The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 77

CVIII.

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 hewed away, like Doctors of Theology When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.

CIX.

Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell, The first with sighs, the second with an oath, Upon his angry Sultanship, pell-mell, And all around were grown exceeding wroth At such a pertinacious infidel, And poured upon him and his sons like rain, Which they resisted like a sandy plain

CX.

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perished-- His second son was levelled by a shot; His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherished Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot; The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourished, Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, Because deformed, yet died all game and bottom,[im]

To save a Sire who blushed that he begot him.

CXI.

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, As great a scorner of the Nazarene As ever Mahomet picked out for a martyr, Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen, Those houris, like all other pretty creatures, Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.

CXII.

And what they pleased to do with the young Khan In Heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess; But doubtless they prefer a fine young man To tough old heroes, and can do no less;[in]

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.

CXIII.

Your houris also have a natural pleasure In lopping off your lately married men, Before the bridal hours have danced their measure And the sad, second moon grows dim again, Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure To wish him back a bachelor now and then: And thus your Houri (it may be) disputes Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.

CXIV.

Thus the young Khan, with Houris in his sight, Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, But bravely rushed 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.

CXV.

So fully flashed 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,--[io]

CXVI.

But with a heavenly rapture on his face.

The good old Khan, who long had ceased to see Houris, or aught except his florid race, Who grew like cedars round him gloriously-- When he beheld his latest hero grace The earth, which he became like a felled tree, Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast A glance on that slain son, his first and last.

CXVII.

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, Stopped 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 looked down upon his children gone, And felt--though done with life--he was alone.[470]

CXVIII.

But 't was a transient tremor:--with a spring Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing Against the light wherein she dies: he clung Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; And throwing back a dim look on his sons, In one wide wound poured forth his soul at once.

CXIX.

'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, Touched by the heroism of him they slew, Were melted for a moment; though no tear Flowed from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, They honoured such determined scorn of Life.

CXX.

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post: Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, And baffled the 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.[471]

CXXI.

In the mean time, cross-legged, 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 seemed to annoy His stern philosophy; but gently stroking His beard, he puffed his pipe's ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives, as well as tails.[472]

CXXII.

The town was taken--whether he might yield Himself or bastion, little mattered 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.[ip]

CXXIII.

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses-- All that the body perpetrates of bad; All that we read--hear--dream, of man's distresses-- All that the Devil would do if run stark mad; All that defies the worst which pen expresses,-- All by which h.e.l.l is peopled, or as sad As h.e.l.l--mere mortals who their power abuse-- Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.

CXXIV.

If here and there some transient trait of pity Was shown, and some more n.o.ble heart broke through Its b.l.o.o.d.y 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?

c.o.c.kneys of London! Muscadins of Paris!

Just ponder what a pious pastime War is.[iq]

CXXV.

Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in after-times.

Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes.

Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.

CXXVI.

But still there is unto a patriot nation, Which loves so well its country and its King, A subject of sublimest exultation-- Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing!

Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne-- Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.[473]

CXXVII.

But let me put an end unto my theme: There was an end of Ismail--hapless town!

Far flashed 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 manned the wall, Some hundreds breathed--the rest were silent all![474]

CXXVIII.

In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise The Russian army upon this occasion, A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, And therefore worthy of commemoration:[ir]

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 ravished very little.

CXXIX.