XVII.

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain, And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, The Roman cast his glittering mail away,[209] And while a silence, as of midnight, lay O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started, Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted, Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!