The marble column's yet unshaken base;

Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne: 4
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 laboured to deface.
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh,
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.
ΧΙ.

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane

On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee
The latest relic of her ancient reign;

The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be !
England! I joy no childe he was of thine;

Thy free-born men should spare what once was free;
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine,

And bear these altars, o'er the long-reluctant brine. 5

XII.

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: 6

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,

Aught to displace Athena's poor remains:

Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,

Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,

7

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,

Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears;
The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land:
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears,
Tore down those remnants with a Harpy's hand,

Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.

XIV.

Where was thine Ægis, Pallas! that appalled

Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?

8

Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled,

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 wandered 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,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;

Dull is the eye that will not weep to see

Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
But British hands, which it had best behoved

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.

Cursd be the hour when from their isle they roved,

And once again thy hapless bosom gored,

And snatched thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorred!

XVI.

But where is Harold? shall I then forget

To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave?
Little recked hef of all that men regret;

No loved-one now, in feigned lament could rave;

No friend, the parting hand extended gave,

Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes:
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave

But Harold felt not as in other times,

And left without a sigh, the land of war and crimes.

XVII.

He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea,
Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;

Masts, spires and strand retiring to the right,

The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,

The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.

XV III.

And oh, the little warlike world within! the netted canopy, 9

The well-reeved guns,

The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are manned 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,

Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks:

Look on that part which sacred doth remain
For the lone chieftain, who majectic stalks,
Silent and feared by all-not oft he talks
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks

Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve

From Law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.

XX.

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale!
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,

That lagging barks may make their lazy way.
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay,
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day,
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas,

The flapping sail hauled down to halt for logs like these!

XXI.

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!

Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:

Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand

Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;

A circle there of merry listeners stand,

Or to some well-known measure featly move,

Thoughtless, as if on shore, they still were free to rove

XXII.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore;

Europe and Afric on each other gaze!

Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor

Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze :