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.