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, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, XIII. What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 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, XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, 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! XVL But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave; Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. XVII. He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within! 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 majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd 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! I XXL The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve! 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 ""1 Ard well the docile crew |