СХ. That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd :

His second son was levell’d by a shot;
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd

Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot;
The fifth, who, by a christian mother nourishid,

Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not,
Because deform’d, yet died all game and bottom,
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,

As great a scorner of the Nazarene
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr,

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green,
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter

On earth, in Paradise; and, when once seen,
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures,
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.

And what they pleased to do with the young khan

In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ;
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man

To tough old heroes, and can do no less;
And that 's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan

A field of battle's ghastly wilderness,
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran hody,
You 'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody.

Your houris also have a natural pleasure

In lopping off your lately married men
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure,

And the sad second moon grows dim again,
Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure

To wish him back a bachelor now and then. . And thus your houri (it may be) disputes Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.

Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight,

Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night.

In short, howe'er our better faith derides,
These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,

As though there were one heaven and none besides,
Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven
And hell, there must at least be six or seven.

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes,

That when the very lance was in his heart,
He shxuted “ Allah!” and saw Paradise

With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, And bright eternity without disguise

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart, With prophets, houris, angels, saints descried In one voluptuous blaze,—and then he died :


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But, with a heavenly rapture on his face,

The good old khan—who long had ceased to see Houris, or aught except his florid race,

like cedars round him gloriously, When he beheld his latest hero grace

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree,
Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast
A glance on that slain son, his first and last.

Who grew

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,

Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not “ aroint!”

As he before had done. He did not heed Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,

And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, As he look'd down

upon And felt—though done with life-he was alone.

his children gone,

But 't was a transient tremor :-with a spring

Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung,
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing

Against the light wherein she dies : he clung Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,

Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young ; And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once.

CXIX. 'T is strange enough—the rough, tough soldiers, who

Spared neither sex nor age in their career Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through,

And lay before them with his children near, Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew,

Were melted for a moment; though no tear Flow'd from their blood-shot eyes, all red with strife, They honour'd such determined scorn of life.

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,

Where the chief pacha calmly held his post :
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,

And baffled the assaults of all their host;
At length he condescended to inquire

If yet the city's rest were won or lost ;
And, being told the latter, sent a bey
To answer Ribas' summons to give way.

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid,

Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking
Tobacco on a little carpet ;—Troy

Saw nothing like the scene around ;-yet, looking With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy

His stern philosophy : but gently stroking His beard, he puffd his pipe's ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives as well as tails.


The town was taken--whether he might yield

Himself or bastion, little matter'd now :
His stubborn valour was no future shield,

Ismail 's no more! The crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field,

But red with no redeeming gore : the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;

All that the body perpetrates of bad ;
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses ;

All that the devil would do if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses ;

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad
As hell—mere mortals who their power abuse, -
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.

If here and there some transient trait of pity

Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty

Child, or an aged helpless man or two-
What 's this in one annihilated city,

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow?
Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris !
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.

CXXV. Think how the joys of reading a gazette

Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : Or, if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom



your own in after times, Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt,

Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.

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CXXVI. But still there is unto a patriot nation,

Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! Howe'er the mighty locust; Desolation,

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throneThough Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.

But let me put an end unto my theme :

There was an end of Ismail —hapless town!
Far flashd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,

And redly ran his blushing waters down.
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream

Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown :
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
Some bundreds breathed the rest were silent all!


one thing ne'ertheless 't is bt to praise

The Russian arny upon this occasion, A virtue much in fashion now-a-days,

And therefore worthy of commemoration :
The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase

Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual,
Had made them chaste-they ravish'd very


Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less

Might here and there occur some violation
In the other line ;-but not to such excess

As when the French, that dissipated nation, Take towns by storm : no causes can


guess, Except cold weather and commiseration ; But all the ladies, save some twenty score, Were almost as much virgins as before.


Soine odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark,

Which show'd a want of lanthorns, or of taste
Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark

Their friends from foes,-besides such things from haste Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark

Of light to save the venerably chaste : But six old damsels, each of seventy years, Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.

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But on the whole their continence was great;

So that some disappointment there ensued
To those who had felt the inconvenient state

Of "single blessedness," and thought it good (Since it was not their fault, but only fate,

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding,
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged

Were also heard to wonder in the din (Widows of forty were these birds long caged)

“Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!
But, while the thirst for. gore and plunder raged,

There was small leisure for superfluous sin ;
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
In darkness—I can only hope they did.

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CXXXIII. Suwarrow now was conqueror-a match

For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch

Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, With bloody hands he wrote his first dispatch ;

And here exactly follows what he said :

Glory to God and to the Empress !” (Powers Eternal! such names mingled!) Ismail 's ours !"

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Methinks these are the most tremendous words,

Since “Menė, Menė, Tekel," and “Upharsin,"
Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.

Heaven help me! I'm but little of a parson : What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's,

Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no farce on The fate of nations ;- but this Russ, so witty, Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.

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