As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, I marked the beauties of the land and main, Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore; Oft as the matchless dome I turned to scan, Sacred to Gods, but not secure from Man, 60 The Past returned, the Present seemed to cease, And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece! Hour rolled along, and Dian's orb on high Had gained the centre of her softest sky; And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod O'er the vain shrine of many a vanished God: [ix] But chiefly, Pallas! thine, when Hecate's glare Checked by thy columns, fell more sadly fair O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 70 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!