O LOVE! O Glory! what are ye who fly Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.
And such as they are, such my present tale is, A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, A versified Aurora Borealis, Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us, But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime To laugh at all things- for I wish to know What, after all, are all things- but a show?
They accuse me- Me- the present writer of The present poem- of- I know not what-A tendency to under-rate and scoff At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Dante's Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, Nor even Diogenes.- We live and die, But which is best, you know no more than I.
Socrates said, our only knowledge was 'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only 'like a youth Picking up shells by the great ocean- Truth.'
Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'-Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity:
In short, all know, or very soon may know it;
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity, By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, From holding up the nothingness of life?
Dogs, or men!- for I flatter you in saying That ye are dogs- your betters far- ye may Read, or read not, what I am now essaying To show ye what ye are in every way.
As little as the moon stops for the baying Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray From out her skies- then howl your idle wrath!
While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path.
'Fierce loves and faithless wars'- I am not sure If this be the right reading- 't is no matter;
The fact 's about the same, I am secure;
I sing them both, and am about to batter A town which did a famous siege endure, And was beleaguer'd both by land and water By Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow, Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.
The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, With buildings in the Oriental taste, But still a fortress of the foremost rank, Or was at least, unless 't is since defaced, Which with your conquerors is a common prank:
It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, And measures round of toises thousands three.
Within the extent of this fortification A borough is comprised along the height Upon the left, which from its loftier station Commands the city, and upon its site A Greek had raised around this elevation A quantity of palisades upright, So placed as to impede the fire of those Who held the place, and to assist the foe's.
This circumstance may serve to give a notion Of the high talents of this new Vauban:
But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang:
But then there was a great want of precaution (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, To hint at least 'Here is no thoroughfare.'
But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet;
Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, Case-mated one, and t' other 'a barbette,'
Of Danube's bank took formidable charge;
While two and twenty cannon duly set Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier, Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.
But from the river the town 's open quite, Because the Turks could never be persuaded A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight;
And such their creed was, till they were invaded, When it grew rather late to set things right.
But as the Danube could not well be waded, They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla, And only shouted, 'Allah!' and 'Bis Millah!'
The Russians now were ready to attack:
But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!
How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque Who were immortal, could one tell their story?
Alas! what to their memory can lack?
Achilles' self was not more grim and gory Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, Whose names want nothing but- pronunciation.
Still I 'll record a few, if but to increase Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff, Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece, And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff, And others of twelve consonants apiece;
And more might be found out, if I could poke enough Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet), It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, And cannot tune those discords of narration, Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme;
Yet there were several worth commemoration, As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime;
Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration Of Londonderry drawling against time, Ending in 'ischskin,' 'ousckin,' 'iffskchy,' 'ouski:
Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti, Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin:
Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, And no more handy substitute been near.
Then there were foreigners of much renown, Of various nations, and all volunteers;
Not fighting for their country or its crown, But wishing to be one day brigadiers;
Also to have the sacking of a town,-A pleasant thing to young men at their years.
