With his fist the proud dictator Smote the table that it rang— From the crystal vase before him The blood-red wine upsprang! “Is my sword a wreath of rushes, Or an idle plume my pen, That they dare to lay a finger On the meanest of my men? No amount of circumcision can annul the Briton’s right— Are they mad, these lords of Athens, for I know they cannot fight? V. “Had the wrong been done by others, By the cold and haughty Czar, I had trembled ere I opened All the thunders of my war. But I care not for the yelping Of these fangless curs of Greece— Soon and sorely will I tax them For the merchant’s plundered Fleece. From the earth his furniture for wrath and vengeance cries— Ho, Eddisbury! take thy pen, and straightway write to Wyse!” VI. Joyfully the bells are ringing In the old Athenian town, Gaily to Piræus harbour Stream the merry people down; For they see the fleet of Britain Proudly steering to their shore, Underneath the Christian banner That they knew so well of yore, When the guns at Navarino thundered o’er the sea, And the Angel of the North proclaimed that Greece again was free. VII. Hark!—a signal gun—another! On the deck a man appears Stately as the Ocean-shaker— “Ye Athenians, lend your ears! Thomas Wyse am I, a herald Come to parley with the Greek; Palmerston hath sent me hither, In his awful name I speak— Ye have done a deed of folly—one that ye shall sorely rue! Wherefore did ye lay a finger on the carpets of the Jew? VIII. “Don Pacifico of Malta! Dull, indeed, were Britain’s ear, If the wrongs of such a hero Tamely she could choose to hear! Don Pacifico of Malta! Knight-commander of the Fleece— For his sake I hurl defiance At the haughty towns of Greece. Look to it—For by my head! since Xerxes crossed the strait, Ye never saw an enemy so vengeful at your gate. IX.