XI.

But linger not,--array thy men of might! The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright, And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near, Around thy walls the sons of battle close; Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear, Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!