from Canto VII

31

The Moslem too had lost both ships and men;
     But when they saw the enemy retire,
Their Delhis manned some boats, and sailed again
    And galled the Russians with a heavy fire,
And tried to make a landing on the main;
     But here the effect fell short of their desire:
Count Damas drove them back into the water
Pell mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.

32

“If” (says the historian here) “I could report
     All that the Russians did upon this day,
I think that several volumes would fall short,
     And I should still have many things to say”;
And so he says no more—but pays his court
     To some distinguished strangers in that fray;
The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas,
Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.

33

This being the case, may show us what fame is:
    For out of these three “preux Chevaliers,” how
Many of common readers give a guess
     That such existed? (and they may live now
For aught we know). Renown’s all hit or miss;
     There’s Fortune even in Fame, we must allow.
‘Tis true, the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne
Have half withdrawn from him oblivion’s screen.

34

But here are men who fought in gallant actions
    As gallantly as ever heroes fought,
But buried in the heap of such transactions
     Their names are rarely found, nor often sought.
Thus even good Fame may suffer sad contractions,
     And is extinguished sooner than she ought:
Of all our modern battles, I will bet
You can’t repeat nine names from each Gazette.

35

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory,
    Shewed that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault,
And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story)
     Most strongly recommended an assault;
In which he was opposed by young and hoary,
     Which made a long debate; but I must halt,
For if I wrote down every warrior’s speech,
I doubt few readers e’er would mount the breach.

36

There was a man, if that he was a man,
     Not that his manhood could be called in question,
For had he not been Hercules, his span
     Had been as short in youth as indigestion
Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan,
    He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on
The soil of the green province he had wasted,
As e’er was locust on the land it blasted.

37

This was Potemkin—a great thing in days
    When homicide and harlotry made great;
If stars and titles could entail long praise,
     His glory might half equal his estate.
This fellow, being six foot high, could raise
     A kind of phantasy proportionate
In the then Sovereign of the Russian people,
Who measured men as you would do a steeple.

38

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent
     A courier to the Prince, and he succeeded
In ordering matters after his own bent;
     I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded,
But shortly he had cause to be content.
     In the mean time, the batteries proceeded,
And fourscore cannon on the Danube’s border
Were briskly fired and answered in due order.

39

But on the thirteenth, when already part
     Of the troops were embarked, the siege to raise,
A courier on the spur inspired new heart
    Into all panters for newspaper praise,
As well as dilettanti in war’s art,
     By his dispatches couched in pithy phrase;
Announcing the appointment of that lover of
Battles, to the command, Field Marshal Souvaroff.

40

The letter of the Prince to the same Marshal
     Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause
Been one to which a good heart could be partial,
     Defence of freedom, country, or of laws;
But as it was mere lust of power to o’er-arch all
     With its proud brow, it merits slight applause,
Save for its style, which said, all in a trice,
“You will take Ismail at whatever price.”