And sunny ringlets, for the dead.[250]
They scatter’d far the greensward heap,
Where once those hands the bright wine pour’d;
—What found they in the home of sleep?—
A mouldering urn, a shiver’d sword!
An urn, which held the dust of one
Who died when hearths and shrines were free;
A sword, whose work was proudly done
Between our mountains and the sea.
And these are treasures!—undismay’d,