LXXIII.

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.

LXXIV.

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.

LXXV.

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.

LXXVI.

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.

LXXVII.

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?

LXXVIII.

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,

T

[bullets;

Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets.

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! Phoebus 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
Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded)
A portion of your fading twilight hues,
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse.

LXXXIII.

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.

LXXXIV.

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!

LXXXV.

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.

LXXXVI.

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!

LXXXVII.

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 moreThe death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.