The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 69

Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque.

LXIV.

"So now, my lads, for Glory!"--Here he turned And drilled away in the most cla.s.sic Russian, Until each high heroic bosom burned For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion A preacher had held forth (who n.o.bly spurned All earthly goods save t.i.thes) and bade them push on To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine.

LXV.

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy Himself a favourite, ventured to address Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high In his resumed amus.e.m.e.nt. "I confess My debt in being thus allowed to die Among the foremost; but if you'd express Explicitly our several posts, my friend And self would know what duty to attend."

LXVI.

"Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you Will join your former regiment, which should be Now under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to"-- (Here he called up a Polish orderly) "His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew: The stranger stripling may remain with me; He's a fine boy. The women may be sent To the other baggage, or to the sick tent."

LXVII.

But here a sort of scene began to ensue: The ladies,--who by no means had been bred To be disposed of in a way so new, Although their Harem education led, Doubtless, to that of doctrines the most true, Pa.s.sive obedience,--now raised up the head With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung Their arms, as hens their wings about their young,

LXVIII.

O'er the promoted couple of brave men Who were thus honoured by the greatest Chief That ever peopled h.e.l.l with heroes slain, Or plunged a province or a realm in grief.

Oh, foolish mortals! Always taught in vain!

Oh, glorious Laurel! since for one sole leaf Of thine imaginary deathless tree, Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.[hu]

LXIX.

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, And not much sympathy for blood, surveyed The women with their hair about their ears And natural agonies, with a slight shade Of feeling: for however Habit sears Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow Will touch even heroes--and such was Suwarrow.

LXX.

He said,--and in the kindest Calmuck tone,-- "Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean By bringing women here? They shall be shown All the attention possible, and seen In safety to the waggons, where alone In fact they can be safe. You should have been Aware this kind of baggage never thrives; Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives"--

LXXI.

"May it please your Excellency," thus replied Our British friend, "these are the wives of others, And not our own. I am too qualified By service with my military brothers To break the rules by bringing one's own bride Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers The hearts of the heroic on a charge, As leaving a small family at large.

LXXII.

"But these are but two Turkish ladies, who With their attendant aided our escape, And afterwards accompanied us through A thousand perils in this dubious shape.

To me this kind of life is not so new; To them, poor things, it is an awkward sc.r.a.pe: I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, Request that they may both be used genteelly."

LXXIII.

Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, Looked on as if in doubt if they could trust Their own protectors; nor was their surprise Less than their grief (and truly not less just) To see an old man, rather wild than wise In aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust, Stripped to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, More feared than all the Sultans ever seen.

LXXIV.

For everything seemed resting on his nod, As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, Who were accustomed, as a sort of G.o.d, To see the Sultan, rich in many a gem, Like an imperial peac.o.c.k stalk abroad (That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,) With all the pomp of Power, it was a doubt How Power could condescend to do without.

LXXV.

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, Though little versed in feelings oriental, Suggested some slight comfort in his way: Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, Or that the Russian army should repent all: And, strange to say, they found some consolation In this--for females like exaggeration.

LXXVI.

And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses, They parted for the present--these to await, According to the artillery's. .h.i.ts or misses, What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate-- (Uncertainty is one of many blisses, A mortgage on Humanity's estate;)[hv]

While their beloved friends began to arm, To burn a town which never did them harm.

LXXVII.

Suwarrow,--who but saw things in the gross.

Being much too gross to see them in detail, Who calculated life as so much dross, And as the wind a widowed nation's wail, And cared as little for his army's loss (So that their efforts should at length prevail) As wife and friends did for the boils of Job,-- What was 't to him to hear two women sob?

LXXVIII.

Nothing.--The work of Glory still went on In preparations for a cannonade As terrible as that of Ilion, If Homer had found mortars ready made; But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, We only can but talk of escalade, Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets-- Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets.

LXXIX.

Oh, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm All ears, though long; all ages, though so short, By merely wielding with poetic arm Arms to which men will never more resort, Unless gunpowder should be found to harm Much less than is the hope of every court, Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; But they will not find Liberty a Troy:--

Lx.x.x.

Oh, thou eternal Homer! I have now To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; And yet, like all men else, I must allow, To vie with thee would be about as vain As for a brook to cope with Ocean's flood,-- But still we moderns equal you in blood:[hw]

Lx.x.xI.

If not in poetry, at least in fact; And fact is Truth, the grand desideratum!

Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum.

But now the town is going to be attacked; Great deeds are doing--how shall I relate 'em?

Souls of immortal Generals! Phoebus watches To colour up his rays from your despatches.[hx]

Lx.x.xII.

Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte!

Oh, ye less grand long lists of killed and wounded!

Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty, When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded!

Oh, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye Shadows of Glory! (lest I be confounded), A portion of your fading twilight hues-- So beautiful, so fleeting--to the Muse.

Lx.x.xIII.

When I call "fading" martial immortality, I mean, that every age and every year, And almost every day, in sad reality, Some sucking hero is compelled to rear, Who, when we come to sum up the totality Of deeds to human happiness most dear, Turns out to be a butcher in great business, Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness.

Lx.x.xIV.

Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, Are things immortal to immortal man, As purple to the Babylonian harlot;[hy]

An uniform to boys is like a fan To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet But deems himself the first in Glory's van.

But Glory's glory; and if you would find What _that_ is--ask the pig who sees the wind!

Lx.x.xV.