XLI.
Where was the spirit of the victor-throng
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander’s tide,
Whose names are bright in everlasting song,
The lords of war, the praised, the deified?
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays,
Who from the dead at Marathon arose[29]
All arm’d; and beaming on the Athenians’ gaze,
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes?
Or they whose forms to Alaric’s awe-struck eye,[30]
Hovering o’er Athens, blazed in airy panoply?