But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post: Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, And baffled the assaults of all their host; At length he condescended to inquire If yet the city's rest were won or lost; And being told the latter, sent a Bey To answer Ribas' summons to give way.[471] CXXI. In the mean time, cross-legged, with great sang-froid, Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking Tobacco on a little carpet;--Troy Saw nothing like the scene around;--yet looking With martial Stoicism, nought seemed to annoy His stern philosophy; but gently stroking His beard, he puffed his pipe's ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives, as well as tails.[472] CXXII. The town was taken--whether he might yield Himself or bastion, little mattered now: His stubborn valour was no future shield. Ismail's no more! The Crescent's silver bow Sunk, and the crimson Cross glared o'er the field, But red with no _redeeming_ gore: the glow Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.[ip] CXXIII. All that the mind would shrink from of excesses-- All that the body perpetrates of bad; All that we read--hear--dream, of man's distresses-- All that the Devil would do if run stark mad; All that defies the worst which pen expresses,-- All by which Hell is peopled, or as sad As Hell--mere mortals who their power abuse-- Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. CXXIV. If here and there some transient trait of pity Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty Child, or an agéd, helpless man or two-- What's this in one annihilated city, Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew? Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! Just ponder what a pious pastime War is.[iq] CXXV. Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in after-times. Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. CXXVI. But still there is unto a patriot nation, Which loves so well its country and its King, A subject of sublimest exultation-- Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne-- Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.[473] CXXVII.