LXXVI. There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is (Flanked by the Hellespont, and by the sea) Entombed the bravest of the brave, Achilles; They say so--(Bryant[249] says the contrary): And further downward, tall and towering still, is The tumulus--of whom? Heaven knows! 't may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus-- All heroes, who if living still would slay us.[eb] LXXVII. High barrows, without marble, or a name, A vast, untilled, and mountain-skirted plain,[ec] And Ida in the distance, still the same, And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain; The situation seems still formed for fame-- A hundred thousand men might fight again, With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise[250] crawls;[ed] LXXVIII. Troops of untended horses; here and there Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth; Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare A moment at the European youth Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear;[ee] A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in mouth, Extremely taken with his own religion, Are what I found there--but the devil a Phrygian. LXXIX. Don Juan, here permitted to emerge From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, O'ershadowed there by many a Hero's grave; Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge A few brief questions; and the answers gave No very satisfactory information About his past or present situation. LXXX. He saw some fellow captives, who appeared To be Italians (as they were in fact)-- From them, at least, _their_ destiny he heard, Which was an odd one; a troop going to act In Sicily--all singers, duly reared In their vocation, had not been attacked In sailing from Livorno by the pirate, But sold by the _impresario_ at no high rate.[251] LXXXI. By one of these, the _buffo_[252] of the party, Juan was told about their curious case; For although destined to the Turkish mart, he Still kept his spirits up--at least his face; The little fellow really looked quite hearty, And bore him with some gaiety and grace, Showing a much more reconciled demeanour, Than did the prima donna and the tenor. LXXXII. In a few words he told their hapless story, Saying, "Our Machiavelian _impresario_, Making a signal off some promontory, Hailed a strange brig--_Corpo di Caio Mario!_ We were transferred on board her in a hurry, Without a single scudo of _salario_; But if the Sultan has a taste for song, We will revive our fortunes before long. LXXXIII.