The untouch'd harvest of the golden grain?
Did not the youth, enliven'd with his flame,
Glow for the fight and ardent pant for fame?
Strove not each rev'rend sage and hoary sire
His worth to honour and his sense admire?
Did not his form, with ev'ry beauty grac'd,
Raise a chaste rapture in each virgin's breast?
But when he quits the scene of soft delight,
The graceful measure for the deathful fight,
Say, saw thy plains (where many a deathless name,