Of noon, Palemon sought a cool retreat.—
And lo! the shore with mournful prospects crown’d,
The rampart torn with many a fatal wound,
The ruined bulwark tottering o’er the strand,
Bewail the stroke of war’s tremendous hand:
What scenes of woe this hapless isle o’erspread!
Where late thrice fifty thousand warriors bled.
Full twice twelve summers were yon towers assailed,
Till barbarous Ottoman at last prevailed;
While thundering mines the lovely plains o’erturned,