Long had I mused, and treasured every trace
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race,
When, lo! a giant-form before me strode,
And Pallas hailed me in her own Abode!
Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how changed,
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged!
Not such as erst, by her divine command,
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand:
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow,
Her idle Ægis bore no Gorgon now;80
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance
Seemed weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance;
The Olive Branch, which still she deigned to clasp,
Shrunk from her touch, and withered in her grasp;
And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky,
Celestial tears bedimmed her large blue eye;
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow,
And mourned his mistress with a shriek of woe!
"Mortal!"—'twas thus she spake—"that blush of shame
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name;90
First of the mighty, foremost of the free,[1]
Now honoured less by all, and least by me:
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found.
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing!—look around.
- ↑ Welcome to slaves, and foremost.—[MS.]
