Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/505

Rh 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;

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;

First of the mighty, foremost of the free,

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.