X. Here let me sit upon this massy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base; Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne: Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place. It may not be: nor ev'n can Fancy's eye Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh, Unmov'd the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. XI. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine." XII. But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spar'd : Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceiv'd, whose hand prepar'd, Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains. XIII. What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears XIV. Where was thine Ægis, Pallas! that appall'd Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? 8 Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserv'd the walls he lov'd to shield before. XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they lov'd; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defac'd, thy mouldering shrines remov'd To guard those relics ne'er to be restor❜d. Curst be the hour when from their isle they rov❜d, And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr❜d! XVI. But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? No lov'd-one now in feign'd lament could rave; And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. XVII. He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within! The well-reev'd guns, the netted canopy,9 The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high: Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry! While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides; Or school-boy Midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. XIX. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Look on that part which sacred doth remain From Law, howeverstern, which tends their strength to nerve. |