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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396066" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Don Juan: Canto the Eighth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The town was taken--whether he might yield <br> Himself or bastion, little matter'd now: <br> His stubborn valour was no future shield. <br> Ismail's no more! The Crescent's silver bow <br> Sunk, and the crimson Cross glar'd o'er the field, <br> But red with no redeeming gore: the glow <br> Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, <br> Was imag'd back in blood, the sea of slaughter. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> All that the mind would shrink from of excesses; <br> All that the body perpetrates of bad; <br> All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; <br> All that the Devil would do if run stark mad; <br> All that defies the worst which pen expresses; <br> All by which Hell is peopl'd, or as sad <br> As Hell--mere mortals, who their power abuse-- <br> Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> If here and there some transient trait of pity <br> Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through <br> Its bloody bond, and sav'd perhaps some pretty <br> Child, or an aged, helpless man or two-- <br> What's this in one annihilated city, <br> Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew? <br> Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! <br> Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Think how the joys of reading a Gazette <br> Are purchas'd by all agonies and crimes: <br> Or if these do not move you, don't forget <br> Such doom may be your own in aftertimes. <br> Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt, <br> Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. <br> Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, <br> Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But still there is unto a patriot nation, <br> Which loves so well its country and its King, <br> A subject of sublimest exultation-- <br> Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! <br> Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, <br> Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, <br> Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne-- <br> Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But let me put an end unto my theme: <br> There was an end of Ismail--hapless town! <br> Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, <br> And redly ran his blushing waters down. <br> The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream <br> Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown: <br> Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, <br> Some hundreds breath'd--the rest were silent all! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In one thing ne'ertheless 'tis fit to praise <br> The Russian army upon this occasion, <br> A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, <br> And therefore worthy of commemoration: <br> The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase: <br> Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station <br> In Winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, <br> Had made them chaste--they ravish'd very little. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less <br> Might here and there occur some violation <br> In the other line; but not to such excess <br> As when the French, that dissipated nation, <br> Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess, <br> Except cold weather and commiseration; <br> But all the ladies, save some twenty score, <br> Were almost as much virgins as before. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark, <br> Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste-- <br> Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark <br> Their friends from foes--besides such things from haste <br> Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark <br> Of light to save the venerably chaste: <br> But six old damsels, each of seventy years, <br> Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But on the whole their continence was great; <br> So that some disappointment there ensu'd <br> To those who had felt the inconvenient state <br> Of &quot;single blessedness,&quot; and thought it good <br> (Since it was not their fault, but only fate, <br> To bear these crosses) for each waning prude <br> To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, <br> Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Some voices of the buxom middle-ag'd <br> Were also heard to wonder in the din <br> (Widows of forty were these birds long cag'd) <br> &quot;Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!&quot; <br> But while the thirst for gore and plunder rag'd, <br> There was small leisure for superfluous sin; <br> But whether they escap'd or no, lies hid <br> In darkness--I can only hope they did. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Suwarrow now was conqueror--a match <br> For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. <br> While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch <br> Blaz'd, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, <br> With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch; <br> And here exactly follows what he said: <br> &quot;Glory to God and to the Empress!&quot; ( Powers <br> Eternal!! such names mingled! ) &quot;Ismail's ours </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Methinks these are the most tremendous words, <br> Since &quot;MENE, MENE, TEKEL,&quot; and &quot;UPHARSIN,&quot; <br> Which hands or pens have ever trac'd of swords. <br> Heaven help me! I'm but little of a parson: <br> What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, <br> Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on <br> The fate of nations; but this Russ so witty <br> Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, <br> Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, <br> Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it-- <br> For I will teach, if possible, the stones <br> To rise against Earth's tyrants. Never let it <br> Be said that we still truckle unto thrones; <br> But ye--our children's children! think how we <br> Show'd what things were before the World was free! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> That hour is not for us, but 'tis for you: <br> And as, in the great joy of your millennium, <br> You hardly will believe such things were true <br> As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em; <br> But may their very memory perish too! <br> Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em <br> More than you scorn the savages of yore, <br> Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And when you hear historians talk of thrones <br> And those that sate upon them, let it be <br> As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones, <br> And wonder what old world such things could see, <br> Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, <br> The pleasant riddles of futurity-- <br> Guessing at what shall happily be hid, <br> As the real purpose of a pyramid. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Reader! I have kept my word--at least so far <br> As the first Canto promised. You have now <br> Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war-- <br> All very accurate, you must allow, <br> And Epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; <br> For I have drawn much less with a long bow <br> Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, <br> But Phoebus lends me now and then a string. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. <br> What further hath befallen or may befall <br> The hero of this grand poetic riddle, <br> I by and by may tell you, if at all: <br> But now I choose to break off in the middle, <br> Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, <br> While Juan is sent off with the despatch, <br> For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Byron">Byron</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396066" data-title="Don Juan: Canto the Eighth de Byron" data-description="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 glar'd o'er the field, 
 But red with no ..."></div>
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