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]