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);-But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,'
A thing of impulse and a child of song;
Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong), And afterward, if he must needs destroy, In such good company as always throng To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, No less delighted to employ his leisure;
But always without malice: if he warr'd Or loved, it was with what we call 'the best Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card, To be produced when brought up to the test.
The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer- ward Off each attack, when people are in quest Of their designs, by saying they meant well;
'T is pity 'that such meaning should pave hell.'
I almost lately have begun to doubt Whether hell's pavement- if it be so paved-Must not have latterly been quite worn out, Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, But by the mass who go below without Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall.
Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides Warrior from warrior in their grim career, Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides Just at the close of the first bridal year, By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides, Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, When, after a good deal of heavy firing, He found himself alone, and friends retiring.
I don't know how the thing occurr'd- it might Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, And that the rest had faced unto the right About; a circumstance which has confounded Caesar himself, who, in the very sight Of his whole army, which so much abounded In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield, And rally back his Romans to the field.
Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought He knew not why, arriving at this pass, Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought For a much longer time; then, like an as (Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought This simile enough for Ajax, Juan Perhaps may find it better than a new one)-Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, And, what was stranger, never look'd behind;
But seeing, flashing forward, like the day Over the hills, a fire enough to blind Those who dislike to look upon a fray, He stumbled on, to try if he could find A path, to add his own slight arm and forces To corps, the greater part of which were corses.
Perceiving then no more the commandant Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had Quite disappear'd- the gods know howl (I can't Account for every thing which may look bad In history; but we at least may grant It was not marvellous that a mere lad, In search of glory, should look on before, Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps):-Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, And left at large, like a young heir, to make His way to- where he knew not- single handed;
As travellers follow over bog and brake An 'ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded Unto the nearest hut themselves betake;
So Juan, following honour and his nose, Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes.
He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins Fill'd as with lightning- for his spirit shared The hour, as is the case with lively brains;
And where the hottest fire was seen and heard, And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains, He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!
And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he Fell in with what was late the second column, Under the orders of the General Lascy, But now reduced, as is a bulky volume Into an elegant extract (much less massy)
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces And levell'd weapons still against the glacis.
