Don Juan Part 29

The town was taken--whether he might yield Himself or bastion, little matter'd now: His stubborn valour was no future s.h.i.+eld.

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 h.e.l.l is peopled, or as sad As h.e.l.l--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 n.o.ble heart broke through Its b.l.o.o.d.y 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?

c.o.c.kneys 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 't is fit to praise The Russian army upon this occasion, A virtue much in fas.h.i.+on 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 ravis.h.i.+ng 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 b.l.o.o.d.y hands he wrote his first despatch; And here exactly follows what he said:-- 'Glory to G.o.d 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 't is 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.

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, Had perish'd in the field or by the wall: Her very place of birth was but a spectre Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's cal To prayer was heard no more!--and Juan wept, And made a vow to s.h.i.+eld her, which he kept.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Canto 9]

CANTO THE NINTH.

O, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'--for Fame Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; France could not even conquer your great name, But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-- Beating or beaten she will laugh the same), You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise: Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!'

I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well In Marinet's affair--in fact, 't was shabby, And like some other things won't do to tell Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.

Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell, Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby; But though your years as man tend fast to zero, In fact your grace is still but a young hero.

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, A prop not quite so certain as before: The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor (I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start; The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied: War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by right be sanctified.

If you have acted once a generous part, The world, not the world's masters, will decide, And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?

I am no flatterer--you 've supp'd full of flattery: They say you like it too--'t is no great wonder.

He whose whole life has been a.s.sault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder, Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'--not yet saved, And 'Europe's Liberator'--still enslaved.

I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late.

Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:-- There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, But pray give back a little to the nation.

I don't mean to reflect--a man so great as You, my lord duke! is far above reflection: The high Roman fas.h.i.+on, too, of Cincinnatus, With modern history has but small connection: Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, You need not take them under your direction; And half a million for your Sabine farm Is rather dear!--I 'm sure I mean no harm.

Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses: Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses: George Was.h.i.+ngton had thanks and nought beside, Except the all-cloudless glory which few men's is To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, And as a high-soul'd minister of state is Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.

Never had mortal man such opportunity, Except Napoleon, or abused it more: You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blest from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e: And now--what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?

Now--that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?

Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!

Behold the world! and curse your victories!

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts, Must be recited, and--without a bribe.

You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest--and mankind.

Death laughs--Go ponder o'er the skeleton With which men image out the unknown thing That hides the past world, like to a set sun Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring-- Death laughs at all you weep for:--look upon This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!

Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are!

And yet was what you are: from ear to ear It laughs not--there is now no fleshy bar So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far, He strips from man that mantle (far more dear Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin, White, black, or copper--the dead bones will grin.

And thus Death laughs,--it is sad merriment, But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content With his superior, in a smile to trample Upon the nothings which are daily spent Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays--worlds like atoms--years like hours?

'To be, or not to be? that is the question,'

Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fas.h.i.+on.