Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto VIII

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who
  Expended all their Eastern phraseology
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show
  So much less fight as might form an apology
For them in saving such a desperate foe —
  He hew'd away, like doctors of theology
When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.

Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both
  Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell,
The first with sighs, the second with an oath,
  Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell,
And all around were grown exceeding wroth
  At such a pertinacious infidel,
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain,
Which they resisted like a sandy plain

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 nourish'd,
  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 body,
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 shouted '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,

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
  Who grew 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.

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
  Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not 'aroynt!'
  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 his children gone,
And felt — though done with life — he was alone

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.

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