And these he called on; and, what 's strange, they came Unto his call, unlike "the spirits from The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home:--[430] Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds[if] Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. XXXIX. By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his Man quite as quietly as blows the Monsoon Her steady breath (which some months the same _still_ is): Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, And could be very busy without bustle; XL. And therefore, when he ran away, he did so Upon reflection, knowing that behind He would find others who would fain be rid so Of idle apprehensions, which like wind Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, But when they light upon immediate death, Retire a little, merely to take breath. XLI. But Johnson only ran off, to return With many other warriors, as we said, Unto that rather somewhat misty bourne, Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.[431] To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern: His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) Acted upon the living as on wire, And led them back into the heaviest fire. XLII. Egad! they found the second time what they The first time thought quite terrible enough To fly from, malgré all which people say Of Glory, and all that immortal stuff Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)-- They found on their return the self-same welcome, Which made some _think_, and others _know_, a _hell_ come. XLIII. They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, Proving that trite old truth, that Life's as frail As any other boon for which men stickle. The Turkish batteries thrashed them like a flail, Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle Putting the very bravest, who were knocked Upon the head before their guns were cocked. XLIV. The Turks behind the traverses and flanks Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks: However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels Towns--nations--worlds, in her revolving pranks, So ordered it, amidst these sulphury revels, That Johnson, and some few who had not scampered, Reached the interior "talus"[432] of the rampart.[433] XLV.