But then the fact 's a fact- and 't is the part Of a true poet to escape from fiction Whene'er he can; for there is little art In leaving verse more free from the restriction Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart For what is sometimes called poetic diction, And that outrageous appetite for lies Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.
The city 's taken, but not render'd!- No!
There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd By the advancing Muscovite- the groan Of the last foe is echoed by his own.
The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, And human lives are lavish'd everywhere, As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves, Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;
But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.
It is an awful topic- but 't is not My cue for any time to be terrific:
For checker'd as is seen our human lot With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific Of melancholy merriment, to quote Too much of one sort would be soporific;-Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, I sketch your world exactly as it goes.
And one good action in the midst of crimes Is 'quite refreshing,' in the affected phrase Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, A little scorch'd at present with the blaze Of conquest and its consequences, which Make epic poesy so rare and rich.
Upon a taken bastion, where there lay Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group Of murder'd women, who had found their way To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop And shudder;- while, as beautiful as May, A female child of ten years tried to stoop And hide her little palpitating breast Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest.
Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them, The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,-The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild;
And whom for this at last must we condemn?
Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?
Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, I shall not say exactly what he said, Because it might not solace 'ears polite;'
But what he did, was to lay on their backs, The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, And drove them with their brutal yells to seek If there might be chirurgeons who could solder The wounds they richly merited, and shriek Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, Don Juan raised his little captive from The heap a moment more had made her tomb.
And she was chill as they, and on her face A slender streak of blood announced how near Her fate had been to that of all her race;
For the same blow which laid her mother here Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace, As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd Upon each other, with dilated glance, In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd With joy to save, and dread of some mischance Unto his protege; while hers, transfix'd With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase;-Up came John Johnson (I will not say 'Jack,'
For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace On great occasions, such as an attack On cities, as hath been the present case):
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, Exclaiming;- 'Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace Your arm, and I 'll bet Moscow to a dollar That you and I will win St. George's collar.
'The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, But the stone bastion still remains, wherein The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din Of our artillery and his own: 't is said Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, Lie round the battery; but still it batters, And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters.
'Then up with me!'- But Juan answer'd, 'Look Upon this child- I saved her- must not leave Her life to chance; but point me out some nook Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, And I am with you.'- Whereon Johnson took A glance around- and shrugg'd- and twitch'd his sleeve And black silk neckcloth- and replied, 'You 're right;
Poor thing! what 's to be done? I 'm puzzled quite.'
Said Juan: 'Whatsoever is to be Done, I 'll not quit her till she seems secure Of present life a good deal more than we.'
Quoth Johnson: 'Neither will I quite ensure;
But at the least you may die gloriously.'
Juan replied: 'At least I will endure Whate'er is to be borne- but not resign This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.'
Johnson said: 'Juan, we 've no time to lose;
The child 's a pretty child- a very pretty-I never saw such eyes- but hark! now choose Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;-Hark! how the roar increases!- no excuse Will serve when there is plunder in a city;-I should be loth to march without you, but, By God! we 'll be too late for the first cut.'
But Juan was immovable; until Johnson, who really loved him in his way, Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill Such as he thought the least given up to prey;
And swearing if the infant came to ill That they should all be shot on the next day;
