ancient faith, for the arm unconquered in battle! Never
would foeman have met that armed presence unscathed,
marched he on foot into the field or tore with bloody spur
the flank of his foaming steed. Child of a nation’s sorrow!
were there hope of thy breaking the tyranny of fate, thou 35
shalt be Marcellus. Bring me handfuls of lilies, that I
may strew the grave with their dazzling hues, and crown,
if only with these gifts, my young descendant’s shade, and
perform the vain service of sorrow.” Thus they wander
here and there through the whole expanse in the broad