XL.
Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless might
Preserved inviolate their awful fane,17[1]
When through the steep defiles, to Delphi's height,
In martial splendour pour'd the Persian's train?
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers,
Arm'd with the elements, to vengeance wake,
Call the dread storms to darken round their towers,
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break;
Till far around, with deep and fearful clang,
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 arose18[2]
All-arm'd; and beaming on th' Athenians' gaze,
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes?
Or they whose forms, to Alaric's awe-struck eye,19[3]
