LXXVIII.
Mark in the thronged Ceramicus, the train
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyred brave:
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain,
Holy the amaranth strew'd upon their grave!34[1]
And hark—unrivall'd eloquence proclaims
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice!
Hark—Pericles records their honour'd names!35[2]
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice:
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom?
LXXIX.
Praise to the valiant dead! for them doth art
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth;
Theirs are enshrined names, and every heart
Shall bear the blazon'd impress of their worth.
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise,
Their fields of fight shall epic song record,
And when the voice of battle rends the skies,
Their name shall be their country's rallying word!
While fane and column rise august to tell
