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!