Which, even then, was growing terrible;
But each concession, made a day too late,
Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold;
For, in those days, the illusion of the East
Had not yet vanished; like the peasant boy
Who deems that London streets are paved with gold,
Men, old in all the arts of peace and war,
Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw,
Might harbour still the treasures of romance.
At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay,