Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  As soon as they re-enter’d their own room,

  For Baba’s function stopt short at the door,

  Had settled all; nor could he then presume

  (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more,

  Without exciting such suspicion as

  Might make the matter still worse than it was.

  CIV

  He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure

  Juan had not betray’d himself; in fact

  ‘T was certain that his conduct had been pure,

  Because a foolish or imprudent act

  Would not alone have made him insecure,

  But ended in his being found out and sacked,

  And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke

  Of all save Dudù’s dream, which was no joke.

  CV

  This he discreetly kept in the background,

  And talk’d away — and might have talk’d till now,

  For any further answer that he found,

  So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz’ brow:

  Her cheek turn’d ashes, ears rung, brain whirl’d round,

  As if she had received a sudden blow,

  And the heart’s dew of pain sprang fast and chilly

  O’er her fair front, like Morning’s on a lily.

  CVI

  Although she was not of the fainting sort,

  Baba thought she would faint, but there he err’d —

  It was but a convulsion, which though short

  Can never be described; we all have heard,

  And some of us have felt thus “all amort,”

  When things beyond the common have occurr’d; —

  Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony

  What she could ne’er express — then how should I?

  CVII

  She stood a moment as a Pythones

  Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full

  Of inspiration gather’d from distress,

  When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull

  The heart asunder; — then, as more or lees

  Their speed abated or their strength grew dull,

  She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees,

  And bow’d her throbbing head o’er trembling knees.

  CVIII

  Her face declined and was unseen; her hair

  Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow,

  Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,

  Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,

  A low soft ottoman), and black despair

  Stirr’d up and down her bosom like a billow,

  Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check

  Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.

  CIX

  Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping

  Conceal’d her features better than a veil;

  And one hand o’er the ottoman lay drooping,

  White, waxen, and as alabaster pale:

  Would that I were a painter! to be grouping

  All that a poet drags into detail

  Oh that my words were colours! but their tints

  May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.

  CX

  Baba, who knew by experience when to talk

  And when to hold his tongue, now held it till

  This passion might blow o’er, nor dared to balk

  Gulbeyaz’ taciturn or speaking will.

  At length she rose up, and began to walk

  Slowly along the room, but silent still,

  And her brow clear’d, but not her troubled eye;

  The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

  CXI

  She stopp’d, and raised her head to speak — but paused,

  And then moved on again with rapid pace;

  Then slacken’d it, which is the march most caused

  By deep emotion: — you may sometimes trace

  A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed

  By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased

  By all the demons of all passions, show’d

  Their work even by the way in which he trode.

  CXII

  Gulbeyaz stopp’d and beckon’d Baba: — “Slave!

  Bring the two slaves!” she said in a low tone,

  But one which Baba did not like to brave,

  And yet he shudder’d, and seem’d rather prone

  To prove reluctant, and begg’d leave to crave

  (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown

  What slaves her highness wish’d to indicate,

  For fear of any error, like the late.

  CXIII

  “The Georgian and her paramour,” replied

  The imperial bride — and added, “Let the boat

  Be ready by the secret portal’s side:

  You know the rest.” The words stuck in her throat,

  Despite her injured love and fiery pride;

  And of this Baba willingly took note,

  And begg’d by every hair of Mahomet’s beard,

  She would revoke the order he had heard.

  CXIV

  “To hear is to obey,” he said; “but still,

  Sultana, think upon the consequence:

  It is not that I shall not all fulfil

  Your orders, even in their severest sense;

  But such precipitation may end ill,

  Even at your own imperative expense:

  I do not mean destruction and exposure,

  In case of any premature disclosure;

  CXV

  “But your own feelings. Even should all the rest

  Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide

  Already many a once love-beaten breast

  Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide —

  You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest,

  And if this violent remedy be tried —

  Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you,

  That killing him is not the way to cure you.”

  CXVI

  “What dost thou know of love or feeling? — Wretch!

  Begone!” she cried, with kindling eyes — “and do

  My bidding!” Baba vanish’d, for to stretch

  His own remonstrance further he well knew

  Might end in acting as his own “Jack Ketch;”

  And though he wish’d extremely to get through

  This awkward business without harm to others,

  He still preferr’d his own neck to another’s.

  CXVII

  Away he went then upon his commission,

  Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase

  Against all women of whate’er condition,

  Especially sultanas and their ways;

  Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision,

  Their never knowing their own mind two days,

  The trouble that they gave, their immorality,

  Which made him daily bless his own neutrality.

  CXVIII

  And then he call’d his brethren to his aid,

  And sent one on a summons to the pair,

  That they must instantly be well array’d,

  And above all be comb’d even to a hair,

  And brought before the empress, who had made

  Inquiries after them with kindest care:

  At which Dudù look’d strange, and Juan silly;

  But go they must at once, and will I — nill I.

  CXIX

  And here I leave them at their preparation

  For the imperial presence, wherein whether

  Gulbeyaz show’d them both commiseration,

  Or got rid of the parties altogether,

  Like other angry ladies of her nation, —

  Are things the turning of a hair or feather

  May settle; but far be ‘t from me to anticipate
<
br />   In what way feminine caprice may dissipate.

  CXX

  I leave them for the present with good wishes,

  Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange

  Another part of history; for the dishes

  Of this our banquet we must sometimes change;

  And trusting Juan may escape the fishes,

  Although his situation now seems strange

  And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair,

  The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.

  DON JUAN: CANTO THE SEVENTH

  I

  O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly

  Around us ever, rarely to alight?

  There’s not a meteor in the polar sky

  Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.

  Chill, and chain’d to cold earth, we lift on high

  Our eyes in search of either lovely light;

  A thousand and a thousand colours they

  Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

  II

  And such as they are, such my present tale is,

  A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,

  A versified Aurora Borealis,

  Which flashes o’er a waste and icy clime.

  When we know what all are, we must bewail us,

  But ne’ertheless I hope it is no crime

  To laugh at all things — for I wish to know

  What, after all, are all things — but a show?

  III

  They accuse me — Me — the present writer of

  The present poem — of — I know not what —

  A tendency to under-rate and scoff

  At human power and virtue, and all that;

  And this they say in language rather rough.

  Good God! I wonder what they would be at!

  I say no more than hath been said in Danté’s

  Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

  IV

  By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,

  By Fénélon, by Luther, and by Plato;

  By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,

  Who knew this life was not worth a potato.

  ‘T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so —

  For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,

  Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die,

  But which is best, you know no more than I.

  V

  Socrates said, our only knowledge was

  ”To know that nothing could be known;” a pleasant

  Science enough, which levels to an ass

  Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.

  Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!

  Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,

  That he himself felt only “like a youth

  Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth.”

  VI

  Ecclesiastes said, “that all is vanity” —

  Most modern preachers say the same, or show it

  By their examples of true Christianity:

  In short, all know, or very soon may know it;

  And in this scene of all-confess’d inanity,

  By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet,

  Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife,

  From holding up the nothingness of life?

  VII

  Dogs, or men! — for I flatter you in saying

  That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye may

  Read, or read not, what I am now essaying

  To show ye what ye are in every way.

  As little as the moon stops for the baying

  Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray

  From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath!

  While she still silvers o’er your gloomy path.

  VIII

  “Fierce loves and faithless wars” — I am not sure

  If this be the right reading — ‘t is no matter;

  The fact’s about the same, I am secure;

  I sing them both, and am about to batter

  A town which did a famous siege endure,

  And was beleaguer’d both by land and water

  By Souvaroff, or Anglicè Suwarrow,

  Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.

  IX

  The fortress is call’d Ismail, and is placed

  Upon the Danube’s left branch and left bank,

  With buildings in the Oriental taste,

  But still a fortress of the foremost rank,

  Or was at least, unless ‘t is since defaced,

  Which with your conquerors is a common prank:

  It stands some eighty versts from the high sea,

  And measures round of toises thousands three.

  X

  Within the extent of this fortification

  A borough is comprised along the height

  Upon the left, which from its loftier station

  Commands the city, and upon its site

  A Greek had raised around this elevation

  A quantity of palisades upright,

  So placed as to impede the fire of those

  Who held the place, and to assist the foe’s.

  XI

  This circumstance may serve to give a notion

  Of the high talents of this new Vauban:

  But the town ditch below was deep as ocean,

  The rampart higher than you’d wish to hang:

  But then there was a great want of precaution

  (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang),

  Nor work advanced, nor cover’d way was there,

  To hint at least “Here is no thoroughfare.”

  XII

  But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge,

  And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet;

  Two batteries, cap-à-pie, as our St. George,

  Case-mated one, and t’ other “a barbette,”

  Of Danube’s bank took formidable charge;

  While two and twenty cannon duly set

  Rose over the town’s right side, in bristling tier,

  Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.

  XIII

  But from the river the town’s open quite,

  Because the Turks could never be persuaded

  A Russian vessel e’er would heave in sight;

  And such their creed was, till they were invaded,

  When it grew rather late to set things right.

  But as the Danube could not well be waded,

  They look’d upon the Muscovite flotilla,

  And only shouted, “Allah!” and “Bis Millah!”

  XIV

  The Russians now were ready to attack:

  But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!

  How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque

  Who were immortal, could one tell their story?

  Alas! what to their memory can lack?

  Achilles’ self was not more grim and gory

  Than thousands of this new and polish’d nation,

  Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation.

  XV

  Still I’ll record a few, if but to increase

  Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff,

  Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arséniew of modern Greece,

  And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff,

  And others of twelve consonants apiece;

  And more might be found out, if I could poke enough

  Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet),

  It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,

  XVI

  And cannot tune those discords of narration,

  Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme;

  Yet there were several worth commemoration,

  As e’er was virgin of a nuptial chime;

  Soft word
s, too, fitted for the peroration

  Of Londonderry drawling against time,

  Ending in “ischskin,” “ousckin,” “iffskchy,” “ouski”:

  Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski,

  XVII

  Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti,

  Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin,

  All proper men of weapons, as e’er scoff’d high

  Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin:

  Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti,

  Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin

  Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear,

  And no more handy substitute been near.

  XVIII

  Then there were foreigners of much renown,

  Of various nations, and all volunteers;

  Not fighting for their country or its crown,

  But wishing to be one day brigadiers;

  Also to have the sacking of a town, —

  A pleasant thing to young men at their years.

  ‘Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith,

  Sixteen call’d Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.

  XIX

  Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest

  Had been call’d “Jemmy,” after the great bard;

  I don’t know whether they had arms or crest,

  But such a godfather’s as good a card.

  Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best

  Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward,

  Was he, since so renown’d “in country quarters

  At Halifax;” but now he served the Tartars.

  XX

  The rest were jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills;

  But when I’ve added that the elder jack Smith

  Was born in Cumberland among the hills,

  And that his father was an honest blacksmith,

  I’ve said all I know of a name that fills

  Three lines of the despatch in taking “Schmacksmith,”

  A village of Moldavia’s waste, wherein

  He fell, immortal in a bulletin.

  XXI

  I wonder (although Mars no doubt’s a god

  Praise) if a man’s name in a bulletin

  May make up for a bullet in his body?

  I hope this little question is no sin,

  Because, though I am but a simple noddy,

  I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in

  The mouth of some one in his plays so doting,

  Which many people pass for wits by quoting.

  XXII

  Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay:

  But I’m too great a patriot to record

  Their Gallic names upon a glorious day;

  I’d rather tell ten lies than say a word

  Of truth; — such truths are treason; they betray

  Their country; and as traitors are abhorr’d

  Who name the French in English, save to show