XXVI.
Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood,
When by the waves that break on Œta’s shore,
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood!
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea’s plain,
Bloom the wild laurels o’er the warlike dead,[21]
Or lone Platæa’s ruins yet remain
To mark the battle-field of ages fled:
Still o’er such scenes presides a sacred power,
Though Fiction’s gods have fled from fountain, grot, and bower.