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 Turks' resistance was sublime,
They took the bastion, which the Seraskier
Defended at a price extremely dear.
LXXX.

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:
LXXXI.

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.

LXXXII.

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.

LXXXIII.

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.

LXXXIV.

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, or relinquish'd it
Even with his life; for (but they lie) 'tis said
To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.

LXXXV.

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. LXXXVI.

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.

LXXXVII.

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 dead 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.

LXXXVIII.

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.
LXXXIX.

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.

XC.

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.
XCI.

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

One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder,
And drove them, with their brutal yells, to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek
Their baffled rage and pain; while, waxing colder,
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb
XCV.

And she was chill as they, and on her face

A slender streak of blood announced how near Her fate had been to that of all her race;

For the same blow which laid her mother here Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace, As the last link with all she had held dear: But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.

XCVI.

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd
Upon each other, with dilated glance,

In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
Unto his protégée; while hers, transfix'd

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase.

XCVII.

Up came John Johnson (I will not say 'Fack, 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 Russian military order.

XCVIII.

'The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head,

But the stone bastion still remains, wherein The old Pacha sits, among some hundreds dead, Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din Of our artillery and his own: '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.

XCIX.

'Then up with me! But Juan answered, 'Look Upon this child-I saved her-must not leave Her life to chance; but point me out some nook Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, And I am with you.' Whereon Johnson took

A glance around, and shrugg'd, and twitch'd his sleeve

And black silk neckcloth, and replied, 'You're right; Poor thing! what's to be done? I'm puzzled quite.'

C.

Said Juan, Whatsoever is to be

Done, I'll not quit her till she seems secure Of present life a good deal more than we.' Quoth Johnson, Neither will I quite ensure; But at the least you may die gloriously.'

Juan replied,' At least I will endure Whate'er is to be borne, but not resign This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine."

CI.

Johnson said, 'Juan, we've no time to lose:
The child's a pretty child-a very pretty-
I never saw such eyes-but hark! now choose
Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity:
Hark! how the roar increases!-no excuse

Will serve when there is plunder in a city.

I should be loth to march without you; but,
By God, we'll be too late for the first cut."

CII.

But Juan was immoveable, 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 roubles round,

CIII.

And all allowances, besides, of plunder,

In fair proportion with their comrades. Then Juan consented to march on through thunder, Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men; And yet the rest rush'd eagerly: no wonder, For they were heated by the hope of gain; A thing which happens everywhere each dayNo hero trusteth wholly to half-pay.

CIV.

And such is victory, and such is man!

At least nine-tenths of what we call so: God May have another name for half we scan

As human beings, or His ways are odd. But to our subject. A brave Tartar khanOr 'sultan,' as the author (to whose nod

In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call This chieftain-somehow would not yield at all.

CV.

But flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy, That she spawns warriors by the score, where none Are prosecuted for that false crime, bigamy),

He never would believe the city won, While courage clung but to a single twig. Am I Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son? Neither but a good, plain, old, temperate man, Who fought with his five children in the van.

CVI.

To take him was the point. The truly brave,

When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save.

A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods Are they-now furious as the sweeping wave, Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods The rugged tree unto the summer wind, Compassion breathes along the savage mind.

CVII.

But he would not be taken, and replied
To all the propositions of surrender,
By mowing Christians down on every side,
As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.
Ilis five brave boys no less the foc defied;
Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender,
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.

CVIII.

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who

Expended all their Eastern phraseology
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show
So much less fight as might form an apology
For them in saving such a desperate foe,

He hew'd away, like doctors of theology,
When they dispute with sceptics; and, with curses,
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.
CIX.

Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both
Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell,
The first with sighs, the second with an oath,
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell:
And all around were grown exceeding wroth
At such a pertinacious infidel,

And pour'd upon him and his sons, like rain,
Which they resisted, like a sandy plain,

CX.

That drinks, and still is dry. At last they perished·
His second son was levell'd by a shot;
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot:
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd,
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not,
Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.
CXI.

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,
As great a scorner of the Nazarene
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr,
Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green,
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter
On earth in Paradise; and when once seen,

Those houris, like all other pretty creatures,
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.

CXII.

And what they pleased to do with the young khan
In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess;
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man
To tough old heroes, and can do no less.
And that's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness,
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body,
You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs
bloody.

CXIII.

Your houris also have a natural pleasure

In lopping-off your lately-married men,
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure,
And the sad, second moon grows dim again,

Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure
To wish him back a bachelor now and then:
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes
Of these brief blossoms the iminediate fruits.
CXIV.

Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight,
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides,
But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night.
In short, howe'er our better faith derides,
These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,
As though there were one heaven, and none
besides;

Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven
And hell, there must at least be six or seven.
CXV.

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes,
That, when the very lance was in his heart,
He shouted Allah!' and saw Paradise,

With all its veil of mystery drawn apart,
And bright eternity without disguise

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart: With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried In one voluptuous blaze-and then he died. CXVI.

But, with a heavenly rapture on his face,

The good old khan, who long had ceased to see, Houris, or aught except his florid race,

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously-
When he beheld his latest hero grace

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree,
Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast
A glance on that slain son, his first and last.
CXVII.

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
Stopp'd, as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not 'aroynt !'

As he before had done. He did not heed
Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed,
As he look'd down upon his children gone,
And felt-though done with life-he was alone.
CXVIII.

But 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.

CXIX.

'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.

CXX.

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,
Where the chief pacha calmly held his post:
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,
And baffled the assaults of all their host.

At length he condescended to inquire
If yet the city's rest were won or lost;
And, being told the latter, sent a bey
To answer Ribas' summons to give way,

CXXI.

In the meantime, cross-legg'd, with great sangfroid,

Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking Tobacco on a little carpet. Troy

Saw nothing like the scene around; yet looking With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy His stern philosophy; but gently stroking His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives, as well as tails.

CXXII.

The town was taken-whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now;
His stubborn valour was no further shield.

Ismail's no more! the crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field
But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.

CXXIII.

All that the mind would shrink from, of excesses;
All that the body perpetrates, of bad;

All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
All that the devil would do, if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses,
All by which hell is peopled, or as sad
As hell-mere mortals who their power abuse-
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.

CXXIV.

If here and there some transient trait of pity
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke
through

Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty
Child, or an 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.

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 ciing. Gaunt famine never shall approach the throneThough Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty

stone.

CXXVII

But let me put an end unto my theme:

There was an end of Ismail-hapless town!
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,
And redly ran his blushing waters down.
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream
Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown:
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
Some hundreds breathed-the rest were silent all!
CXXVIII.

In one thing, ne ertheless, '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.

CXXIX

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less
Might here and there occur some violation
In the other line; but not to such excess

As when the French, that dissipated nation,
Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess
Except cold weather and commiseration;
But all the ladies, save some twenty score,
Were almost as much virgins as before.
CXXX.

Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark,
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste-
Indeed, the smoke was such they scarce could mark
Their friends from foes,-besides, such things from
haste

Occur, though rarely when there is a spark

Of light to save the venerably chaste :
But six old damsels, each of seventy years,
Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.

CXXXI.

But, on the whole, their continence was great;
So that some disappointment there ensued
To those who had felt the inconvenient state
Of 'single blessedness,' and thought it good
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate.
To bear these crosses) for each waning prude

To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.

CXXXII.

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged
Were also heard to wonder, in the din
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged),

Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!'
But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,
There was small leisure for superfluous sin;
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
In darkness-I can only hope they did.
CXXXIII.

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.

CXXXIV.

Methinks these are the most tremendous words Since Menè, Menè, 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 shorthand 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.

CXXXV.

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

CXXXVI.

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

I.

More than you scorn the savages of yore,
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.
CXXXVII.

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.
CXXXVIII.

Reader! I've 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,
CXXXIX.
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
What further 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 Petersburg is on the watch.

CXL.

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.

CXLI.
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 on the field or by the wall.
Her very place of birth was but a spectre

Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call
To prayer was heard no more! and Juan wept,
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.

OH, 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 obtained great pensions and much
praise :

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder Nay!"*

Query, Ney ?-Printer's Devil.

II.

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.

III.

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much. Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly 11