Don Juan Part 26

Here pause we for the present--as even then That awful pause, dividing life from death, Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath!

A moment--and all will be life again!

The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith!

Hurra! and Allah! and--one moment more, The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Canto 8]

CANTO THE EIGHTH.

O blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds: And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds At present such things, since they are her theme, So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars, Bellona, what you will--they mean but wars.

All was prepared--the fire, the sword, the men To wield them in their terrible array.

The army, like a lion from his den, March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,-- A human Hydra, issuing from its fen To breathe destruction on its winding way, Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain Immediately in others grew again.

History can only take things in the gross; But could we know them in detail, perchance In balancing the profit and the loss, War's merit it by no means might enhance, To waste so much gold for a little dross, As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.

The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

And why?--because it brings self-approbation; Whereas the other, after all its glare, Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation, Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, A higher t.i.tle, or a loftier station, Though they may make Corruption gape or stare, Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles, Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.

And such they are--and such they will be found: Not so Leonidas and Was.h.i.+ngton, Whose every battle-field is holy ground, Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.

How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!

While the mere victor's may appal or stun The servile and the vain, such names will be A watchword till the future shall be free.

The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, And in the Danube's waters shone the same-- A mirror'd h.e.l.l! the volleying roar, and loud Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes Spare, or smite rarely--man's make millions ashes!

The column order'd on the a.s.sault scarce pa.s.s'd Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, Answering the Christian thunders with like voices: Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced, Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises; While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when The restless t.i.tan hiccups in his den.

And one enormous shout of 'Allah!' rose In the same moment, loud as even the roar Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes Hurling defiance: city, stream, and sh.o.r.e Resounded 'Allah!' and the clouds which close With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er, Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through All sounds it pierceth 'Allah! Allah! Hu!'

The columns were in movement one and all, But of the portion which attack'd by water, Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, Though led by a.r.s.eniew, that great son of slaughter, As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball.

'Carnage' (so Wordsworth tells you) 'is G.o.d's daughter:'

If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and Just now behaved as in the Holy Land.

The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee; Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between His cap and head, which proves the head to be Aristocratic as was ever seen, Because it then received no injury More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean No harm unto a right legitimate head: 'Ashes to ashes'--why not lead to lead?

Also the General Markow, Brigadier, Insisting on removal of the prince Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,-- All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, And shriek for water into a deaf ear,-- The General Markow, who could thus evince His sympathy for rank, by the same token, To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills Like hail, to make a b.l.o.o.d.y diuretic.

Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills; Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills Past, present, and to come;--but all may yield To the true portrait of one battle-field.

There the still varying pangs, which multiply Until their very number makes men hard By the infinities of agony, Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard-- The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye Turn'd back within its socket,--these reward Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest May win perhaps a riband at the breast!

Yet I love glory;--glory 's a great thing:-- Think what it is to be in your old age Maintain'd at the expense of your good king: A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, And heroes are but made for bards to sing, Which is still better; thus in verse to wage Your wars eternally, besides enjoying Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying.

The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on To take a battery on the right; the others, Who landed lower down, their landing done, Had set to work as briskly as their brothers: Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one, Cheerful as children climb the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of mothers, O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, Quite orderly, as if upon parade.

And this was admirable; for so hot The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot And sh.e.l.ls or h.e.l.ls, it could not more have goaded.

Of officers a third fell on the spot, A thing which victory by no means boded To gentlemen engaged in the a.s.sault: Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.

But here I leave the general concern, To track our hero on his path of fame: He must his laurels separately earn; For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, Though all deserving equally to turn A couplet, or an elegy to claim, Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, And what is worse still, a much longer story:

And therefore we must give the greater number To the Gazette--which doubtless fairly dealt By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt Their clay for the last time their souls enc.u.mber;-- Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, And fought away with might and main, not knowing The way which they had never trod before, And still less guessing where they might be going; But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, Firing, and thrusting, slas.h.i.+ng, sweating, glowing, But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin.

Thus on they wallow'd in the b.l.o.o.d.y mire Of dead and dying thousands,--sometimes gaining A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher To some odd angle for which all were straining; At other times, repulsed by the close fire, Which really pour'd as if all h.e.l.l were raining Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.

Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though The nightly muster and the silent march In the chill dark, when courage does not glow So much as under a triumphal arch, Perhaps might make him s.h.i.+ver, yawn, or throw A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;-- Yet for all this he did not run away.

Indeed he could not. But what if he had?

There have been and are heroes who begun With something not much better, or as bad: Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run, For the first and last time; for, like a pad, Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one Warm bout are broken into their new tricks, And fight like fiends for pay or politics.

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic (The antiquarians who can settle time, Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational As any other notion, and not national);--

But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,'

A thing of impulse and a child of song; Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong), And afterward, if he must needs destroy, In such good company as always throng To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, No less delighted to employ his leisure;

But always without malice: if he warr'd Or loved, it was with what we call 'the best Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card, To be produced when brought up to the test.

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer--ward Off each attack, when people are in quest Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 'T is pity 'that such meaning should pave h.e.l.l.'

I almost lately have begun to doubt Whether h.e.l.l's pavement--if it be so paved-- Must not have latterly been quite worn out, Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, But by the ma.s.s who go below without Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of h.e.l.l Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall.

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides Warrior from warrior in their grim career, Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides Just at the close of the first bridal year, By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides, Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, When, after a good deal of heavy firing, He found himself alone, and friends retiring.

I don't know how the thing occurr'd--it might Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, And that the rest had faced unto the right About; a circ.u.mstance which has confounded Caesar himself, who, in the very sight Of his whole army, which so much abounded In courage, was obliged to s.n.a.t.c.h a s.h.i.+eld, And rally back his Romans to the field.

Juan, who had no s.h.i.+eld to s.n.a.t.c.h, and was No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought He knew not why, arriving at this pa.s.s, Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought For a much longer time; then, like an as (Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought This simile enough for Ajax, Juan Perhaps may find it better than a new one)--

Then, like an a.s.s, he went upon his way, And, what was stranger, never look'd behind; But seeing, flas.h.i.+ng forward, like the day Over the hills, a fire enough to blind Those who dislike to look upon a fray, He stumbled on, to try if he could find A path, to add his own slight arm and forces To corps, the greater part of which were corses.

Perceiving then no more the commandant Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had Quite disappear'd--the G.o.ds know howl (I can't Account for every thing which may look bad In history; but we at least may grant It was not marvellous that a mere lad, In search of glory, should look on before, Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps):--

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, And left at large, like a young heir, to make His way to--where he knew not--single handed; As travellers follow over bog and brake An 'ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded Unto the nearest hut themselves betake; So Juan, following honour and his nose, Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes.

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins Fill'd as with lightning--for his spirit shared The hour, as is the case with lively brains; And where the hottest fire was seen and heard, And the loud cannon peal'd his hoa.r.s.est strains, He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!

And as he rush'd along, it came to pa.s.s he Fell in with what was late the second column, Under the orders of the General Lascy, But now reduced, as is a bulky volume Into an elegant extract (much less ma.s.sy) Of heroism, and took his place with solemn Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces And levell'd weapons still against the glacis.

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, Who had 'retreated,' as the phrase is when Men run away much rather than go through Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; But Johnson was a clever fellow, who Knew when and how 'to cut and come again,'

And never ran away, except when running Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning.

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose More virgin valour never dreamt of flying From ignorance of danger, which indues Its votaries, like innocence relying On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,-- Johnson retired a little, just to rally Those who catch cold in 'shadows of Death's valley.'

And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, Rampart, wall, cas.e.m.e.nt, house,--for there was not In this extensive city, sore beset By Christian soldiery, a single spot Which did not combat like the devil, as yet, He found a number of Cha.s.seurs, all scatter'd By the resistance of the chase they batter'd.