The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some Volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)
- Is like to ——.—[M.C.]
- —— it is not here.—[M.C.]
- —— seals the hero's bier.—[M. C.]
- The steed—the Banner—and the Field.—[MS. B.M.]
- [The slain were borne on their shields. Witness the Spartan mother's speech to her son, delivered with his buckler: "either with this or on this" (B.M. Addit. MS. 31, 038).]