As if the spirit of the hour and scene,
With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow,
Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glow
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,
E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.
XIV.
And three, that seem’d as chieftains of the band,
Were gather’d in the midst on that lone shore