Don Juan
‘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.
’Tis 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Have half withdrawn from him oblivion’s screen.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.
’Tis 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.
’Tis 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,
’Twas much that he was understood at all;
But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner,
They found that he had fought beneath their banner.
Whereon immediately at his 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.