Suwarrow now was conqueror—a match For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch Blazed, and the cannon’s roar was scarce allay’d, With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch; And here exactly follows what he said:— ‘Glory to God and to the Empress!’ (Powers Eternal! such names mingled!) ‘Ismail ’s ours.’ Methinks these are the most tremendous words, Since ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel,’ and ‘Upharsin,’ Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. Heaven help me! I’m but little of a parson: What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord’s, Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on The fate of nations;—but this Russ so witty Could rhyme, like Nero, o’er a burning city. He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it— For I will teach, if possible, the stones To rise against earth’s tyrants. Never let it Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;— But ye—our children’s children! think how we Show’d what things were before the world was free! That hour is not for us, but ’tis for you: And as, in the great joy of your millennium, You hardly will believe such things were true As now occur, I thought that I would pen you ’em; But may their very memory perish too!— Yet if perchance remember’d, still disdain you ’em More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. And when you hear historians talk of thrones, And those that sate upon them, let it be As we now gaze upon the mammoth’s bones, ‘And wonder what old world such things could see, Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, The pleasant riddles of futurity— Guessing at what shall happily be hid, As the real purpose of a pyramid. Reader! I have kept my word,—at least so far As the first Canto promised. You have now Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war— All very accurate, you must allow, And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; For I have drawn much less with a long bow Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. What farther hath befallen or may befall The hero of this grand poetic riddle, I by and by may tell you, if at all: But now I choose to break off in the middle, Worn out with battering Ismail’s stubborn wall, While Juan is sent off with the despatch, For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. This special honour was conferr’d, because He had behaved with courage and humanity— Which last men like, when they have time to pause From their ferocities produced by vanity. His little captive gain’d him some applause For saving her amidst the wild insanity Of carnage,—and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.