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.
But let me put an end unto my theme:
There was an end of Ismail—hapless town!
Far flashed her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,