Part 29 (1/2)

The town was taken--whether he might yield Himself or bastion, little matter'd now: His stubborn valour was no future s.h.i.+eld.

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.

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.

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.

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 aftertimes.

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.

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.

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 blus.h.i.+ng 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!

In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise The Russian army upon this occasion, A virtue much in fas.h.i.+on 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ravis.h.i.+ng 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.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y hands he wrote his first despatch; And here exactly follows what he said:-- 'Glory to G.o.d and to the Empress!' (Powers Eternal! such names mingled!) 'Ismail 's ours.'

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, Since 'Mene, Mene, 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 short-hand 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.

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!

That hour is not for us, but 't is 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 More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.

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.

Reader! I have 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,

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.

What farther 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 Petersburgh is on the watch.