LXXIX. Oh, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm All ears, 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: LXXX. Oh, 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; LXXXI 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! Phœbus watches To colour up his rays from your despatches. LXXXII. Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte ! Oh, 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! Oh, Cæsar's Commentaries! now impart, ye LXXXIII. When I call "fading" martial immortality, Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, LXXXIV. Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, As purple to the Babylonian harlot : An uniform to boys is like a fan To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet LXXXV. At least he feels it, and some say he sees, This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. LXXXVI. Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night, Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 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. DON JUAN. CANTO THE EIGHTH. (1) (1) [This Canto is almost entirely filled with the taking of Ismail by storm. It would be absurd to attempt, in prose, even a feeble outline of the varied horrors which marked that celebrated scene of ruthless and indiscriminate carnage; the noble writer has depicted them with all that vivid and appalling fidelity, which, on such a theme, might be expected from his powerful muse; and, if any thing can add to the shuddering sensation we experience in reading these terrific details, it is the consideration, that poetry, in this instance, instead of dealing in fiction, must necessarily relate a tale that falls short of the truth, ➡ CAMPBELL.] |