XIII.

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, Breathing their souls in voices firm but low-- As if the spirit of the hour and scene, With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow, Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glow Of all indignant feeling. To the breath Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.