Canto VII

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who flyAround us ever, rarely to alight?There’s not a meteor in the polar skyOf such transcendent and more fleeting flight.Chill, and chain’d to cold earth, we lift on highOur eyes in search of either lovely light;A thousand and a thousand colours theyAssume, then leave us on our freezing way.

And such as they are, such my present tale is,A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,A versified Aurora Borealis,Which flashes o’er a waste and icy clime.When we know what all are, we must bewail us,But ne’ertheless I hope it is no crimeTo laugh at all things—for I wish to knowWhat, after all, are all things—but a show?

They accuse me—Me—the present writer ofThe present poem—of—I know not what—A tendency to under-rate and scoffAt human power and virtue, and all that;And this they say in language rather rough.Good God! I wonder what they would be at!I say no more than hath been said in Dante’sVerse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,Who knew this life was not worth a potato.’Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so—For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,Nor even Diogenes.—We live and die,But which is best, you know no more than I.

Socrates said, our only knowledge was‘To know that nothing could be known;’ a pleasantScience enough, which levels to an assEach man of wisdom, future, past, or present.Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,That he himself felt only’like a youthPicking up shells by the great ocean—Truth.’

Ecclesiastes said, ‘that all is vanity’—Most modern preachers say the same, or show itBy their examples of true Christianity:In short, all know, or very soon may know it;And in this scene of all-confess’d inanity,By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet,Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife,From holding up the nothingness of life?

Dogs, or men!—for I flatter you in sayingThat ye are dogs—your betters far—ye mayRead, or read not, what I am now essayingTo show ye what ye are in every way.As little as the moon stops for the bayingOf wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one rayFrom out her skies—then howl your idle wrath!While she still silvers o’er your gloomy path.

‘Fierce loves and faithless wars’—I am not sureIf this be the right reading—’tis no matter;The fact ’s about the same, I am secure;I sing them both, and am about to batterA town which did a famous siege endure,And was beleaguer’d both by land and waterBy Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow,Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.

The fortress is call’d Ismail, and is placedUpon the Danube’s left branch and left bank,With buildings in the Oriental taste,But still a fortress of the foremost rank,Or was at least, unless ’tis since defaced,Which with your conquerors is a common prank:It stands some eighty versts from the high sea,And measures round of toises thousands three.

Within the extent of this fortificationA borough is comprised along the heightUpon the left, which from its loftier stationCommands the city, and upon its siteA Greek had raised around this elevationA quantity of palisades upright,So placed as to impede the fire of thoseWho held the place, and to assist the foe’s.

This circumstance may serve to give a notionOf the high talents of this new Vauban:But the town ditch below was deep as ocean,The rampart higher than you’d wish to hang:But then there was a great want of precaution(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang),Nor work advanced, nor cover’d way was there,To hint at least ‘Here is no thoroughfare.’

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge,And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet;Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George,Case-mated one, and t’ other ‘a barbette,’Of Danube’s bank took formidable charge;While two and twenty cannon duly setRose over the town’s right side, in bristling tier,Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.

But from the river the town ’s open quite,Because the Turks could never be persuadedA Russian vessel e’er would heave in sight;And such their creed was, till they were invaded,When it grew rather late to set things right.But as the Danube could not well be waded,They look’d upon the Muscovite flotilla,And only shouted, ‘Allah!’ and ‘Bis Millah!’

The Russians now were ready to attack:But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!How shall I spell the name of each CossacqueWho were immortal, could one tell their story?Alas! what to their memory can lack?Achilles’ self was not more grim and goryThan thousands of this new and polish’d nation,Whose names want nothing but—pronunciation.

Still I’ll record a few, if but to increaseOur euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff,Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece,And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff,And others of twelve consonants apiece;And more might be found out, if I could poke enoughInto gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet),It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,

And cannot tune those discords of narration,Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme;Yet there were several worth commemoration,As e’er was virgin of a nuptial chime;Soft words, too, fitted for the perorationOf Londonderry drawling against time,Ending in ‘ischskin,’ ‘ousckin,’ ‘iffskchy,’ ‘ouski:Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski,

Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti,Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin,All proper men of weapons, as e’er scoff’d highAgainst a foe, or ran a sabre through skin:Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti,Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skinOut of their hides, if parchment had grown dear,And no more handy substitute been near.

Then there were foreigners of much renown,Of various nations, and all volunteers;Not fighting for their country or its crown,But wishing to be one day brigadiers;Also to have the sacking of a town,—A pleasant thing to young men at their years.’Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith,Sixteen call’d Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.

Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the restHad been call’d ‘Jemmy,’ after the great bard;I don’t know whether they had arms or crest,But such a godfather ’s as good a card.Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the bestAmongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward,Was he, since so renown’d ‘in country quartersAt Halifax;’ but now he served the Tartars.

The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills;But when I’ve added that the elder Jack SmithWas born in Cumberland among the hills,And that his father was an honest blacksmith,I’ve said all I know of a name that fillsThree lines of the despatch in taking ‘Schmacksmith,’A village of Moldavia’s waste, whereinHe fell, immortal in a bulletin.

I wonder (although Mars no doubt ’s a god IPraise) if a man’s name in a bulletinMay make up for a bullet in his body?I hope this little question is no sin,Because, though I am but a simple noddy,I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought inThe mouth of some one in his plays so doting,Which many people pass for wits by quoting.

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay:But I’m too great a patriot to recordTheir Gallic names upon a glorious day;I’d rather tell ten lies than say a wordOf truth;—such truths are treason; they betrayTheir country; and as traitors are abhorr’dWho name the French in English, save to showHow Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman’s foe.

The Russians, having built two batteries onAn isle near Ismail, had two ends in view;The first was to bombard it, and knock downThe public buildings and the private too,No matter what poor souls might be undone.The city’s shape suggested this, ’tis true;Form’d like an amphitheatre, each dwellingPresented a fine mark to throw a shell in.

The second object was to profit byThe moment of the general consternation,To attack the Turk’s flotilla, which lay nighExtremely tranquil, anchor’d at its station:But a third motive was as probablyTo frighten them into capitulation;A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors,Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers.

A habit rather blamable, which isThat of despising those we combat with,Common in many cases, was in thisThe cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith;One of the valorous ‘Smiths’ whom we shall missOut of those nineteen who late rhymed to ‘pith;’But ’tis a name so spread o’er ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam,’That one would think the first who bore it ‘Adam.’

The Russian batteries were incomplete,Because they were constructed in a hurry;Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet,And throws a cloud o’er Longman and John Murray,When the sale of new books is not so fleetAs they who print them think is necessary,May likewise put off for a time what storySometimes calls ‘murder,’ and at others ‘glory.’

Whether it was their engineer’s stupidity,Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care,Or some contractor’s personal cupidity,Saving his soul by cheating in the wareOf homicide, but there was no solidityIn the new batteries erected there;They either miss’d, or they were never miss’d,And added greatly to the missing list.

A sad miscalculation about distanceMade all their naval matters incorrect;Three fireships lost their amiable existenceBefore they reach’d a spot to take effect:The match was lit too soon, and no assistanceCould remedy this lubberly defect;They blew up in the middle of the river,While, though ’twas dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.

At seven they rose, however, and survey’dThe Russ flotilla getting under way;’Twas nine, when still advancing undismay’d,Within a cable’s length their vessels layOff Ismail, and commenced a cannonade,Which was return’d with interest, I may say,And by a fire of musketry and grape,And shells and shot of every size and shape.

For six hours bore they without intermissionThe Turkish fire, and aided by their ownLand batteries, work’d their guns with great precision:At length they found mere cannonade aloneBy no means would produce the town’s submission,And made a signal to retreat at one.One bark blew up, a second near the worksRunning aground, was taken by the Turks.

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men;But when they saw the enemy retire,Their Delhis mann’d some boats, and sail’d again,And gall’d the Russians with a heavy fire,And tried to make a landing on the main;But here the effect fell short of their desire:Count Damas drove them back into the waterPell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.

‘If’ (says the historian here) ‘I could reportAll that the Russians did upon this day,I think that several volumes would fall short,And I should still have many things to say;’And so he says no more—but pays his courtTo some distinguish’d strangers in that fray;The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas,Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.

This being the case, may show us what Fame is:For out of these three ‘preux Chevaliers,’ howMany of common readers give a guessThat such existed? (and they may live nowFor aught we know.) Renown ’s all hit or miss;There’s fortune even in fame, we must allow.’Tis true the Memoirs of the Prince de LigneHave half withdrawn from him oblivion’s screen.

But here are men who fought in gallant actionsAs gallantly as ever heroes fought,But buried in the heap of such transactionsTheir names are rarely found, nor often sought.Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions,And is extinguish’d sooner than she ought:Of all our modern battles, I will betYou can’t repeat nine names from each Gazette.

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory,Show’d that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault,And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story)Most strongly recommended an assault;In which he was opposed by young and hoary,Which made a long debate; but I must halt,For if I wrote down every warrior’s speech,I doubt few readers e’er would mount the breach.

There was a man, if that he was a man,Not that his manhood could be call’d in question,For had he not been Hercules, his spanHad been as short in youth as indigestionMade his last illness, when, all worn and wan,He died beneath a tree, as much unblest onThe soil of the green province he had wasted,As e’er was locust on the land it blasted.

This was Potemkin—a great thing in daysWhen homicide and harlotry made great;If stars and titles could entail long praise,His glory might half equal his estate.This fellow, being six foot high, could raiseA kind of phantasy proportionateIn the then sovereign of the Russian people,Who measured men as you would do a steeple.

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sentA courier to the prince, and he succeededIn ordering matters after his own bent;I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded,But shortly he had cause to be content.In the mean time, the batteries proceeded,And fourscore cannon on the Danube’s borderWere briskly fired and answer’d in due order.

But on the thirteenth, when already partOf the troops were embark’d, the siege to raise,A courier on the spur inspired new heartInto all panters for newspaper praise,As well as dilettanti in war’s art,By his despatches couch’d in pithy phrase;Announcing the appointment of that lover ofBattles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff.

The letter of the prince to the same marshalWas worthy of a Spartan, had the causeBeen one to which a good heart could be partial—Defence of freedom, country, or of laws;But as it was mere lust of power to o’er-arch allWith its proud brow, it merits slight applause,Save for its style, which said, all in a trice,‘You will take Ismail at whatever price.’

‘Let there be light! said God, and there was light!’‘Let there be blood!’ says man, and there’s a sealThe fiat of this spoil’d child of the Night(For Day ne’er saw his merits) could decreeMore evil in an hour, than thirty brightSummers could renovate, though they should beLovely as those which ripen’d Eden’s fruit;For war cuts up not only branch, but root.

Our friends the Turks, who with loud ‘Allahs’ nowBegan to signalise the Russ retreat,Were damnably mistaken; few are slowIn thinking that their enemy is beat(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, thoughI never think about it in a heat),But here I say the Turks were much mistaken,Who hating hogs, yet wish’d to save their bacon.

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drewIn sight two horsemen, who were deem’d CossacquesFor some time, till they came in nearer view.They had but little baggage at their backs,For there were but three shirts between the two;But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks,Till, in approaching, were at length descriedIn this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide.

‘Great joy to London now!’ says some great fool,When London had a grand illumination,Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull,Is of all dreams the first hallucination;So that the streets of colour’d lamps are full,That Sage (said John) surrenders at discretionHis purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense,To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense.

’Tis strange that he should farther ‘damn his eyes,’For they are damn’d; that once all-famous oathIs to the devil now no farther prize,Since John has lately lost the use of both.Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise;And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth,Which stare him in the face, he won’t examine,Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine.

But to the tale:—great joy unto the camp!To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque,O’er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp,Presaging a most luminous attack;Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp,Which leads beholders on a boggy walk,He flitted to and fro a dancing light,Which all who saw it follow’d, wrong or right.

But certes matters took a different face;There was enthusiasm and much applause,The fleet and camp saluted with great grace,And all presaged good fortune to their cause.Within a cannon-shot length of the placeThey drew, constructed ladders, repair’d flawsIn former works, made new, prepared fascines,And all kinds of benevolent machines.

’Tis thus the spirit of a single mindMakes that of multitudes take one direction,As roll the waters to the breathing wind,Or roams the herd beneath the bull’s protection;Or as a little dog will lead the blind,Or a bell-wether form the flock’s connectionBy tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual;Such is the sway of your great men o’er little.

The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thoughtThat they were going to a marriage feast(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught,Since there is discord after both at least):There was not now a luggage boy but soughtDanger and spoil with ardour much increased;And why? because a little—odd—old man,Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van.

But so it was; and every preparationWas made with all alacrity: the firstDetachment of three columns took its station,And waited but the signal’s voice to burstUpon the foe: the second’s ordinationWas also in three columns, with a thirstFor glory gaping o’er a sea of slaughter:The third, in columns two, attack’d by water.

New batteries were erected, and was heldA general council, in which unanimity,That stranger to most councils, here prevail’d,As sometimes happens in a great extremity;And every difficulty being dispell’d,Glory began to dawn with due sublimity,While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it,Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet

It is an actual fact, that he, commanderIn chief, in proper person deign’d to drillThe awkward squad, and could afford to squanderHis time, a corporal’s duty to fulfil:Just as you’d break a sucking salamanderTo swallow flame, and never take it ill:He show’d them how to mount a ladder (whichWas not like Jacob’s) or to cross a ditch.

Also he dress’d up, for the nonce, fascinesLike men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks,And made them charge with bayonet these machines,By way of lesson against actual Turks:And when well practised in these mimic scenes,He judged them proper to assail the works;At which your wise men sneer’d in phrases witty:He made no answer; but he took the city.

Most things were in this posture on the eveOf the assault, and all the camp was inA stern repose; which you would scarce conceive;Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thinAre very silent when they once believeThat all is settled:—there was little din,For some were thinking of their home and friends,And others of themselves and latter ends.

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert,Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering;For the man was, we safely may assert,A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering;Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt,Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering;Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to stormA fortress, Harlequin in uniform.

The day before the assault, while upon drill—For this great conqueror play’d the corporal—Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill,Had met a party towards the twilight’s fall,One of whom spoke their tongue—or well or ill,’Twas much that he was understood at all;But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner,They found that he had fought beneath their banner.

Whereon immediately at his requestThey brought him and his comrades to head-quarters;Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess’dThat these were merely masquerading Tartars,And that beneath each Turkish-fashion’d vestLurk’d Christianity; which sometimes bartersHer inward grace for outward show, and makesIt difficult to shun some strange mistakes.

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirtBefore a company of Calmucks, drilling,Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert,And lecturing on the noble art of killing,—For deeming human clay but common dirt,This great philosopher was thus instillingHis maxims, which to martial comprehensionProved death in battle equal to a pension;—

Suwarrow, when he saw this companyOf Cossacques and their prey, turn’d round and castUpon them his slow brow and piercing eye:—‘Whence come ye?’—‘From Constantinople last,Captives just now escaped,’ was the reply.‘What are ye?’—‘What you see us.’ Briefly pass’dThis dialogue; for he who answer’d knewTo whom he spoke, and made his words but few.

‘Your names?’—‘Mine ’s Johnson, and my comrade ’s Juan;The other two are women, and the thirdIs neither man nor woman.’ The chief threw onThe party a slight glance, then said, ‘I have heardYour name before, the second is a new one:To bring the other three here was absurd:But let that pass:—I think I have heard your nameIn the Nikolaiew regiment?’—‘The same.’

‘You served at Widdin?’—‘Yes.’—‘You led the attack?’‘I did.’—‘What next?’—‘I really hardly know.’‘You were the first i’ the breach?’—‘I was not slackAt least to follow those who might be so.’‘What follow’d?’—‘A shot laid me on my back,And I became a prisoner to the foe.’‘You shall have vengeance, for the town surroundedIs twice as strong as that where you were wounded.

‘Where will you serve?’—‘Where’er you please.’—‘I knowYou like to be the hope of the forlorn,And doubtless would be foremost on the foeAfter the hardships you’ve already borne.And this young fellow—say what can he do?He with the beardless chin and garments torn?’‘Why, general, if he hath no greater faultIn war than love, he had better lead the assault.’

‘He shall if that he dare.’ Here Juan bow’dLow as the compliment deserved. SuwarrowContinued: ‘Your old regiment’s allow’d,By special providence, to lead to-morrow,Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have vow’dTo several saints, that shortly plough or harrowShall pass o’er what was Ismail, and its tuskBe unimpeded by the proudest mosque.

‘So now, my lads, for glory!’—Here he turn’dAnd drill’d away in the most classic Russian,Until each high, heroic bosom burn’dFor cash and conquest, as if from a cushionA preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn’dAll earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push onTo slay the Pagans who resisted, batteringThe armies of the Christian Empress Catherine.

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquyHimself a favourite, ventured to addressSuwarrow, though engaged with accents highIn his resumed amusement. ‘I confessMy debt in being thus allow’d to dieAmong the foremost; but if you’d expressExplicitly our several posts, my friendAnd self would know what duty to attend.’

‘Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, youWill join your former regiment, which should beNow under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to(Here he call’d up a Polish orderly)His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew:The stranger stripling may remain with me;He ’s a fine boy. The women may be sentTo the other baggage, or to the sick tent.’

But here a sort of scene began to ensue:The ladies,—who by no means had been bredTo be disposed of in a way so new,Although their haram education ledDoubtless to that of doctrines the most true,Passive obedience,—now raised up the head,With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flungTheir arms, as hens their wings about their young,

O’er the promoted couple of brave menWho were thus honour’d by the greatest chiefThat ever peopled hell with heroes slain,Or plunged a province or a realm in grief.O, foolish mortals! Always taught in vain!O, glorious laurel! since for one sole leafOf thine imaginary deathless tree,Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears,And not much sympathy for blood, survey’dThe women with their hair about their earsAnd natural agonies, with a slight shadeOf feeling: for however habit searsMen’s hearts against whole millions, when their tradeIs butchery, sometimes a single sorrowWill touch even heroes—and such was Suwarrow.

He said,—and in the kindest Calmuck tone,—‘Why, Johnson, what the devil do you meanBy bringing women here? They shall be shownAll the attention possible, and seenIn safety to the waggons, where aloneIn fact they can be safe. You should have beenAware this kind of baggage never thrives:Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.’

‘May it please your excellency,’ thus repliedOur British friend, ‘these are the wives of others,And not our own. I am too qualifiedBy service with my military brothersTo break the rules by bringing one’s own brideInto a camp: I know that nought so bothersThe hearts of the heroic on a charge,As leaving a small family at large.

‘But these are but two Turkish ladies, whoWith their attendant aided our escape,And afterwards accompanied us throughA thousand perils in this dubious shape.To me this kind of life is not so new;To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape.I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely,Request that they may both be used genteelly.’

Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes,Look’d on as if in doubt if they could trustTheir own protectors; nor was their surpriseLess than their grief (and truly not less just)To see an old man, rather wild than wiseIn aspect, plainly clad, besmear’d with dust,Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean,More fear’d than all the sultans ever seen.

For every thing seem’d resting on his nod,As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,Who were accustom’d, as a sort of god,To see the sultan, rich in many a gem,Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad(That royal bird, whose tail ’s a diadem),With all the pomp of power, it was a doubtHow power could condescend to do without.

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay,Though little versed in feelings oriental,Suggested some slight comfort in his way:Don Juan, who was much more sentimental,Swore they should see him by the dawn of day,Or that the Russian army should repent all:And, strange to say, they found some consolationIn this—for females like exaggeration.

And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses,They parted for the present—these to await,According to the artillery’s hits or misses,What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate(Uncertainty is one of many blisses,A mortgage on Humanity’s estate)—While their beloved friends began to arm,To burn a town which never did them harm.

Suwarrow,—who but saw things in the gross,Being much too gross to see them in detail,Who calculated life as so much dross,And as the wind a widow’d nation’s wail,And cared as little for his army’s loss(So that their efforts should at length prevail)As wife and friends did for the boils of Job,—What was ’t to him to hear two women sob?

Nothing.—The work of glory still went onIn preparations for a cannonadeAs terrible as that of Ilion,If Homer had found mortars ready made;But now, instead of slaying Priam’s son,We only can but talk of escalade,Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets,—Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses’ gullets.

O, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charmAll ears, though long; all ages, though so short,By merely wielding with poetic armArms to which men will never more resort,Unless gunpowder should be found to harmMuch less than is the hope of every court,Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy;But they will not find Liberty a Troy:—

O, thou eternal Homer! I have nowTo paint a siege, wherein more men were slain,With deadlier engines and a speedier blow,Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign;And yet, like all men else, I must allow,To vie with thee would be about as vainAs for a brook to cope with ocean’s flood;But still we moderns equal you in blood;

If not in poetry, at least in fact;And fact is truth, the grand desideratum!Of which, howe’er the Muse describes each act,There should be ne’ertheless a slight substratum.But now the town is going to be attack’d;Great deeds are doing—how shall I relate ’em?Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watchesTo colour up his rays from your despatches.

O, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte!O, ye less grand long lists of kill’d and wounded!Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty,When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded!O, Caesar’s Commentaries! now impart, yeShadows of glory! (lest I be confounded)A portion of your fading twilight hues,So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse.

When I call ‘fading’ martial immortality,I mean, that every age and every year,And almost every day, in sad reality,Some sucking hero is compell’d to rear,Who, when we come to sum up the totalityOf deeds to human happiness most dear,Turns out to be a butcher in great business,Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness.

Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet,Are things immortal to immortal man,As purple to the Babylonian harlot:An uniform to boys is like a fanTo women; there is scarce a crimson varletBut deems himself the first in Glory’s van.But Glory’s glory; and if you would findWhat that is—ask the pig who sees the wind!

At least he feels it, and some say he sees,Because he runs before it like a pig;Or, if that simple sentence should displease,Say, that he scuds before it like a brig,A schooner, or—but it is time to easeThis Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue.The next shall ring a peal to shake all people,Like a bob-major from a village steeple.

Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,The hum of armies gathering rank on rank!Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sightAlong the leaguer’d wall and bristling bankOf the arm’d river, while with straggling lightThe stars peep through the vapours dim and dank,Which curl in curious wreaths:—how soon the smokeOf Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak!

Here pause we for the present—as even thenThat awful pause, dividing life from death,Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath!A moment—and all will be life again!The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith!Hurra! and Allah! and—one moment more,The death-cry drowning in the battle’s roar.