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.