He had an English look; that is, was square In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, And, it might be from thought or toil or study, An open brow a little mark’d with care: One arm had on a bandage rather bloody; And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, Of a high spirit evidently, though At present weigh’d down by a doom which had O’erthrown even men, he soon began to show A kind of blunt compassion for the sad Lot of so young a partner in the woe, Which for himself he seem’d to deem no worse Than any other scrape, a thing of course. ‘My boy!’ said he, ‘amidst this motley crew Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, All ragamuffins differing but in hue, With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, The only gentlemen seem I and you; So let us be acquainted, as we ought: If I could yield you any consolation, ’Twould give me pleasure.—Pray, what is your nation?’ When Juan answer’d—‘Spanish!’ he replied, ‘I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek; Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed: Fortune has play’d you here a pretty freak, But that ’s her way with all men, till they’re tried; But never mind,—she’ll turn, perhaps, next week; She has served me also much the same as you, Except that I have found it nothing new.’ ‘Pray, sir,’ said Juan, ‘if I may presume, What brought you here?’—‘Oh! nothing very rare— Six Tartars and a drag-chain.’—‘To this doom But what conducted, if the question’s fair, Is that which I would learn.’—‘I served for some Months with the Russian army here and there, And taking lately, by Suwarrow’s bidding, A town, was ta’en myself instead of Widdin.’ ‘Have you no friends?’—‘I had—but, by God’s blessing, Have not been troubled with them lately. Now I have answer’d all your questions without pressing, And you an equal courtesy should show.’ ‘Alas!’ said Juan, ‘’twere a tale distressing, And long besides.’—‘Oh! if ’tis really so, You’re right on both accounts to hold your tongue; A sad tale saddens doubly, when ’tis long. ‘But droop not: Fortune at your time of life, Although a female moderately fickle, Will hardly leave you (as she ’s not your wife) For any length of days in such a pickle. To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle: Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men.’ ‘’Tis not,’ said Juan, ‘for my present doom I mourn, but for the past;—I loved a maid:’— He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom; A single tear upon his eyelash staid A moment, and then dropp’d; ‘but to resume, ’Tis not my present lot, as I have said, Which I deplore so much; for I have borne Hardships which have the hardiest overworn,