The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 76

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 maimed: 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.

Lx.x.xVI.

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.[ij]

Lx.x.xVII.

The city's taken, but not rendered!--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 roared By the advancing Muscovite--the groan Of the last foe is echoed by his own.

Lx.x.xVIII.

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, And human lives are lavished everywhere, As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves[ik]

When the stripped 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.

Lx.x.xIX.

It is an awful topic--but 't is not My cue for any time to be terrific: For checkered 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 refres.h.i.+ng," in the affected phrase[461]

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, A little scorched 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 slaughtered men, a yet warm group Of murdered 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 lulled in b.l.o.o.d.y rest.[462]

XCII.

Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child With flas.h.i.+ng eyes and weapons: matched with _them_, The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild Has feelings pure and polished 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?

XCIII.

Their sabres glittered 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;"[463]

But what he _did_, was to lay on their backs, The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.

XCIV.

One's hip he slashed, 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,[464] and shriek Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder As he turned 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 scarred her brow, and left its crimson trace, As the last link with all she had held dear;[465]

But else unhurt, she opened her large eyes, And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.

XCVI.

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fixed Upon each other, with dilated glance, In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mixed With joy to save, and dread of some mischance Unto his protegee; while hers, transfixed With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase:--[466]

XCVII.

Up came John Johnson (I will not say _"Jack,"_ For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place 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.[467]

XCVIII.

"The Seraskier is knocked 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 killed, 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 shrugged--and twitched 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 insure; 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 loath to march without you, but, By G.o.d! we'll be too late for the first cut."

CII.

But Juan was immovable; until Johnson, who really loved him in his way, Picked 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 delivered safe and sound, They should at least have fifty rubles round,

CIII.

And all allowances besides of plunder In fair proportion with their comrades;--then Juan consented to march on through thunder, Which thinned at every step their ranks of men: And yet the rest rushed 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.

CIV.

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:

CV.

But flanked 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.[468]

CVI.

To _take_ him was the point.--The truly brave, When they behold the brave oppressed with odds, Are touched with a desire to s.h.i.+eld and save;-- A mixture of wild beasts and demi-G.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.

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.[469]

His five brave boys no less the foe defied; Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,[il]

Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.