Link’d but to perish with a ruin’d land,
Where Freedom dies with them—call these a martyr-band!
XXXIV.
But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance,
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye,
It is but as the Roman’s stoic glance
Fell on that stage, where man’s last agony
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die,
Reck’d not which champion; but prepared the strain,
And bound the bloody wreath of victory,