Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto VIII

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
  And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.
  Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills;
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
  Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
Past, present, and to come; — but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field.

There the still varying pangs, which multiply
  Until their very number makes men hard
By the infinities of agony,
  Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard —
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
  Turn'd back within its socket, — these reward
Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest
May win perhaps a riband at the breast!

Yet I love glory; — glory 's a great thing: —
  Think what it is to be in your old age
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king:
  A moderate pension shakes full many a sage,
And heroes are but made for bards to sing,
  Which is still better; thus in verse to wage
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying
Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying.

The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on
  To take a battery on the right; the others,
Who landed lower down, their landing done,
  Had set to work as briskly as their brothers:
Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one,
  Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers,
O'er the entrenchment and the palisade,
Quite orderly, as if upon parade.

And this was admirable; for so hot
  The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded,
Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot
  And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded.
Of officers a third fell on the spot,
  A thing which victory by no means boded
To gentlemen engaged in the assault:
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.

But here I leave the general concern,
  To track our hero on his path of fame:
He must his laurels separately earn;
  For fifty thousand heroes, name by name,
Though all deserving equally to turn
  A couplet, or an elegy to claim,
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory,
And what is worse still, a much longer story:

And therefore we must give the greater number
  To the Gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt
By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber
  In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt
Their clay for the last time their souls encumber; —
  Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps,
  And fought away with might and main, not knowing
The way which they had never trod before,
  And still less guessing where they might be going;
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er,
  Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing,
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win,
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin.

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire
  Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining
A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher
  To some odd angle for which all were straining;
At other times, repulsed by the close fire,
  Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining
Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.

Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though
  The nightly muster and the silent march
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow
  So much as under a triumphal arch,
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw
  A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch,
Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day; —
Yet for all this he did not run away.

Indeed he could not. But what if he had?
  There have been and are heroes who begun
With something not much better, or as bad:
  Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run,
For the first and last time; for, like a pad,
  Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,
And fight like fiends for pay or politics.

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime
  Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic
(The antiquarians who can settle time,
  Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic,
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime
  With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic
Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational
As any other notion, and not national); —

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