XVII.
Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain,
And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain,
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,[209]
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay
O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started,
Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway
The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted,
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!