XI.

They landed on a wild but narrow scene, Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been; Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, Stern and sustained, of man's extremity, When Hope is gone, nor Glory's self remains To cheer resistance against death or chains.-- They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood Who dyed Thermopylae with holy blood. 260 But, ah! how different! 'tis the _cause_ makes all, Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, Blazed through the clouds of Death and beckoned hence; No grateful country, smiling through her tears, Begun the praises of a thousand years; No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, No heroes envy them their monument; However boldly their warm blood was spilt, Their Life was shame, their Epitaph was guilt. 270 And this they knew and felt, at least the one, The leader of the band he had undone; Who, born perchance for better things, had set His life upon a cast which lingered yet: But now the die was to be thrown, and all The chances were in favour of his fall: And such a fall! But still he faced the shock, Obdurate as a portion of the rock Whereon he stood, and fixed his levelled gun, Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 280