And so it was, in proper time and place; But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace, And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing; These words went through his soul like Arab-spears, So that he spoke not, but burst into tears.

She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears, For women shed and use them at their liking; But there is something when man's eye appears Wet, still more disagreeable and striking; A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) To them 't is a relief, to us a torture.

And she would have consoled, but knew not how: Having no equals, nothing which had e'er Infected her with sympathy till now, And never having dreamt what 't was to bear Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although There might arise some pouting petty care To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear.

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, And, when a strong although a strange sensation Moves—female hearts are such a genial soil For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, They naturally pour the 'wine and oil,' Samaritans in every situation; And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye.

But tears must stop like all things else; and soon Juan, who for an instant had been moved To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone Of one who dared to ask if 'he had loved,' Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone Bright with the very weakness he reproved; And although sensitive to beauty, he Felt most indignant still at not being free.

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, Was much embarrass'd, never having met In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; And as she also risk'd her life to get Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways Into a comfortable tete-a-tete, To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, And they had wasted now almost a quarter.

I also would suggest the fitting time To gentlemen in any such like case, That is to say in a meridian clime— With us there is more law given to the chase, But here a small delay forms a great crime: So recollect that the extremest grace Is just two minutes for your declaration— A moment more would hurt your reputation.

Juan's was good; and might have been still better, But he had got Haidee into his head: However strange, he could not yet forget her, Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor For having had him to her palace led, Began to blush up to the eyes, and then Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again.

At length, in an imperial way, she laid Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes Which needed not an empire to persuade, Look'd into his for love, where none replies: Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, That being the last thing a proud woman tries; She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw Herself upon his breast, and there she grew.

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride: With gentle force her white arms he unwound, And seated her all drooping by his side, Then rising haughtily he glanced around, And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 'The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor Serve a Sultana's sensual phantasy.

'Thou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof How much I have loved—that I love not thee! In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, Were fitter for me: Love is for the free! I am not dazzled by this splendid roof, Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be; Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, And hands obey—our hearts are still our own.'

This was a truth to us extremely trite; Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things: She deem'd her least command must yield delight, Earth being only made for queens and kings. If hearts lay on the left side or the right She hardly knew, to such perfection brings Legitimacy its born votaries, when Aware of their due royal rights o'er men.

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair As even in a much humbler lot had made A kingdom or confusion anywhere, And also, as may be presumed, she laid Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er, By their possessors thrown into the shade: She thought hers gave a double 'right divine;' And half of that opinion 's also mine.

Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, Ye, who have kept your chastity when young, While some more desperate dowager has been waging Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung By your refusal, recollect her raging! Or recollect all that was said or sung On such a subject; then suppose the face Of a young downright beauty in this case.

Suppose,—but you already have supposed, The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed Of good examples; pity that so few by Poets and private tutors are exposed, To educate—ye youth of Europe—you by! But when you have supposed the few we know, You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow.

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, Or any interesting beast of prey, Are similes at hand for the distress Of ladies who can not have their own way; But though my turn will not be served with less, These don't express one half what I should say: For what is stealing young ones, few or many, To cutting short their hopes of having any?

The love of offspring 's nature's general law, From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings; There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings; And all who have seen a human nursery, saw How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings; This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger.

If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 'T were nothing—for her eyes flash'd always fire; Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, So supernatural was her passion's rise; For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire: Even ye who know what a check'd woman is (Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this.

Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well— A moment's more had slain her; but the while It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell: Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile, Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle; And the deep passions flashing through her form Made her a beautiful embodied storm.

A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon To match a common fury with her rage, And yet she did not want to reach the moon, Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page; Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age— Her wish was but to 'kill, kill, kill,' like Lear's, And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears.

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, Pass'd without words—in fact she could not speak; And then her sex's shame broke in at last, A sentiment till then in her but weak, But now it flow'd in natural and fast, As water through an unexpected leak; For she felt humbled—and humiliation Is sometimes good for people in her station

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, It also gently hints to them that others, Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud; That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, And works of the same pottery, bad or good, Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: It teaches—Heaven knows only what it teaches, But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.

Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head; Her second, to cut only his—acquaintance; Her third, to ask him where he had been bred; Her fourth, to rally him into repentance; Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed; Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence The lash to Baba:—but her grand resource Was to sit down again, and cry of course.

She thought to stab herself, but then she had The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward; For Eastern stays are little made to pad, So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard: She thought of killing Juan—but, poor lad! Though he deserved it well for being so backward, The cutting off his head was not the art Most likely to attain her aim—his heart.

Juan was moved; he had made up his mind To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, And thus heroically stood resign'd, Rather than sin—except to his own wish: But all his great preparatives for dying Dissolved like snow before a woman crying.

As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed, So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; And first he wonder'd why he had refused; And then, if matters could be made up now; And next his savage virtue he accused, Just as a friar may accuse his vow, Or as a dame repents her of her oath, Which mostly ends in some small breach of both.

So he began to stammer some excuses; But words are not enough in such a matter, Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter, Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses; Just as a languid smile began to flatter His peace was making, but before he ventured Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd.

'Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!' ('T was thus he spake) 'and Empress of the Earth! Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, Your slave brings tidings—he hopes not too soon— Which your sublime attention may be worth: The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, To hint that he is coming up this way.'

'Is it,' exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, 'as you say? I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning! But bid my women form the milky way. Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning— And, Christian! mingle with them as you may, And as you 'd have me pardon your past scorning-' Here they were interrupted by a humming Sound, and then by a cry, 'The Sultan 's coming!'

First came her damsels, a decorous file, And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white; The train might reach a quarter of a mile: His majesty was always so polite As to announce his visits a long while Before he came, especially at night; For being the last wife of the Emperour, She was of course the favorite of the four.

His Highness was a man of solemn port, Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise; He was as good a sovereign of the sort As any mention'd in the histories Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine Save Solyman, the glory of their line.

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers With more than 'Oriental scrupulosity;' He left to his vizier all state affairs, And show'd but little royal curiosity: I know not if he had domestic cares— No process proved connubial animosity; Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen.

If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, Little was heard of criminal or crime; The story scarcely pass'd a single lip— The sack and sea had settled all in time, From which the secret nobody could rip: The Public knew no more than does this rhyme; No scandals made the daily press a curse— Morals were better, and the fish no worse.

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, Was also certain that the earth was square, Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found No sign that it was circular anywhere; His empire also was without a bound: 'T is true, a little troubled here and there, By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, But then they never came to 'the Seven Towers;'

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent To lodge there when a war broke out, according To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or The singeing of a single inky whisker.

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, The former in a palace, where like nuns They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once, Sometimes at six years old—though it seems odd, 'T is true; the reason is, that the Bashaw Must make a present to his sire in law.

His sons were kept in prison, till they grew Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, One or the other, but which of the two Could yet be known unto the fates alone; Meantime the education they went through Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: So that the heir apparent still was found No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd.

His majesty saluted his fourth spouse With all the ceremonies of his rank, Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, As suits a matron who has play'd a prank; These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, To save the credit of their breaking bank: To no men are such cordial greetings given As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven.

His Highness cast around his great black eyes, And looking, as he always look'd, perceived Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved, But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 'I see you 've bought another girl; 't is pity That a mere Christian should be half so pretty.'

This compliment, which drew all eyes upon The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone: O! Mahomet! that his majesty should take Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one Of them his lips imperial ever spake! There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.

The Turks do well to shut—at least, sometimes— The women up, because, in sad reality, Their chastity in these unhappy climes Is not a thing of that astringent quality Which in the North prevents precocious crimes, And makes our snow less pure than our morality; The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, Has quite the contrary effect on vice.

Thus in the East they are extremely strict, And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same; Excepting only when the former 's pick'd It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame; Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd: But then their own Polygamy 's to blame; Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life Into that moral centaur, man and wife?

Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause, Though not for want of matter; but 't is time According to the ancient epic laws, To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime; Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps You 'll pardon to my muse a few short naps.



CANTO THE SIXTH.

'There is a tide in the affairs of men Which,—taken at the flood,'—you know the rest, And most of us have found it now and then; At least we think so, though but few have guess'd The moment, till too late to come again. But no doubt every thing is for the best— Of which the surest sign is in the end: When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.

There is a tide in the affairs of women Which, taken at the flood, leads—God knows where: Those navigators must be able seamen Whose charts lay down its current to a hair; Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen With its strange whirls and eddies can compare: Men with their heads reflect on this and that— But women with their hearts on heaven knows what!

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, Young, beautiful, and daring—who would risk A throne, the world, the universe, to be Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk The stars from out the sky, than not be free As are the billows when the breeze is brisk— Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one), Yet she would make full many a Manichean.

Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset By commonest ambition, that when passion O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. If Antony be well remember'd yet, 'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion, But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, Outbalances all Caesar's victories.

He died at fifty for a queen of forty; I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport—I Remember when, though I had no great plenty Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I Gave what I had—a heart: as the world went, I Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever.

'Twas the boy's 'mite,' and, like the 'widow's,' may Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now; But whether such things do or do not weigh, All who have loved, or love, will still allow Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, And Love 's a god, or was before the brow Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears Of—but Chronology best knows the years.

We left our hero and third heroine in A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman: Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.

I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong; I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; But I detest all fiction even in song, And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. Her reason being weak, her passions strong, She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it) Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine.

I am not, like Cassio, 'an arithmetician,' But by 'the bookish theoric' it appears, If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision, That, adding to the account his Highness' years, The fair Sultana err'd from inanition; For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part Of what should be monopoly—the heart.

It is observed that ladies are litigious Upon all legal objects of possession, And not the least so when they are religious, Which doubles what they think of the transgression: With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, As the tribunals show through many a session, When they suspect that any one goes shares In that to which the law makes them sole heirs.

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, Are apt to carry things with a high hand, And take what kings call 'an imposing attitude,' And for their rights connubial make a stand, When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude: And as four wives must have quadruple claims, The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames.

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) The favourite; but what 's favour amongst four? Polygamy may well be held in dread, Not only as a sin, but as a bore: Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, Will scarcely find philosophy for more; And all (except Mahometans) forbear To make the nuptial couch a 'Bed of Ware.'

His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,— So styled according to the usual forms Of every monarch, till they are consign'd To those sad hungry jacobins the worms, Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,— His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, Expecting all the welcome of a lover (A 'Highland welcome' all the wide world over).

Now here we should distinguish; for howe'er Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, May look like what is—neither here nor there, They are put on as easily as a hat, Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, Which form an ornament, but no more part Of heads, than their caresses of the heart.

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind Of gentle feminine delight, and shown More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, A sincere woman's breast,—for over-warm Or over-cold annihilates the charm.

For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth; If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire; For no one, save in very early youth, Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth, And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer At a sad discount: while your over chilly Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly.

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, And see a sentimental passion glow, Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, In his monastic concubine of snow;— In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is Horatian, 'Medio tu tutissimus ibis.'

The 'tu' 's too much,—but let it stand,—the verse Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme, And not the pink of old hexameters; But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time In the last line, which cannot well be worse, And was thrust in to close the octave's chime: I own no prosody can ever rate it As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it.

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, I know not—it succeeded, and success Is much in most things, not less in the heart Than other articles of female dress. Self-love in man, too, beats all female art; They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less; And no one virtue yet, except starvation, Could stop that worst of vices—propagation.

We leave this royal couple to repose: A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes: Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep As any man's day mixture undergoes. Our least of sorrows are such as we weep; 'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill, A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted, A bad old woman making a worse will, Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted As certain;—these are paltry things, and yet I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret.

I 'm a philosopher; confound them all! Bills, beasts, and men, and—no! not womankind! With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, And then my stoicism leaves nought behind Which it can either pain or evil call, And I can give my whole soul up to mind; Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, Is more than I know—the deuce take them both!

As after reading Athanasius' curse, Which doth your true believer so much please: I doubt if any now could make it worse O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, And decorates the book of Common Prayer, As doth a rainbow the just clearing air.

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or At least one of them!—Oh, the heavy night, When wicked wives, who love some bachelor, Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light Of the gray morning, and look vainly for Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite— To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake!

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, Also beneath the canopy of beds Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given For rich men and their brides to lay their heads Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 'driven Snow.' Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds. Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean.

Don Juan in his feminine disguise, With all the damsels in their long array, Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes, And at the usual signal ta'en their way Back to their chambers, those long galleries In the seraglio, where the ladies lay Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air.

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse The tyrant's wish, 'that mankind only had One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:' My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, And much more tender on the whole than fierce; It being (not now, but only while a lad) That womankind had but one rosy mouth, To kiss them all at once from North to South.

O, enviable Briareus! with thy hands And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied In such proportion!—But my Muse withstands The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, Or travelling in Patagonian lands; So let us back to Lilliput, and guide Our hero through the labyrinth of love In which we left him several lines above.

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, At the given signal join'd to their array; And though he certainly ran many risks, Yet he could not at times keep, by the way (Although the consequences of such frisks Are worse than the worst damages men pay In moral England, where the thing 's a tax), From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs.

Still he forgot not his disguise:—along The galleries from room to room they walk'd, A virgin-like and edifying throng, By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there stalk'd A dame who kept up discipline among The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd Without her sanction on their she-parades: Her title was 'the Mother of the Maids.'

Whether she was a 'mother,' I know not, Or whether they were 'maids' who call'd her mother; But this is her seraglio title, got I know not how, but good as any other; So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott: Her office was to keep aloof or smother All bad propensities in fifteen hundred Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd.

A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made More easy by the absence of all men— Except his majesty, who, with her aid, And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then A slight example, just to cast a shade Along the rest, contrived to keep this den Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent.

And what is that? Devotion, doubtless—how Could you ask such a question?—but we will Continue. As I said, this goodly row Of ladies of all countries at the will Of one good man, with stately march and slow, Like water-lilies floating down a rill— Or rather lake, for rills do not run slowly— Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy.

But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere When freed from bonds (which are of no great use After all), or like Irish at a fair, Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce Establish'd between them and bondage, they Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play.

Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer; Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything: Some thought her dress did not so much become her, Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring; Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, Others contended they were but in spring; Some thought her rather masculine in height, While others wish'd that she had been so quite.

But no one doubted on the whole, that she Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, And fresh, and 'beautiful exceedingly,' Who with the brightest Georgians might compare: They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be So silly as to buy slaves who might share (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) Her throne and power, and every thing beside.

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, Although her beauty was enough to vex, After the first investigating view, They all found out as few, or fewer, specks In the fair form of their companion new, Than is the custom of the gentle sex, When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, In a new face 'the ugliest creature breathing.'

And yet they had their little jealousies, Like all the rest; but upon this occasion, Whether there are such things as sympathies Without our knowledge or our approbation, Although they could not see through his disguise, All felt a soft kind of concatenation, Like magnetism, or devilism, or what You please—we will not quarrel about that:

But certain 'tis they all felt for their new Companion something newer still, as 'twere A sentimental friendship through and through, Extremely pure, which made them all concur In wishing her their sister, save a few Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha.

Of those who had most genius for this sort Of sentimental friendship, there were three, Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; in short (To save description), fair as fair can be Were they, according to the best report, Though differing in stature and degree, And clime and time, and country and complexion; They all alike admired their new connection.

Lolah was dusk as India and as warm; Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy.

A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, Yet very fit to 'murder sleep' in those Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose: Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose; Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where It would not spoil some separate charm to pare.

She was not violently lively, but Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut, They put beholders in a tender taking; She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, The mortal and the marble still at strife, And timidly expanding into life.

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name— 'Juanna.'—Well, a pretty name enough. Katinka ask'd her also whence she came— 'From Spain.'—'But where is Spain?'—'Don't ask such stuff, Nor show your Georgian ignorance—for shame!' Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, To poor Katinka: 'Spain 's an island near Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.'

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside Juanna, playing with her veil or hair; And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, As if she pitied her for being there, A pretty stranger without friend or guide, And all abash'd, too, at the general stare Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, With kind remarks upon their mien and faces.

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, With, 'Ladies, it is time to go to rest. I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear,' She added to Juanna, their new guest: 'Your coming has been unexpected here, And every couch is occupied; you had best Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early We will have all things settled for you fairly.'

Here Lolah interposed—'Mamma, you know You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear That anybody should disturb you so; I 'll take Juanna; we 're a slenderer pair Than you would make the half of;—don't say no; And I of your young charge will take due care.' But here Katinka interfered, and said, 'She also had compassion and a bed.

'Besides, I hate to sleep alone,' quoth she. The matron frown'd: 'Why so?'—'For fear of ghosts,' Replied Katinka; 'I am sure I see A phantom upon each of the four posts; And then I have the worst dreams that can be, Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.' The dame replied, 'Between your dreams and you, I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few.

'You, Lolah, must continue still to lie Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you The same, Katinka, until by and by; And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, And will not toss and chatter the night through. What say you, child?'—Dudu said nothing, as Her talents were of the more silent class;

But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, Katinka, too; and with a gentle bow (Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) She took Juanna by the hand to show Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, The others pouting at the matron's preference Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference.

It was a spacious chamber (Oda is The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall Were couches, toilets—and much more than this I might describe, as I have seen it all, But it suffices—little was amiss; 'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, With all things ladies want, save one or two, And even those were nearer than they knew.

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, Not very dashing, but extremely winning, With the most regulated charms of feature, Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning Against proportion—the wild strokes of nature Which they hit off at once in the beginning, Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth, Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it Than are your mighty passions and so forth, Which some call 'the sublime:' I wish they 'd try it: I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

But she was pensive more than melancholy, And serious more than pensive, and serene, It may be, more than either—not unholy Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall; She never thought about herself at all.

And therefore was she kind and gentle as The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, By which its nomenclature came to pass; Thus most appropriately has been shown 'Lucus a non lucendo,' not what was, But what was not; a sort of style that 's grown Extremely common in this age, whose metal The devil may decompose, but never settle:

I think it may be of 'Corinthian Brass,' Which was a mixture of all metals, but The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass This long parenthesis: I could not shut It sooner for the soul of me, and class My faults even with your own! which meaneth, Put A kind construction upon them and me: But that you won't—then don't—I am not less free.

'Tis time we should return to plain narration, And thus my narrative proceeds:—Dudu, With every kindness short of ostentation, Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through This labyrinth of females, and each station Described—what 's strange—in words extremely few: I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder, For wordless woman, which is silent thunder.

And next she gave her (I say her, because The gender still was epicene, at least In outward show, which is a saving clause) An outline of the customs of the East, With all their chaste integrity of laws, By which the more a haram is increased, The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties Of any supernumerary beauties.

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss: Dudu was fond of kissing—which I 'm sure That nobody can ever take amiss, Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, And between females means no more than this— That they have nothing better near, or newer. 'Kiss' rhymes to 'bliss' in fact as well as verse— I wish it never led to something worse.

In perfect innocence she then unmade Her toilet, which cost little, for she was A child of Nature, carelessly array'd: If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd, Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, When first she starts, and then returns to peep, Admiring this new native of the deep.

And one by one her articles of dress Were laid aside; but not before she offer'd Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd: Which pass'd well off—as she could do no less; Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd, Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, Which surely were invented for our sins,—

Making a woman like a porcupine, Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread, O ye! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine, In early youth, to turn a lady's maid;— I did my very boyish best to shine In tricking her out for a masquerade; The pins were placed sufficiently, but not Stuck all exactly in the proper spot.

But these are foolish things to all the wise, And I love wisdom more than she loves me; My tendency is to philosophise On most things, from a tyrant to a tree; But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. What are we? and whence came we? what shall be Our ultimate existence? what 's our present? Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.

There was deep silence in the chamber: dim And distant from each other burn'd the lights, And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites, They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest trim, By way of change from their sepulchral sites, And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste.

Many and beautiful lay those around, Like flowers of different hue, and dime, and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found, With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath.

One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm; And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night All bashfully to struggle into light.

This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes.

A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep; White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, Or Lot's wife done in salt,—or what you will;— My similes are gather'd in a heap, So pick and choose—perhaps you 'll be content With a carved lady on a monument.

And lo! a fifth appears;—and what is she? A lady of a 'certain age,' which means Certainly aged—what her years might be I know not, never counting past their teens; But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, As ere that awful period intervenes Which lays both men and women on the shelf, To meditate upon their sins and self.

But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu? With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, And scorn to add a syllable untrue; But ere the middle watch was hardly over, Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover, To those who like their company, about The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out:

And that so loudly, that upstarted all The Oda, in a general commotion: Matron and maids, and those whom you may call Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, One on the other, throughout the whole hall, All trembling, wondering, without the least notion More than I have myself of what could make The calm Dudu so turbulently wake.

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, With floating draperies and with flying hair, With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, And bright as any meteor ever bred By the North Pole,—they sought her cause of care, For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd.

But what was strange—and a strong proof how great A blessing is sound sleep—Juanna lay As fast as ever husband by his mate In holy matrimony snores away. Not all the clamour broke her happy state Of slumber, ere they shook her,—so they say At least,—and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise.

And now commenced a strict investigation, Which, as all spoke at once and more than once, Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce To answer in a very clear oration. Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, But, being 'no orator as Brutus is,' Could not at first expound what was amiss.

At length she said, that in a slumber sound She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood— A 'wood obscure,' like that where Dante found Himself in at the age when all grow good; Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd Run much less risk of lovers turning rude; And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;

And in the midst a golden apple grew,— A most prodigious pippin,—but it hung Rather too high and distant; that she threw Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung Stones and whatever she could pick up, to Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, But always at a most provoking height;—

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, It fell down of its own accord before Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop And pick it up, and bite it to the core; That just as her young lip began to ope Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, And so—she awoke with a great scream and start.

All this she told with some confusion and Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand To expound their vain and visionary gleams. I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd Prophetically, or that which one deems A 'strange coincidence,' to use a phrase By which such things are settled now-a-days.

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, Began, as is the consequence of fear, To scold a little at the false alarm That broke for nothing on their sleeping car. The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, And said that she was sorry she had cried.

'I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull; But visions of an apple and a bee, To take us from our natural rest, and pull The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three, Would make us think the moon is at its full. You surely are unwell, child! we must see, To-morrow, what his Highness's physician Will say to this hysteric of a vision.

'And poor Juanna, too—the child's first night Within these walls to be broke in upon With such a clamour! I had thought it right That the young stranger should not lie alone, And, as the quietest of all, she might With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known; But now I must transfer her to the charge Of Lolah—though her couch is not so large.'

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition; But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, Resulting from the scolding or the vision, Implored that present pardon might be shown For this first fault, and that on no condition (She added in a soft and piteous tone) Juanna should be taken from her, and Her future dreams should all be kept in hand.

She promised never more to have a dream, At least to dream so loudly as just now; She wonder'd at herself how she could scream— 'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, A fond hallucination, and a theme For laughter—but she felt her spirits low, And begg'd they would excuse her; she 'd get over This weakness in a few hours, and recover.

And here Juanna kindly interposed, And said she felt herself extremely well Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed When all around rang like a tocsin bell: She did not find herself the least disposed To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell Apart from one who had no sin to show, Save that of dreaming once 'mal-a-propos.'

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round And hid her face within Juanna's breast: Her neck alone was seen, but that was found The colour of a budding rose's crest. I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound The mystery of this rupture of their rest; All that I know is, that the facts I state Are true as truth has ever been of late.

And so good night to them,—or, if you will, Good morrow—for the cock had crown, and light Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, And the mosque crescent struggled into sight Of the long caravan, which in the chill Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height That stretches to the stony belt, which girds Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.

With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale As passion rises, with its bosom worn, Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, Which fable places in her breast of wail, Is lighter far of heart and voice than those Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.

And that 's the moral of this composition, If people would but see its real drift;— But that they will not do without suspicion, Because all gentle readers have the gift Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision; While gentle writers also love to lift Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural, The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried Aloud because his feelings were too tender To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,— So beautiful that art could little mend her, Though pale with conflicts between love and pride;— So agitated was she with her error, She did not even look into the mirror.

Also arose about the self-same time, Perhaps a little later, her great lord, Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd; A thing of much less import in that clime— At least to those of incomes which afford The filling up their whole connubial cargo— Than where two wives are under an embargo.

He did not think much on the matter, nor Indeed on any other: as a man He liked to have a handsome paramour At hand, as one may like to have a fan, And therefore of Circassians had good store, As an amusement after the Divan; Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty.

And now he rose; and after due ablutions Exacted by the customs of the East, And prayers and other pious evolutions, He drank six cups of coffee at the least, And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, Whose victories had recently increased In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores,

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend Thine ear, if it should reach—and now rhymes wander Almost as far as Petersburgh and lend A dreadful impulse to each loud meander Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend Their roar even with the Baltic's—so you be Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me.

To call men love-begotten or proclaim Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, That hater of mankind, would be a shame, A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: But people's ancestors are history's game; And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on All generations, I should like to know What pedigree the best would have to show?

Had Catherine and the sultan understood Their own true interests, which kings rarely know Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, There was a way to end their strife, although Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, Without the aid of prince or plenipo: She to dismiss her guards and he his haram, And for their other matters, meet and share 'em.

But as it was, his Highness had to hold His daily council upon ways and means How to encounter with this martial scold, This modern Amazon and queen of queans; And the perplexity could not be told Of all the pillars of the state, which leans Sometimes a little heavy on the backs Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, And rich with all contrivances which grace Those gay recesses:—many a precious stone Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, Those captive soothers of a captive's hours.

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, Vied with each other on this costly spot; And singing birds without were heard to warble; And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot Varied each ray;—but all descriptions garble The true effect, and so we had better not Be too minute; an outline is the best,— A lively reader's fancy does the rest.

And here she summon'd Baba, and required Don Juan at his hands, and information Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, And whether he had occupied their station; If matters had been managed as desired, And his disguise with due consideration Kept up; and above all, the where and how He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know.

Baba, with some embarrassment, replied To this long catechism of questions, ask'd More easily than answer'd,—that he had tried His best to obey in what he had been task'd; But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd; He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource To which embarrass'd people have recourse.

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; She liked quick answers in all conversations; And when she saw him stumbling like a steed In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle.

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew To bode him no great good, he deprecated Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through— He could not help the thing which he related: Then out it came at length, that to Dudu Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran.

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom The discipline of the whole haram bore, As soon as they re-enter'd their own room, For Baba's function stopt short at the door, Had settled all; nor could he then presume (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, Without exciting such suspicion as Might make the matter still worse than it was.

He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact 'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, Because a foolish or imprudent act Would not alone have made him insecure, But ended in his being found out and sack'd, And thrown into the sea.—Thus Baba spoke Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke.

This he discreetly kept in the background, And talk'd away—and might have talk'd till now, For any further answer that he found, So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow: Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round, As if she had received a sudden blow, And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily.

Although she was not of the fainting sort, Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd— It was but a convulsion, which though short Can never be described; we all have heard, And some of us have felt thus 'all amort,' When things beyond the common have occurr'd;— Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony What she could ne'er express—then how should I?

She stood a moment as a Pythones Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full Of inspiration gather'd from distress, When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull The heart asunder;—then, as more or lees Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees.

Her face declined and was unseen; her hair Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, A low soft ottoman), and black despair Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.

Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping Conceal'd her features better than a veil; And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, White, waxen, and as alabaster pale: Would that I were a painter! to be grouping All that a poet drags into detail O that my words were colours! but their tints May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk And when to hold his tongue, now held it till This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. At length she rose up, and began to walk Slowly along the room, but silent still, And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye; The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak—but paused, And then moved on again with rapid pace; Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused By deep emotion:—you may sometimes trace A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased By all the demons of all passions, show'd Their work even by the way in which he trode.

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba:—'Slave! Bring the two slaves!' she said in a low tone, But one which Baba did not like to brave, And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, For fear of any error, like the late.

'The Georgian and her paramour,' replied The imperial bride—and added, 'Let the boat Be ready by the secret portal's side: You know the rest.' The words stuck in her throat, Despite her injured love and fiery pride; And of this Baba willingly took note, And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard, She would revoke the order he had heard.

'To hear is to obey,' he said; 'but still, Sultana, think upon the consequence: It is not that I shall not all fulfil Your orders, even in their severest sense; But such precipitation may end ill, Even at your own imperative expense: I do not mean destruction and exposure, In case of any premature disclosure;

'But your own feelings. Even should all the rest Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide Already many a once love-beaten breast Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide— You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, And if this violent remedy be tried— Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, That killing him is not the way to cure you.'

'What dost thou know of love or feeling?—Wretch! Begone!' she cried, with kindling eyes—'and do My bidding!' Baba vanish'd, for to stretch His own remonstrance further he well knew Might end in acting as his own 'Jack Ketch;' And though he wish'd extremely to get through This awkward business without harm to others, He still preferr'd his own neck to another's.

Away he went then upon his commission, Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase Against all women of whate'er condition, Especially sultanas and their ways; Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, Their never knowing their own mind two days, The trouble that they gave, their immorality, Which made him daily bless his own neutrality.

And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, And sent one on a summons to the pair, That they must instantly be well array'd, And above all be comb'd even to a hair, And brought before the empress, who had made Inquiries after them with kindest care: At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly; But go they must at once, and will I—nill I.

And here I leave them at their preparation For the imperial presence, wherein whether Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, Or got rid of the parties altogether, Like other angry ladies of her nation,— Are things the turning of a hair or feather May settle; but far be 't from me to anticipate In what way feminine caprice may dissipate.

I leave them for the present with good wishes, Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange Another part of history; for the dishes Of this our banquet we must sometimes change; And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, Although his situation now seems strange And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.



CANTO THE SEVENTH.

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly Around us ever, rarely to alight? There 's not a meteor in the polar sky Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high Our eyes in search of either lovely light; A thousand and a thousand colours they Assume, 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 crime To laugh at all things—for I wish to know What, after all, are all things—but a show?

They accuse me—Me—the present writer of The present poem—of—I know not what— A tendency to under-rate and scoff At 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's Verse, 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. 'T is 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 pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass Each 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 youth Picking up shells by the great ocean—Truth.'

Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'- Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By 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 saying That ye are dogs—your betters far—ye may Read, or read not, what I am now essaying To show ye what ye are in every way. As little as the moon stops for the baying Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray From 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 sure If this be the right reading—'t is no matter; The fact 's about the same, I am secure; I sing them both, and am about to batter A town which did a famous siege endure, And was beleaguer'd both by land and water By Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow, Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.

The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed Upon 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 't is 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 fortification A borough is comprised along the height Upon the left, which from its loftier station Commands the city, and upon its site A Greek had raised around this elevation A quantity of palisades upright, So placed as to impede the fire of those Who held the place, and to assist the foe's.

This circumstance may serve to give a notion Of 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 set Rose 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 persuaded A 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 Cossacque Who were immortal, could one tell their story? Alas! what to their memory can lack? Achilles' self was not more grim and gory Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, Whose names want nothing but—pronunciation.

Still I 'll record a few, if but to increase Our 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 enough Into 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 peroration Of 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 high Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin Out 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 rest Had 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 best Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, Was he, since so renown'd 'in country quarters At 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 Smith Was born in Cumberland among the hills, And that his father was an honest blacksmith, I 've said all I know of a name that fills Three lines of the despatch in taking 'Schmacksmith,' A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein He fell, immortal in a bulletin.

I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin May 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 in The 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 record Their Gallic names upon a glorious day; I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word Of truth;—such truths are treason; they betray Their country; and as traitors are abhorr'd Who name the French in English, save to show How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe.

The Russians, having built two batteries on An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; The first was to bombard it, and knock down The public buildings and the private too, No matter what poor souls might be undone. The city's shape suggested this, 't is true; Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in.

The second object was to profit by The moment of the general consternation, To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station: But a third motive was as probably To 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 is That of despising those we combat with, Common in many cases, was in this The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith; One of the valorous 'Smiths' whom we shall miss Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to 'pith;' But 't is 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 fleet As they who print them think is necessary, May likewise put off for a time what story Sometimes 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 ware Of homicide, but there was no solidity In 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 distance Made all their naval matters incorrect; Three fireships lost their amiable existence Before they reach'd a spot to take effect: The match was lit too soon, and no assistance Could remedy this lubberly defect; They blew up in the middle of the river, While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.

At seven they rose, however, and survey'd The Russ flotilla getting under way; 'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, Within a cable's length their vessels lay Off 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 intermission The Turkish fire, and aided by their own Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision: At length they found mere cannonade alone By no means would produce the town's submission, And made a signal to retreat at one. One bark blew up, a second near the works Running 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 water Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.

'If' (says the historian here) 'I could report All 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 court To 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,' how Many of common readers give a guess That such existed? (and they may live now For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss; There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen.

But here are men who fought in gallant actions As gallantly as ever heroes fought, But buried in the heap of such transactions Their 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 bet You 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 span Had been as short in youth as indigestion Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on The 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 days When 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 raise A kind of phantasy proportionate In the then sovereign of the Russian people, Who measured men as you would do a steeple.

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent A courier to the prince, and he succeeded In 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 border Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order.

But on the thirteenth, when already part Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, A courier on the spur inspired new heart Into 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 of Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff.

The letter of the prince to the same marshal Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause Been 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 all With 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 seal The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night (For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree More evil in an hour, than thirty bright Summers could renovate, though they should be Lovely 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' now Began to signalise the Russ retreat, Were damnably mistaken; few are slow In thinking that their enemy is beat (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though I 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, drew In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacques For 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 descried In 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 discretion His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense.

'T is strange that he should farther 'damn his eyes,' For they are damn'd; that once all-famous oath Is 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 place They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws In former works, made new, prepared fascines, And all kinds of benevolent machines.

'T is thus the spirit of a single mind Makes 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 connection By 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 thought That 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 sought Danger 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 preparation Was made with all alacrity: the first Detachment of three columns took its station, And waited but the signal's voice to burst Upon the foe: the second's ordination Was also in three columns, with a thirst For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter: The third, in columns two, attack'd by water.

New batteries were erected, and was held A 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, commander In chief, in proper person deign'd to drill The awkward squad, and could afford to squander His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil: Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander To swallow flame, and never take it ill: He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch.

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines Like 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 eve Of the assault, and all the camp was in A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive; Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin Are very silent when they once believe That 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 storm A 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, 'T was 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 request They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters; Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd That these were merely masquerading Tartars, And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest Lurk'd Christianity; which sometimes barters Her inward grace for outward show, and makes It difficult to shun some strange mistakes.

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt Before 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 instilling His maxims, which to martial comprehension Proved death in battle equal to a pension;—

Suwarrow, when he saw this company Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round and cast Upon 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'd This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew To 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 third Is neither man nor woman.' The chief threw on The party a slight glance, then said, 'I have heard Your 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 name In 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 slack At 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 surrounded Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded.

'Where will you serve?'—'Where'er you please.'—'I know You like to be the hope of the forlorn, And doubtless would be foremost on the foe After 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 fault In war than love, he had better lead the assault.'

'He shall if that he dare.' Here Juan bow'd Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow Continued: 'Your old regiment's allow'd, By special providence, to lead to-morrow, Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have vow'd To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque.

'So now, my lads, for glory!'—Here he turn'd And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine.

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy Himself a favourite, ventured to address Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high In his resumed amusement. 'I confess My debt in being thus allow'd to die Among the foremost; but if you 'd express Explicitly our several posts, my friend And self would know what duty to attend.'

'Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you Will join your former regiment, which should be Now 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 sent To 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 bred To be disposed of in a way so new, Although their haram education led Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, Passive obedience,—now raised up the head, With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung Their arms, as hens their wings about their young,

O'er the promoted couple of brave men Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief That 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 leaf Of 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'd The women with their hair about their ears And natural agonies, with a slight shade Of feeling: for however habit sears Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow Will touch even heroes—and such was Suwarrow.

He said,—and in the kindest Calmuck tone,— 'Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean By bringing women here? They shall be shown All the attention possible, and seen In safety to the waggons, where alone In fact they can be safe. You should have been Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.'

'May it please your excellency,' thus replied Our British friend, 'these are the wives of others, And not our own. I am too qualified By service with my military brothers To break the rules by bringing one's own bride Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers The hearts of the heroic on a charge, As leaving a small family at large.

'But these are but two Turkish ladies, who With their attendant aided our escape, And afterwards accompanied us through A 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 trust Their own protectors; nor was their surprise Less than their grief (and truly not less just) To see an old man, rather wild than wise In 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 doubt How 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 consolation In 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 on In preparations for a cannonade As 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 charm All cars, though long; all ages, though so short, By merely wielding with poetic arm Arms to which men will never more resort, Unless gunpowder should be found to harm Much 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 now To 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 vain As 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 watches To 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, ye Shadows 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 totality Of 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 fan To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet But deems himself the first in Glory's van. But Glory's glory; and if you would find What 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 ease This 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 sight Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank, Which curl in curious wreaths:—how soon the smoke Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak!

Here pause we for the present—as even then That 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.



CANTO THE EIGHTH.

O blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds! These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds: And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds At present such things, since they are her theme, So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars, Bellona, what you will—they mean but wars.