IX. There, thou!-whose love and life together fled, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: For me 't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! 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; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. XI. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? L Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 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 spared: Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 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 Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. XIV. Where was thine Egis, Pallas! that appall'd Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, His shade from Hades upon that dread day Bursting to light in terrible array! 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 preserved the walls he loved to shield before. XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 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 loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. XVII. He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, 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 schoolboy 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, Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : |