active hermit, even in age the child Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild.

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He was not all alone: around him grew
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new,
For sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace
On her unwrinkled brow, nor could
A frown on nature's or on human face;-
view
you

In, like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer, The free-born forest found and kept them free,

There cannot be much conversation there.

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And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.

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LXVIII.

So much for nature:-by way of variety,
Now back to thy great joys, civilization!
And the sweet consequence of large society,—
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation,
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety,

The millions slain by soldiers for their ration,
The scenes like Catharine's boudoir at three-score,
With Ismail's storm to soften it the more.

LXIX.

The town was enter'd: first one column made
Its sanguinary way good-then another;
The recking bayonet and the flashing blade

Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother
With distant shrieks were heard heaven to upbraid;-
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother
The breath of morn and man, where, foot by foot,
The madden'd Turks their city still dispute.

LXX.

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 stake-
But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take.

LXXI.

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-
(Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's
Was much regretted-for the Moslem men
Threw them all down into the ditch again:
LXXII.

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 day-break 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.

LXXIII.

LXXV.

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reached 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 bluuder'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 scorners.
LXXVI.

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 :-
LXXVII.

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he 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 't was an even bet

Which of the armies would have cause to mourn "I was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch.

LXXVIII.

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.

LXXIX.

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.
LXXX.

And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers,
After the taking of the « cavalier,»
Just as Koutousow's most << forloru»> of <

hopes»

Took, like cameleons, 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.
LXXIV.

The Cozaks, 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.

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.

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LXXXII.

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 't were 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.
LXXXIV.

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) 't is said To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. LXXXV.

However this may be, 't is 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

LXXXVI.

But then the fact's a fact-and 't is the part

Of a true poet to escape from fiction Whene'er he can; for there is little art

go.

In leaving verse more free from the restriction Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart

For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction,
And that outrageous appetite for lies
Which Satan angles with for souls like flies.

LXXXVII.

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.
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
and thus the peopled city grieves,
groans;
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 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.

XC.

And one good action in the midst of crimes
Is a 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.

XCI.

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.

XCII.

Two villanous Cossacks 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 civilized, 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?

XCIII.

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 exactly say what he said,

Because it might not solace «ears polite;»
!ut what he did, was to lay on their backs,-
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks.
XCIV.

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.
XCV.

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.

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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 protégée; 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;-

XCVII

Up came John Johnson-(I will not say «Jack, » For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place 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 and I will win Saint George's collar.8 you XCVIII.

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: '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 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

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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 demi-gods
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.
CVII.

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 trilling provocations.
CVIII.

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 how'd away, like doctors of theology
When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses
Struck at his friends, as babies be at their nurses.

CIX.

| 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,-

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CX. That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd:His second son was levell'd by a shot; Ilis 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.

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, ile 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 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.

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.
CXVIII.

But 't was 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.
CXIX.
'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 blood-shot eyes, all red with strife, They honour'd such determined scorn of life. СХХ.

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 Riba's summons to give way.

CXXI.

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 Ilis beard, he puffd his pipe's ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives as well as tails.

CXXII.

The town was taken-whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now;
His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Ismail is 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.

CXXIII.

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.

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