Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto VIII

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot
  Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit
The very tendon which is most acute
  (That which some ancient Muse or modern wit
Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through 't
  He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it
Even with his life — for (but they lie) 't is said
To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.

However this may be, 't is pretty sure
  The Russian officer for life was lamed,
For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer,
  And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd:
The regimental surgeon could not cure
  His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed
More than the head of the inveterate foe,
Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.

But then the fact 's a fact — and 't is the part
  Of a true poet to escape from fiction
Whene'er he can; for there is little art
  In leaving verse more free from the restriction
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart
  For what is sometimes called poetic diction,
And that outrageous appetite for lies
Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.

The city 's taken, but not render'd! — No!
  There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow
  Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:
  In vain the yell of victory is roar'd
By the advancing Muscovite — the groan
Of the last foe is echoed by his own.

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,
  And human lives are lavish'd everywhere,
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves
  When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air,
And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves,
  Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;
But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.

It is an awful topic — but 't is not
  My cue for any time to be terrific:
For checker'd as is seen our human lot
  With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific
Of melancholy merriment, to quote
  Too much of one sort would be soporific; —
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,
I sketch your world exactly as it goes.

And one good action in the midst of crimes
  Is 'quite refreshing,' in the affected phrase
Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times,
  With all their pretty milk-and-water ways,
And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes,
  A little scorch'd at present with the blaze
Of conquest and its consequences, which
Make epic poesy so rare and rich.

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay
  Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group
Of murder'd women, who had found their way
  To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May,
  A female child of ten years tried to stoop
And hide her little palpitating breast
Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest.

Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child
  With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them,
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild
  Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, —
The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild;
  And whom for this at last must we condemn?
Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?

Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head,
  Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright,
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:
  When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight,
I shall not say exactly what he said,
  Because it might not solace 'ears polite;'
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.

One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder,
  And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
  The wounds they richly merited, and shriek
Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder
  As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb.

And she was chill as they, and on her face
  A slender streak of blood announced how near
Her fate had been to that of all her race;
  For the same blow which laid her mother here
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace,
  As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes,
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.

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