XIV.

   Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled
   Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? 
   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
   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 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 he 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 sails 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.

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 manned 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: 
   Look on that part which sacred doth remain
   For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks,