The animals aforesaid occupied Their station: there were valets, secretaries, In other vehicles; but at his side Sat little Leila, who survived the parries He made ’gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies Her note, she don’t forget the infant girl Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile, And with that gentle, serious character, As rare in living beings as a fossile Man, ’midst thy mouldy mammoths, ‘grand Cuvier!’ Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle With this o’erwhelming world, where all must err: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. I cannot tell exactly what it was; He was not yet quite old enough to prove Parental feelings, and the other class, Call’d brotherly affection, could not move His bosom,—for he never had a sister: Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss’d her! And still less was it sensual; for besides That he was not an ancient debauchee (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins’ salt tides, As acids rouse a dormant alkali), Although (’twill happen as our planet guides) His youth was not the chastest that might be, There was the purest Platonism at bottom Of all his feelings—only he forgot ’em. Just now there was no peril of temptation; He loved the infant orphan he had saved, As patriots (now and then) may love a nation; His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved Owing to him;—as also her salvation Through his means and the church’s might be paved. But one thing ’s odd, which here must be inserted, The little Turk refused to be converted. ’Twas strange enough she should retain the impression Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter; But though three bishops told her the transgression, She show’d a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession; Perhaps she had nothing to confess:—no matter, Whate’er the cause, the church made little of it— She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. In fact, the only Christian she could bear Was Juan; whom she seem’d to have selected In place of what her home and friends once were. He naturally loved what he protected: And thus they form’d a rather curious pair, A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. They journey’d on through Poland and through Warsaw, Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw Which gave her dukes the graceless name of ‘Biron.’ ’Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, Who march’d to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren! To lose by one month’s frost some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.