Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first
Was a ta’en city, thirty thousand slain:
Glory and triumph o’er her aspect burst,
As an East Indian sunrise on the main:—
These quenched a moment her Ambition’s thirst—
So Arab deserts drink in Summer’s rain:
In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands,
Blood only serves to wash Ambition’s hands!