But all is o’er—the storm hath passed,
Nor oak, nor osier ’scaped the blast,
Nor flow’ret of the loveliest dye—
All, all in one black ruin lie!
In one short day a People fall—
Their mansions make their funeral pall—
Their winding-sheets are sheets of flame—
Their epitaphs, “Shame, Europe, shame!”
Inhuman deed! Oh, murdered race!
To Turk, to Holy League disgrace!