Cold skies, keen perils, brace his life.Methinks I see from rampired townSome battling tyrant's matron wife,Some maiden, look in terror down,—“Ah, my dear lord, untrain'd in war!O tempt not the infuriate moodOf that fell lion I see! from farHe plunges through a tide of blood!“What joy, for fatherland to die!Death's darts e'en flying feet o'ertake,Nor spare a recreant chivalry,A back that cowers, or loins that quake.True Virtue never knows defeat:Her robes she keeps unsullied still,Nor takes, nor quits, her curule seatTo please a people's veering will.True Virtue opens heaven to worth:She makes the way she does not find:The vulgar crowd, the humid earth,Her soaring pinion leaves behind.