Don Juan Part 28

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 't were 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, s.n.a.t.c.h'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) 't is said To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.

However this may be, 't is 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 't is 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 appet.i.te 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 't is 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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: '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.

'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 G.o.d! 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;--G.o.d 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 sp.a.w.ns 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 demiG.o.ds Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave, Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods The rugged tree unto the summer wind, Compa.s.sion 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 G.o.d'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 c.o.xcombs b.l.o.o.d.y.

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 h.e.l.l, 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 '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.

'T is strange enough--the rough, tough soldiers, who Spared neither s.e.x 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 a.s.saults 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.