And pour’d rich odours o’er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their rite of Liberty.
They call’d them from the shades—
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th’ immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o’er meads of asphodel.
Then fast the bright-red wine
Flow’d to their names who taught the world to die,
And made the land’s green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.[248]