Part 6

First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, Came mounting quickly up, for it was now All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, Flame was shower’d forth above, as well ’s below, So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, The gentlemen that were the first to show Their martial faces on the parapet, Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet.

But those who scaled, found out that their advance Was favour’d by an accident or blunder: The Greek or Turkish Cohorn’s ignorance Had palisado’d in a way you’d wonder To see in forts of Netherlands or France (Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)— Right in the middle of the parapet Just named, these palisades were primly set:

So that on either side some nine or ten Paces were left, whereon you could contrive To march; a great convenience to our men, At least to all those who were left alive, Who thus could form a line and fight again; And that which farther aided them to strive Was, that they could kick down the palisades, Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.

Among the first,—I will not say the first, For such precedence upon such occasions Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst Out between friends as well as allied nations: The Briton must be bold who really durst Put to such trial John Bull’s partial patience, As say that Wellington at Waterloo Was beaten—though the Prussians say so too;—

And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, And God knows who besides in ‘au’ and ‘ow,’ Had not come up in time to cast an awe Into the hearts of those who fought till now As tigers combat with an empty craw, The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show His orders, also to receive his pensions, Which are the heaviest that our history mentions.

But never mind;—‘God save the king!’ and kings! For if he don’t, I doubt if men will longer— I think I hear a little bird, who sings The people by and by will be the stronger: The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings So much into the raw as quite to wrong her Beyond the rules of posting,—and the mob At last fall sick of imitating Job.

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, Like David, flings smooth pebbles ’gainst a giant; At last it takes to weapons such as men Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant. Then comes ‘the tug of war;’—’twill come again, I rather doubt; and I would fain say ‘fie on ’t,’ If I had not perceived that revolution Alone can save the earth from hell’s pollution.

But to continue:—I say not the first, But of the first, our little friend Don Juan Walk’d o’er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed Amidst such scenes—though this was quite a new one To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, Pervaded him—although a generous creature, As warm in heart as feminine in feature.

And here he was—who upon woman’s breast, Even from a child, felt like a child; howe’er The man in all the rest might be confest, To him it was Elysium to be there; And he could even withstand that awkward test Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, ‘Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;’ But Juan never left them, while they had charms,

Unless compell’d by fate, or wave, or wind, Or near relations, who are much the same. But here he was!—where each tie that can bind Humanity must yield to steel and flame: And he whose very body was all mind, Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, Dash’d on like a spurr’d blood-horse in a race.

So was his blood stirr’d while he found resistance, As is the hunter’s at the five-bar gate, Or double post and rail, where the existence Of Britain’s youth depends upon their weight, The lightest being the safest: at a distance He hated cruelty, as all men hate Blood, until heated—and even then his own At times would curdle o’er some heavy groan.

The General Lascy, who had been hard press’d, Seeing arrive an aid so opportune As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, Who came as if just dropp’d down from the moon, To Juan, who was nearest him, address’d His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, Not reckoning him to be a ‘base Bezonian’ (As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian.

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew As much of German as of Sanscrit, and In answer made an inclination to The general who held him in command; For seeing one with ribands, black and blue, Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, Addressing him in tones which seem’d to thank, He recognised an officer of rank.

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 In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer, There cannot be much conversation there.

And therefore all we have related in Two long octaves, pass’d in a little minute; But in the same small minute, every sin Contrived to get itself comprised within it. The very cannon, deafen’d by the din, Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, As soon as thunder, ’midst the general noise Of human nature’s agonising voice!

The town was enter’d. Oh eternity!— ‘God made the country and man made the town,’ So Cowper says—and I begin to be Of his opinion, when I see cast down Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, All walls men know, and many never known; And pondering on the present and the past, To deem the woods shall be our home at last

Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, Who passes for in life and death most lucky, Of the great names which in our faces stare, The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere; For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he Enjoy’d the lonely, vigorous, harmless days Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.

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;

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.

’Tis true he shrank from men even of his nation, When they built up unto his darling trees,— He moved some hundred miles off, for a station Where there were fewer houses and more ease; The inconvenience of civilisation Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please; But where he met the individual man, He show’d himself as kind as mortal can.

He was not all alone: around him grew A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, Whose young, unwaken’d world was ever new, Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view A frown on Nature’s or on human face; The free-born forest found and kept them free, And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.

And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, Beyond the dwarfing city’s pale abortions, Because their thoughts had never been the prey Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions; No sinking spirits told them they grew grey, No fashion made them apes of her distortions; Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers; Corruption could not make their hearts her soil; The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers, With the free foresters divide no spoil; Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes Of this unsighing people of the woods.

So much for Nature:—by way of variety, Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation! 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 Catherine’s boudoir at threescore, With Ismail’s storm to soften it the more.

The town was enter’d: first one column made Its sanguinary way good—then another; The reeking 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.

Koutousow, he who afterward 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:

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.

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 daybreak 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.

And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, After the taking of the ‘Cavalier,’ Just as Koutousow’s most ‘forlorn’ of ‘hopes’ Took like chameleons 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.

The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques (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.

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder’d Upon them, ne’ertheless had reach’d the rampart, And naturally thought they could have plunder’d The city, without being farther hamper’d; But as it happens to brave men, they blunder’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.

Then being taken by the tail—a taking Fatal to bishops as to soldiers—these Cossacques 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:—

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 ’twas an even bet Which of the armies would have cause to mourn: ’Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, For one would not retreat, nor t’ other flinch.

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.

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.

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers, 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:

For all the answer to his proposition Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead; On which the rest, without more intermission, Began to lay about with steel and lead— The pious metals most in requisition On such occasions: not a single head Was spared;—three thousand Moslems perish’d here, And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.

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.

A Russian officer, in martial tread Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel Seized fast, as if ’twere 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.

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) ’tis said To the live leg still clung the sever’d head.

However this may be, ’tis 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 go.

But then the fact ’s a fact—and ’tis the part Of a true poet to escape from fiction Whene’er he can; for there is little art In leaving verse more free from the restriction Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart For what is sometimes called poetic diction, And that outrageous appetite for lies Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.

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.

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, And human lives are lavish’d everywhere, As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves When the stripp’d forest bows to the bleak air, And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves, Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.

It is an awful topic—but ’tis not My cue for any time to be terrific: For checker’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.

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

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.

Two villainous Cossacques 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 civilised, 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?

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 say exactly what he said, Because it might not solace ‘ears polite;’ But what he did, was to lay on their backs, The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.

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.

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.

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 protege; 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;—

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.

‘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: ’tis 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.

‘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.’

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.’

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.’

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,

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

That drinks 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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

But ’twas 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.

’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 bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, They honour’d such determined scorn of life.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 aged, 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.

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 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!

In one thing ne’ertheless ’tis 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.

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 ravishing 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 bloody hands he wrote his first despatch; And here exactly follows what he said:— ‘Glory to God 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 ’tis 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 shield her, which he kept.

[Illustration]

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, ’twas shabby, And like some other things won’t do to tell Upon your tomb in Westminster’s old abbey. Upon the rest ’tis 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—’tis no great wonder. He whose whole life has been assault 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 fashion, 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 Washington 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 shore to shore: 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 ’tis 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 fashion. I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion Than Buonaparte’s cancer: could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame— Without a stomach what were a good name?

‘O dura ilia messorum!’—‘Oh Ye rigid guts of reapers!’ I translate For the great benefit of those who know What indigestion is—that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. A peasant’s sweat is worth his lord’s estate: Let this one toil for bread—that rack for rent, He who sleeps best may be the most content.

‘To be, or not to be?’—Ere I decide, I should be glad to know that which is being? ’Tis true we speculate both far and wide, And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: For my part, I’ll enlist on neither side, Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath.

‘Que scais-je?’ was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians: That all is dubious which man may attain, Was one of their most favourite positions. There’s no such thing as certainty, that ’s plain As any of Mortality’s conditions; So little do we know what we’re about in This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? Your wise men don’t know much of navigation; And swimming long in the abyss of thought Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.

‘But heaven,’ as Cassio says, ‘is above all— No more of this, then,—let us pray!’ We have Souls to save, since Eve’s slip and Adam’s fall, Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, Besides fish, beasts, and birds. ‘The sparrow’s fall Is special providence,’ though how it gave Offence, we know not; probably it perch’d Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search’d.

O, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy? O, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony? Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne’er Done anything exceedingly unkind,— And (though I could not now and then forbear Following the bent of body or of mind) Have always had a tendency to spare,— Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.—and here we’ll pause.

’Tis time we should proceed with our good poem,— For I maintain that it is really good, Not only in the body but the proem, However little both are understood Just now,—but by and by the Truth will show ’em Herself in her sublimest attitude: And till she doth, I fain must be content To share her beauty and her banishment.

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours) Was left upon his way to the chief city Of the immortal Peter’s polish’d boors Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty. I know its mighty empire now allures Much flattery—even Voltaire’s, and that ’s a pity. For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

And I will war, at least in words (and—should My chance so happen—deeds), with all who war With Thought;—and of Thought’s foes by far most rude, Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. I know not who may conquer: if I could Have such a prescience, it should be no bar To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every depotism in every nation.

It is not that I adulate the people: Without me, there are demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple, And set up in their stead some proper stuff. Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell, As is the Christian dogma rather rough, I do not know;—I wish men to be free As much from mobs as kings—from you as me.

The consequence is, being of no party, I shall offend all parties: never mind! My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty Than if I sought to sail before the wind. He who has nought to gain can have small art: he Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind, May still expatiate freely, as will I, Nor give my voice to slavery’s jackal cry.

That ’s an appropriate simile, that jackal;— I’ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl By night, as do that mercenary pack all, Power’s base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, And scent the prey their masters would attack all. However, the poor jackals are less foul (As being the brave lions’ keen providers) Than human insects, catering for spiders.

Raise but an arm! ’twill brush their web away, And without that, their poison and their claws Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say (Or rather peoples)—go on without pause! The web of these tarantulas each day Increases, till you shall make common cause: None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, Was left upon his way with the despatch, Where blood was talk’d of as we would of water; And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch O’er silenced cities, merely served to flatter Fair Catherine’s pastime—who look’d on the match Between these nations as a main of cocks, Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

And there in a kibitka he roll’d on (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, And orders, and on all that he had done— And wishing that post-horses had the wings Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.

At every jolt—and they were many—still He turn’d his eyes upon his little charge, As if he wish’d that she should fare less ill Than he, in these sad highways left at large To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature’s skill, Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge On her canals, where God takes sea and land, Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

At least he pays no rent, and has best right To be the first of what we used to call ‘Gentlemen farmer’—a race worn out quite, Since lately there have been no rents at all, And ‘gentlemen’ are in a piteous plight, And ‘farmers’ can’t raise Ceres from her fall: She fell with Buonaparte—What strange thoughts Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

But Juan turn’d his eyes on the sweet child Whom he had saved from slaughter—what a trophy O! ye who build up monuments, defiled With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy, Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! Because he could no more digest his dinner;—

O ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect, That one life saved, especially if young Or pretty, is a thing to recollect Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung From the manure of human clay, though deck’d With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymn’d by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.

O! ye great authors luminous, voluminous! Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us! Whether you’re paid by government in bribes, To prove the public debt is not consuming us— Or, roughly treading on the ‘courtier’s kibes’ With clownish heel, your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm’s starvation;—

O, ye great authors!—‘Apropos des bottes,’— I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater sages’ lots; ’Twas something calculated to allay All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: Certes it would have been but thrown away, And that ’s one comfort for my lost advice, Although no doubt it was beyond all price.

But let it go:—it will one day be found With other relics of ‘a former world,’ When this world shall be former, underground, Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp’d, and curl’d, Baked, fried, or burnt, turn’d inside-out, or drown’d, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl’d First out of, and then back again to chaos, The superstratum which will overlay us.

So Cuvier says;—and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroy’d and left in airy doubt: Like to the notions we now entertain Of Titans, giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! How the new worldlings of the then new East Will wonder where such animals could sup! (For they themselves will be but of the least: Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, And every new creation hath decreased In size, from overworking the material— Men are but maggots of some huge Earth’s burial.)

How will—to these young people, just thrust out From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the arts at length are brought about, Especially of war and taxing,—how, I say, will these great relics, when they see ’em, Look like the monsters of a new museum?

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: ‘The time is out of joint,’—and so am I; I quite forget this poem ’s merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next.

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate. I left Don Juan with his horses baiting— Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating His journey, we’ve so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows;

Suppose him in a handsome uniform,— A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver’d in a storm, Over a cock’d hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor— That great enchanter, at whose rod’s command Beauty springs forth, and Nature’s self turns paler, Seeing how Art can make her work more grand (When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a gaoler),— Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn’d a lieutenant of artillery:—

His bandage slipp’d down into a cravat; His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; His bow converted into a cock’d hat; But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid), If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper’d, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown’d— I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then; as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command Since first her majesty was singly crown’d: But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, Blushing and beardless; and yet ne’ertheless There was a something in his turn of limb, And still more in his eye, which seem’d to express, That though he look’d one of the seraphim, There lurk’d a man beneath the spirit’s dress. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, Or Scherbatoff, or any other off Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough Within her bosom (which was not too tough) For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, Of him who, in the language of his station, Then held that ‘high official situation.’

O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland’s Londonderry’s Marquess show His parts of speech; and in the strange displays Of that odd string of words, all in a row, Which none divine, and every one obeys, Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.

I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of prey— That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each day— That monstrous hieroglyphic—that long spout Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight.

An English lady ask’d of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called ‘Cavalier servente?’—a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true ’tis) Beneath his art. The dame, press’d to disclose them, Said—‘Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.’

And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite’s condition. ’Twas a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion Of any one’s attaining to his station, No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, And had retain’d his boyish look beyond The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond Parisian aspect which upset old Troy And founded Doctors’ Commons:—I have conn’d The history of divorces, which, though chequer’d, Calls Ilion’s the first damages on record.

And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, Who was gone to his place), and pass’d for much Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr’d) Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch Of sentiment; and he she most adored Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such A lover as had cost her many a tear, And yet but made a middling grenadier.

O thou ‘teterrima causa’ of all ‘belli’— Thou gate of life and death—thou nondescript! Whence is our exit and our entrance,—well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain:—how man fell I Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.

Some call thee ‘the worst cause of war,’ but I Maintain thou art the best: for after all From thee we come, to thee we go, and why To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a world? since no one can deny Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou sea of life’s dry land!

Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)— Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor forgetting quite the woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole), she tore The letter open with an air which posed The court, that watch’d each look her visage wore, Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.

Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first Was a ta’en city, thirty thousand slain. Glory and triumph o’er her aspect burst, As an East Indian sunrise on the main. These quench’d a moment her ambition’s thirst— So Arab deserts drink in summer’s rain: In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition’s hands!

Her next amusement was more fanciful; She smiled at mad Suwarrow’s rhymes, who threw Into a Russian couplet rather dull The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. Her third was feminine enough to annul The shudder which runs naturally through Our veins, when things call’d sovereigns think it best To kill, and generals turn it into jest.

The two first feelings ran their course complete, And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth: The whole court look’d immediately most sweet, Like flowers well water’d after a long drouth. But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth—while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. She could repay each amatory look you lent With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour To exact of Cupid’s bills the full amount At sight, nor would permit you to discount.

With her the latter, though at times convenient, Was not so necessary; for they tell That she was handsome, and though fierce look’d lenient, And always used her favourites too well. If once beyond her boudoir’s precincts in ye went, Your ‘fortune’ was in a fair way ‘to swell A man’ (as Giles says); for though she would widow all Nations, she liked man as an individual.

What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her! Whether wed Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her Mind like the wind: whatever she has said Or done, is light to what she’ll say or do;— The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

O Catherine! (for of all interjections, To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right In love and war) how odd are the connections Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! Just now yours were cut out in different sections: First Ismail’s capture caught your fancy quite; Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch; And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!

Shakspeare talks of ‘the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;’ And some such visions cross’d her majesty, While her young herald knelt before her still. ’Tis very true the hill seem’d rather high, For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill Smooth’d even the Simplon’s steep, and by God’s blessing With youth and health all kisses are ‘heaven-kissing.’

Her majesty look’d down, the youth look’d up— And so they fell in love;—she with his face, His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid’s cup With the first draught intoxicates apace, A quintessential laudanum or ‘black drop,’ Which makes one drunk at once, without the base Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye In love drinks all life’s fountains (save tears) dry.

He, on the other hand, if not in love, Fell into that no less imperious passion, Self-love—which, when some sort of thing above Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, Or duchess, princess, empress, ‘deigns to prove’ (’Tis Pope’s phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, For one especial person out of many, Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.

Besides, he was of that delighted age Which makes all female ages equal—when We don’t much care with whom we may engage, As bold as Daniel in the lion’s den, So that we can our native sun assuage In the next ocean, which may flow just then, To make a twilight in, just as Sol’s heat is Quench’d in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine), Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, Because each lover look’d a sort of king, Made up upon an amatory pattern, A royal husband in all save the ring— Which, being the damn’dest part of matrimony, Seem’d taking out the sting to leave the honey.

And when you add to this, her womanhood In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, Or better, as the best examples say: Napoleon’s, Mary’s (queen of Scotland), should Lend to that colour a transcendent ray; And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, Too wise to look through optics black or blue)—

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, Her preference of a boy to men much bigger (Fellows whom Messalina’s self would pension), Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, With other extras, which we need not mention,— All these, or any one of these, explain Enough to make a stripling very vain.

And that ’s enough, for love is vanity, Selfish in its beginning as its end, Except where ’tis a mere insanity, A maddening spirit which would strive to blend Itself with beauty’s frail inanity, On which the passion’s self seems to depend: And hence some heathenish philosophers Make love the main spring of the universe.

Besides Platonic love, besides the love Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove, That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving ’Gainst reason—Reason ne’er was hand-and-glove With rhyme, but always leant less to improving The sound than sense)—beside all these pretences To love, there are those things which words name senses;

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies Which make all bodies anxious to get out Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, For such all women are at first no doubt. How beautiful that moment! and how odd is That fever which precedes the languid rout Of our sensations! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, To end or to begin with; the next grand Is that which may be christen’d love canonical, Because the clergy take the thing in hand; The third sort to be noted in our chronicle As flourishing in every Christian land, Is when chaste matrons to their other ties Add what may be call’d marriage in disguise.

Well, we won’t analyse—our story must Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, Juan much flatter’d by her love, or lust;— I cannot stop to alter words once written, And the two are so mix’d with human dust, That he who names one, both perchance may hit on: But in such matters Russia’s mighty empress Behaved no better than a common sempstress.

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, And all lips were applied unto all ears! The elder ladies’ wrinkles curl’d much crisper As they beheld; the younger cast some leers On one another, and each lovely lisper Smiled as she talk’d the matter o’er; but tears Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye Of all the standing army who stood by.

All the ambassadors of all the powers Enquired, Who was this very new young man, Who promised to be great in some few hours? Which is full soon—though life is but a span. Already they beheld the silver showers Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, Upon his cabinet, besides the presents Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.

Catherine was generous,—all such ladies are: Love, that great opener of the heart and all The ways that lead there, be they near or far, Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,— Love (though she had a cursed taste for war, And was not the best wife, unless we call Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps ’tis better That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)—

Love had made Catherine make each lover’s fortune, Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, If history, the grand liar, ever saith The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten, Because she put a favourite to death, Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle In the dissolving circle, all the nations’ Ambassadors began as ’twere to hustle Round the young man with their congratulations. Also the softer silks were heard to rustle Of gentle dames, among whose recreations It is to speculate on handsome faces, Especially when such lead to high places.

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, A general object of attention, made His answers with a very graceful bow, As if born for the ministerial trade. Though modest, on his unembarrass’d brow Nature had written ‘gentleman.’ He said Little, but to the purpose; and his manner Flung hovering graces o’er him like a banner.

An order from her majesty consign’d Our young lieutenant to the genial care Of those in office: all the world look’d kind (As it will look sometimes with the first stare, Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind), As also did Miss Protasoff then there, Named from her mystic office’l’Eprouveuse,’ A term inexplicable to the Muse.

With her then, as in humble duty bound, Juan retired,—and so will I, until My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. We have just lit on a ‘heaven-kissing hill,’ So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, And all my fancies whirling like a mill; Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.

[Illustration]

CANTO THE TENTH.

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation— ’Tis said (for I’ll not answer above ground For any sage’s creed or calculation)— A mode of proving that the earth turn’d round In a most natural whirl, called ‘gravitation;’ And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: For ever since immortal man hath glow’d With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.

And wherefore this exordium?—Why, just now, In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, My bosom underwent a glorious glow, And my internal spirit cut a caper: And though so much inferior, as I know, To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, Discover stars and sail in the wind’s eye, I wish to do as much by poesy.

In the wind’s eye I have sail’d, and sail; but for The stars, I own my telescope is dim: But at least I have shunn’d the common shore, And leaving land far out of sight, would skim The ocean of eternity: the roar Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float Where ships have founder’d, as doth many a boat.

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room: It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment’s wings.

But soon they grow again and leave their nest. ‘Oh!’ saith the Psalmist, ‘that I had a dove’s Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!’ And who that recollects young years and loves,— Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, And palsied fancy, which no longer roves Beyond its dimm’d eye’s sphere,—but would much rather Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows’) shrink, Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! Such difference doth a few months make. You’d think Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.

But coughs will come when sighs depart—and now And then before sighs cease; for oft the one Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun Of life reach’d ten o’clock: and while a glow, Hectic and brief as summer’s day nigh done, O’erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,—how happy they!

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. We left him in the focus of such glory As may be won by favour of the moon Or ladies’ fancies—rather transitory Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June, Because December, with his breath so hoary, Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.

Besides, he had some qualities which fix Middle-aged ladies even more than young: The former know what ’s what; while new-fledged chicks Know little more of love than what is sung In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears.

And why? because she ’s changeable and chaste. I know no other reason, whatsoe’er Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, Nor flattering to ‘their temper or their taste,’ As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself;—if not, I must.

Old enemies who have become new friends Should so continue—’tis a point of honour; And I know nothing which could make amends For a return to hatred: I would shun her Like garlic, howsoever she extends Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes— Converted foes should scorn to join with those.

This were the worst desertion:—renegadoes, Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the ‘reformadoes,’ Whom he forsook to fill the laureate’s sty: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please.

The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife. While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer’s brief is like the surgeon’s knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion.

A legal broom ’s a moral chimney-sweeper, And that ’s the reason he himself ’s so dirty; The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;—not so you, I own; As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over: Here ’s a health to ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ I do not know you, and may never know Your face—but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.

And when I use the phrase of ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ ’Tis not address’d to you—the more ’s the pity For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But somehow,—it may seem a schoolboy’s whine, And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,—

As ‘Auld Lang Syne’ brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie’s brig’s black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo’s offspring;—floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not—’tis a glimpse of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail’d at Scots to show my wrath and wit, Which must be own’d was sensitive and surly, Yet ’tis in vain such sallies to permit, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I ‘scotch’d not kill’d’ the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of ‘mountain and of flood.’

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,— For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And ’gainst the body makes a strong appeal; And yet ’tis very puzzling on the brink Of what is call’d eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;—

Don Juan grew a very polish’d Russian— How we won’t mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cushion Smooth’d for a monarch’s seat of honour; gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.

The favour of the empress was agreeable; And though the duty wax’d a little hard, Young people at his time of life should be able To come off handsomely in that regard. He was now growing up like a green tree, able For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old age’s tedium Make some prefer the circulating medium.

About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but—as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity—must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.

This we pass over. We will also pass The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas! A young lieutenant’s with a not old queen, But one who is not so youthful as she was In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, And wrinkles, the d—d democrats, won't flatter.

And Death, the sovereign’s sovereign, though the great Gracchus of all mortality, who levels With his Agrarian laws the high estate Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, To one small grass-grown patch (which must await Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils Who never had a foot of land till now,— Death ’s a reformer, all men must allow.

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry— Which (though I hate to say a thing that ’s bitter) Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, Through all the ‘purple and fine linen,’ fitter For Babylon’s than Russia’s royal harlot— And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.

And this same state we won’t describe: we would Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; But getting nigh grim Dante’s ‘obscure wood,’ That horrid equinox, that hateful section Of human years, that half-way house, that rude Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection Life’s sad post-horses o’er the dreary frontier Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;—

I won’t describe,—that is, if I can help Description; and I won’t reflect,—that is, If I can stave off thought, which—as a whelp Clings to its teat—sticks to me through the abyss Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp Holds by the rock; or as a lover’s kiss Drains its first draught of lips:—but, as I said, I won’t philosophise, and will be read.

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,— A thing which happens rarely: this he owed Much to his youth, and much to his reported Valour; much also to the blood he show’d, Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, Which set the beauty off in which he glow’d, As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most He owed to an old woman and his post.

He wrote to Spain:—and all his near relations, Perceiving he was in a handsome way Of getting on himself, and finding stations For cousins also, answer’d the same day. Several prepared themselves for emigrations; And eating ices, were o’erheard to say, That with the addition of a slight pelisse, Madrid’s and Moscow’s climes were of a piece.

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, Where his assets were waxing rather few, He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,— Replied, ‘that she was glad to see him through Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; As the sole sign of man’s being in his senses Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.

‘She also recommended him to God, And no less to God’s Son, as well as Mother, Warn’d him against Greek worship, which looks odd In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother Outward dislike, which don’t look well abroad; Inform’d him that he had a little brother Born in a second wedlock; and above All, praised the empress’s maternal love.

‘She could not too much give her approbation Unto an empress, who preferr’d young men Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation And climate, stopp’d all scandal (now and then):— At home it might have given her some vexation; But where thermometers sunk down to ten, Or five, or one, or zero, she could never Believe that virtue thaw’d before the river.’

O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print.

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, But went to heaven in as sincere a way As any body on the elected roll, Which portions out upon the judgment day Heaven’s freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, Such as the conqueror William did repay His knights with, lotting others’ properties Into some sixty thousand new knights’ fees.

I can’t complain, whose ancestors are there, Erneis, Radulphus—eight-and-forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err) Were their reward for following Billy’s banners: And though I can’t help thinking ’twas scarce fair To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners; Yet as they founded churches with the produce, You’ll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.

The gentle Juan flourish’d, though at times He felt like other plants called sensitive, Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, Save such as Southey can afford to give. Perhaps he long’d in bitter frosts for climes In which the Neva’s ice would cease to live Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, In royalty’s vast arms he sigh’d for beauty: