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Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest

And therefore we must give the greater
May win perhaps a riband at the breast !

To the Gazette - which doubtless fairly

Yet I love glory;- glory 's a great thing: - By the deceased, who lie in famous slum-
Think what it is to be in


Maintain'd at the expense of your good In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they

felt A moderate pension shakes full many a Their clay for the last time their souls ensage,

cumber;And heroes are but made for bards to sing, Thrice happy he whose name has been well Which is still better; thus in verse to

spelt wage

In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss Your wars eternally, besides enjoying Was printed Grove, although his name was Half-pay for life, make mankind worth de


Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps,
The troops, already disembark’d, push'd on And fought away with might and main,
To take a battery on the right; the oth- not knowing

The way which they had never trod be-
Who landed lower down, their landing done,

fore, Had set to work as briskly as their bro- And still less guessing where they might thers:

be going; Being grenadiers, they mounted one by But on they march’d, dead bodies trampling one,

o'er, Cheerful as children climb the breasts of Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, mothers,

glowing, O’er the entrenchment and the palisade, But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, Quite orderly, as if upon parade.

To their two selves, one whole bright bulle

tin. XVI And this was admirable; for so hot The fire was, that were red Vesuvius Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire loaded,

Of dead and dying thousands, Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot

times gaining And shells or hells, it could not more A yard or two of ground, which brought have goaded.

them nigher Of officers a third fell on the spot,

To some odd angle for which all were
A thing which victory by no means boded straining;
To gentlemen engaged in the assault: At other times, repulsed by the close fire,
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are Which really pour'd as if all hell were
at fault.


Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards

But here I leave the general concern, A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.

To track our hero on his path of fame: He must his laurels separately earn;

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and Though all deserving equally to turn


161 A couplet, or an elegy to claim,

The nightly muster and the silent march
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, In the chill dark, when courage does not
And what is worse still, a much longer glow

So much as under a triumphal arch,


I 20





Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 'Tis pity that such meaning should pave



Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or

throw A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as

starch, Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for

day; Yet for all this he did not run away.


I almost lately have begun to doubt
Whether hell's pavement — if it be so

Must not have latterly been quite worn out,
Not by the numbers good intent hath

But by the mass who go

below without Those ancient good intentions, which once

shaved And smooth'd the brimstone of that street

of hell Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall



to run,


Indeed he could not. But what if he had?

There have been and are heroes who begun
With something not much better, or as

bad: Frederic the Great from Molwitz deigu'd For the first and last time; for, like a pad,

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,
And fight like fiends for pay or politics.

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime

Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic
(The antiquarians who can settle time,
Which settles all things, Roman, Greek,

or Runic, Swear that Pat's language sprung from the

same clime With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian

tunic Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational As any other notion, and not national);



Juan, by some strange chance, which oft

divides Warrior from warrior in their grim ca

reer, Like chastest wives from constant husbands'

sides Just at the close of the first bridal year, By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides,

Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, When, after a good deal of heavy firing, He found himself alone, and friends retir


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But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,' I don't know how the thing occurr'd — it A thing of impulse and a child of song;

might Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, Be that the greater part were kill'd or Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wounded, wrong),

And that the rest had faced unto the right And afterward, if he must needs destroy, About; a circumstance which has conIn such good company as always throng

founded To battles, sieges, and that kind of plea- Cæsar himself, who, in the very sight sure,

Of his whole army, which so much No less delighted to employ his leisure;

abounded In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield,

And rally back his Romans to the field. But always without malice: if he warr'd Or loved, it was with what we call the best

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card,

No Cæsar, but a fine young lad, who To be produced when brought up to the fought test.

He knew not why, arriving at this pass, The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer ward Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he

Off each attack, when people are in quest ought




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Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, And left at large, like a young heir, to

make His way to — where he knew not — single

handed; As travellers follow over bog and brake An ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded

Unto the nearest hut themselves betake; So Juan, following honour and his nose, Rush'd where the thickest fire announced

most foes.

And so, when all his corps were dead or

dying, Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose More virgin valour never dreamt of flying

From ignorance of danger, which indues Its votaries, like innocence relying On its own strength, with careless nerves

and thews, Johnson retired a little, just to rally Those who catch cold in shadows of Death's valley.'

XXXVII And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, Which rain'd from bastion, battery, para

pet, Rampart, wall, casement, house, – for there

was not In this extensive city, sore beset


He knew not where he was, nor greatly

cared, For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins Filld as with lightning — for his spirit

shared The hour, as is the case with lively



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By Christian soldiery, a single spot

Acted upon the living as on wire, Which did not combat like the devil, as And led them back into the heaviest fire.

yet, He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd

Egad ! they found the second time what By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. they

The first time thought quite terrible

enough And these he call’d on; and, what's strange, To fly from, malgré all which people say they came

Of glory, and all that immortal stuff Unto his call, unlike the spirits from Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, The vasty deep,' to whom you may exclaim, That daily shilling which makes warriors Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave tough) — their home.

They found on their return the self-same Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame

welcome, At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, Which made some think, and others know, And that odd impulse, which in wars or

a hell come. creeds Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.

They fell as thick as harvests beneath


Grass before scythes, or corn below the By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson,

sickle, And though his name, than Ajax or Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as Achilles,

frail Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun As any other boon for which men stickle.

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a We shall not see his likeness: he could

flail, kill his

Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd Her steady breath (which some months Upon the head, before their guns were the same still is):

cock'd. Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, And could be very busy without bustle;

The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks

Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, And therefore, when he ran away, he did so And swept, as gales sweep foam a


whole Upon reflection, knowing that behind

ranks: He would find others who would fain be rid so However, Heaven knows how, the Fate Of idle apprehensions, which like wind

who levels Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving

pranks, Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not So order'd it, amidst these sulphury reblind,

vels, But when they light upon immediate death, That Johnson and some few who had not Retire a little, merely to take breath.


Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart. XLI But Johnson only ran off, to return

With many other warriors, as we said, First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, Came mounting quickly up, for it was

Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. To Jack howe'er this gave but slight con- All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin,

Flame was shower'd forth above, as well's His soul (like galvanism upon the dead)












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But those who scaled, found out that their But never mind; — God save the king !' advance

and kings ! Was favour'd by an accident or blunder: For if he don't, I doubt if men will The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance

longer Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder I think I hear a little bird, who sings To see in forts of Netherlands or France The people by and by will be the stronger: (Though these to our Gibraltar must The veriest jade will wince whose harness knock under)

wrings Right in the middle of the parapet

So much into the rawas quite to wrong her Just named, these palisades were primly Beyond the rules of posting, and the mob set:

At last fall sick of imitating Job.


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