Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Because it might not solace “ears polite;”

  But what he did, was to lay on their backs,

  The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.

  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.

  XCVI

  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 commonplace

  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 you and I will win St. George’s collar.

  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

  And black silk neckcloth — and replied, “You’re right;

  Poor thing! what’s to be done? I’m puzzled quite.”

  C

  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 ensure;

  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 is parentless, and therefore mine.”

  CI

  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.”

  CII

  But Juan was immovable; until

  Johnson, who really loved him in his way,

  Pick’d out amongst 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 deliver’d safe and sound,

  They should at least have fifty rubles 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 everywhere each day —

  No hero trusteth wholly to half pay.

  CIV

  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:

  CV

  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.

  CVI

  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 demigods

  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 trifling 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 hew’d away, like doctors of theology

  When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses

  Struck at his friends, as babies beat 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

  CX

  That dri
nks 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’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,

  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,

  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 gloriously —

  When 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 “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

  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

  ‘T 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 honour’d such determined scorn of life.

  CXX

  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.

  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

  His beard, he puff’d 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’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.

  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.

  CXXIV

  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 agéd, 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.

  CXXV

  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.

  CXXVI

  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.

  CXXVII

  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 blushing 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!

  CXXVIII

  In one thing ne’ertheless ‘t is fit to praise

  The Russian army upon this occasion,

  A virtue much in fashion 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.

  CXXIX

  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.

  CXXX

  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.

  CXXXI

  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.

  CXXXII

  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,