XLI.

Where was the spirit of the victor-throng Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander’s tide, Whose names are bright in everlasting song, The lords of war, the praised, the deified? Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, Who from the dead at Marathon arose[29] All arm’d; and beaming on the Athenians’ gaze, A battle-meteor, guided to their foes? Or they whose forms to Alaric’s awe-struck eye,[30] Hovering o’er Athens, blazed in airy panoply?