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XLII.

Ye slept, oh heroes! chief ones of the earth!^20[1]
High demi-gods of ancient days! ye slept.
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth,
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept;
No patriot then the sons of freedom led,
In mountain-pass devotedly to die;
The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled,
And the high soul's unconquer'd buoyancy;
And by your graves, and on your battle-plains,

Warriors! your children knelt, to wear the stranger's chains.

XLIII.

Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your homes
Are moulder'd from the earth, while scarce remain
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain.
Your deeds are with the days of glory flown,
The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afar,
The halls that echoed to their sounds are gone,
Perish'd the conquering weapons of your war;^21[2]
And if a mossy stone your names retain,

'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain.