For action born, existing to be tried,
Powers manifold we have that intervene
To stir the heart that would too closely screen
Her peace from images to pain allied.
What wonder if at midnight, by the side
Of Sanguinetto, or broad Thrasymene,
The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide,
Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen;
And singly thine, O vanquished Chief! whose corpse,
Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain:
But who is He? the Conqueror. Would he force
His way to Rome? Ah, no, round hill and plain
Wandering, he haunts, at fancy’s strong command,
This spot his shadowy death-cup in his hand.
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