MARATHON.

MARATHON.

[Note.—These lines were written shortly after a visit to the plain of Marathon, and personal inspection of the ground. The historical facts are taken from Herodotus; the mythological allusions, and other incidental circumstances, from the two chapters of Pausanias (Att.I., c. 15 & 32), where the paintings of the famous Portico of the Stoics in Athens, and the district of Marathon, are described with characteristic detail.]

1.From high Pentelicus’ pine-clad height[24]A voice of warning came,That shook the silent autumn nightWith fear to Media’s name.Pan from his Marathonian cave[25]Sent screams of midnight terror,And darkling horror curled the waveOn the broad sea’s moonlit mirror.Woe, Persia, woe! thou liest low, low!Let the golden palaces groan!Ye mothers weep for sons that shall sleepIn gore on Marathon!2.Where Indus and Hydaspes roll,Where treeless deserts glow,Where Scythians roam beneath the poleO’er fields of hardened snow,The great Darius rules; and now,Thou little Greece, to theeHe comes; thou thin-soiled Athens, howShalt thou dare to be free?There is a God that wields the rodAbove: by Him aloneThe Greek shall be free, when the Mede shall fleeIn shame from Marathon.3.He comes; and o’er the bright Ægean,Where his masted army came,The subject isles uplift the pæanOf glory to his name.Strong Naxos, strong Eretria yield;His captains near the shoreOf Marathon’s fair and fateful field,Where a tyrant marched before.[26]And a traitor guide, the sea beside,Now marks the land for his own,Where the marshes red shall soon be the bedOf the Mede in Marathon.4.Who shall number the host of the Mede?Their high-tiered galleys rideLike locust-bands with darkening speedAcross the groaning tide.Who shall tell the many-hoofed trampThat shakes the dusty plain?Where the pride of the horse is the strength of his camp,Shall the Mede forget to gain?O fair is the pride of those turms as they ride,To the eye of the morning shown!But a god in the sky hath doomed them to lieIn dust on Marathon.5.Dauntless beside the sounding seaThe Athenian men revealTheir steady strength. That they are freeThey know; and inly feelTheir high election on that dayIn foremost fight to stand,And dash the enslaving yoke awayFrom all the Grecian land.Their praise shall sound the world around,Who shook the Persian throne,When the shout of the free travelled over the seaFrom famous Marathon.6.From dark Cithæron’s sacred slopeThe small Platæan bandBring hearts that swell with patriot hopeTo wield a common brandWith Theseus’ sons at danger’s gates;While spell-bound Sparta stands,And for the pale moon’s changes waitsWith stiff and stolid hands,And hath no share in the glory rareThat Athens made her own,When the long-haired Mede with fearful speedFell back from Marathon.7.“On, sons of the Greeks!” the war-cry rolls,“The land that gave you birth,Your wives, and all the dearest soulsThat circle round each hearth;The shrines upon a thousand hills,The memory of your sires,Nerve now with brass your resolute wills,And fan your valorous fires!”And on like a wave came the rush of the brave—“Ye sons of the Greeks, on, on!”And the Mede stept back from the eager attackOf the Greek in Marathon.8.Hear’st thou the rattling of spears on the right?See’st thou the gleam in the sky?The gods come to aid the Greeks in the fight,And the favouring heroes are nigh.The lion’s hide I see in the sky,And the knotted club so fell,And kingly Theseus’ conquering eye,And Macaria, nymph of the well.[27]Purely, purely the fount did flow,When the morn’s first radiance shone;But eve shall know the crimson flowOf its wave by Marathon.9.On, son of Cimon, bravely on!And Aristides just!Your names have made the field your own,Your foes are in the dust.The Lydian satrap spurs his steed,The Persian’s bow is broken;His purple pales; the vanquished MedeBeholds the angry tokenOf thundering Jove that rules above;And the bubbling marshes moan[28]With the trampled dead that have found their bedIn gore at Marathon.10.The ships have sailed from MarathonOn swift disaster’s wings;And an evil dream hath fetched a groanFrom the heart of the king of kings.An eagle he saw, in the shades of night,With a dove that bloodily strove;And the weak hath vanquished the strong in fight—The eagle hath fled from the dove.Great Jove, that reigns in the starry plains,To the heart of the king hath shown,That the boastful parade of his pride was laidIn dust at Marathon.11.But through Pentelicus’ winding valesThe hymn triumphal runs,And high-shrined Athens proudly hailsHer free-returning sons.Chaste Pallas, from her ancient rock,Her round shield’s beaming blazeRays down; her frequent worshippers flock,And high the pæan raise,How in deathless glory the famous storyShall on the winds be blown,That the long-haired Mede was driven with speedBy the Greeks from Marathon.12.And Greece shall be a hallowed nameWhile the sun shall climb the pole,And Marathon fan strong freedom’s flameIn many a pilgrim soul.And o’er that mound where heroes sleep,[29]By the waste and reedy shore,Full many a patriot eye shall weep,Till Time shall be no more.And the Bard shall brim with a holier hymn,When he stands by that mound alone,And feel no shrine on earth more divineThan the dust of Marathon.J. S. B.

1.From high Pentelicus’ pine-clad height[24]A voice of warning came,That shook the silent autumn nightWith fear to Media’s name.Pan from his Marathonian cave[25]Sent screams of midnight terror,And darkling horror curled the waveOn the broad sea’s moonlit mirror.Woe, Persia, woe! thou liest low, low!Let the golden palaces groan!Ye mothers weep for sons that shall sleepIn gore on Marathon!2.Where Indus and Hydaspes roll,Where treeless deserts glow,Where Scythians roam beneath the poleO’er fields of hardened snow,The great Darius rules; and now,Thou little Greece, to theeHe comes; thou thin-soiled Athens, howShalt thou dare to be free?There is a God that wields the rodAbove: by Him aloneThe Greek shall be free, when the Mede shall fleeIn shame from Marathon.3.He comes; and o’er the bright Ægean,Where his masted army came,The subject isles uplift the pæanOf glory to his name.Strong Naxos, strong Eretria yield;His captains near the shoreOf Marathon’s fair and fateful field,Where a tyrant marched before.[26]And a traitor guide, the sea beside,Now marks the land for his own,Where the marshes red shall soon be the bedOf the Mede in Marathon.4.Who shall number the host of the Mede?Their high-tiered galleys rideLike locust-bands with darkening speedAcross the groaning tide.Who shall tell the many-hoofed trampThat shakes the dusty plain?Where the pride of the horse is the strength of his camp,Shall the Mede forget to gain?O fair is the pride of those turms as they ride,To the eye of the morning shown!But a god in the sky hath doomed them to lieIn dust on Marathon.5.Dauntless beside the sounding seaThe Athenian men revealTheir steady strength. That they are freeThey know; and inly feelTheir high election on that dayIn foremost fight to stand,And dash the enslaving yoke awayFrom all the Grecian land.Their praise shall sound the world around,Who shook the Persian throne,When the shout of the free travelled over the seaFrom famous Marathon.6.From dark Cithæron’s sacred slopeThe small Platæan bandBring hearts that swell with patriot hopeTo wield a common brandWith Theseus’ sons at danger’s gates;While spell-bound Sparta stands,And for the pale moon’s changes waitsWith stiff and stolid hands,And hath no share in the glory rareThat Athens made her own,When the long-haired Mede with fearful speedFell back from Marathon.7.“On, sons of the Greeks!” the war-cry rolls,“The land that gave you birth,Your wives, and all the dearest soulsThat circle round each hearth;The shrines upon a thousand hills,The memory of your sires,Nerve now with brass your resolute wills,And fan your valorous fires!”And on like a wave came the rush of the brave—“Ye sons of the Greeks, on, on!”And the Mede stept back from the eager attackOf the Greek in Marathon.8.Hear’st thou the rattling of spears on the right?See’st thou the gleam in the sky?The gods come to aid the Greeks in the fight,And the favouring heroes are nigh.The lion’s hide I see in the sky,And the knotted club so fell,And kingly Theseus’ conquering eye,And Macaria, nymph of the well.[27]Purely, purely the fount did flow,When the morn’s first radiance shone;But eve shall know the crimson flowOf its wave by Marathon.9.On, son of Cimon, bravely on!And Aristides just!Your names have made the field your own,Your foes are in the dust.The Lydian satrap spurs his steed,The Persian’s bow is broken;His purple pales; the vanquished MedeBeholds the angry tokenOf thundering Jove that rules above;And the bubbling marshes moan[28]With the trampled dead that have found their bedIn gore at Marathon.10.The ships have sailed from MarathonOn swift disaster’s wings;And an evil dream hath fetched a groanFrom the heart of the king of kings.An eagle he saw, in the shades of night,With a dove that bloodily strove;And the weak hath vanquished the strong in fight—The eagle hath fled from the dove.Great Jove, that reigns in the starry plains,To the heart of the king hath shown,That the boastful parade of his pride was laidIn dust at Marathon.11.But through Pentelicus’ winding valesThe hymn triumphal runs,And high-shrined Athens proudly hailsHer free-returning sons.Chaste Pallas, from her ancient rock,Her round shield’s beaming blazeRays down; her frequent worshippers flock,And high the pæan raise,How in deathless glory the famous storyShall on the winds be blown,That the long-haired Mede was driven with speedBy the Greeks from Marathon.12.And Greece shall be a hallowed nameWhile the sun shall climb the pole,And Marathon fan strong freedom’s flameIn many a pilgrim soul.And o’er that mound where heroes sleep,[29]By the waste and reedy shore,Full many a patriot eye shall weep,Till Time shall be no more.And the Bard shall brim with a holier hymn,When he stands by that mound alone,And feel no shrine on earth more divineThan the dust of Marathon.J. S. B.

1.

1.

From high Pentelicus’ pine-clad height[24]A voice of warning came,That shook the silent autumn nightWith fear to Media’s name.Pan from his Marathonian cave[25]Sent screams of midnight terror,And darkling horror curled the waveOn the broad sea’s moonlit mirror.Woe, Persia, woe! thou liest low, low!Let the golden palaces groan!Ye mothers weep for sons that shall sleepIn gore on Marathon!

From high Pentelicus’ pine-clad height[24]

A voice of warning came,

That shook the silent autumn night

With fear to Media’s name.

Pan from his Marathonian cave[25]

Sent screams of midnight terror,

And darkling horror curled the wave

On the broad sea’s moonlit mirror.

Woe, Persia, woe! thou liest low, low!

Let the golden palaces groan!

Ye mothers weep for sons that shall sleep

In gore on Marathon!

2.

2.

Where Indus and Hydaspes roll,Where treeless deserts glow,Where Scythians roam beneath the poleO’er fields of hardened snow,The great Darius rules; and now,Thou little Greece, to theeHe comes; thou thin-soiled Athens, howShalt thou dare to be free?There is a God that wields the rodAbove: by Him aloneThe Greek shall be free, when the Mede shall fleeIn shame from Marathon.

Where Indus and Hydaspes roll,

Where treeless deserts glow,

Where Scythians roam beneath the pole

O’er fields of hardened snow,

The great Darius rules; and now,

Thou little Greece, to thee

He comes; thou thin-soiled Athens, how

Shalt thou dare to be free?

There is a God that wields the rod

Above: by Him alone

The Greek shall be free, when the Mede shall flee

In shame from Marathon.

3.

3.

He comes; and o’er the bright Ægean,Where his masted army came,The subject isles uplift the pæanOf glory to his name.Strong Naxos, strong Eretria yield;His captains near the shoreOf Marathon’s fair and fateful field,Where a tyrant marched before.[26]And a traitor guide, the sea beside,Now marks the land for his own,Where the marshes red shall soon be the bedOf the Mede in Marathon.

He comes; and o’er the bright Ægean,

Where his masted army came,

The subject isles uplift the pæan

Of glory to his name.

Strong Naxos, strong Eretria yield;

His captains near the shore

Of Marathon’s fair and fateful field,

Where a tyrant marched before.[26]

And a traitor guide, the sea beside,

Now marks the land for his own,

Where the marshes red shall soon be the bed

Of the Mede in Marathon.

4.

4.

Who shall number the host of the Mede?Their high-tiered galleys rideLike locust-bands with darkening speedAcross the groaning tide.Who shall tell the many-hoofed trampThat shakes the dusty plain?Where the pride of the horse is the strength of his camp,Shall the Mede forget to gain?O fair is the pride of those turms as they ride,To the eye of the morning shown!But a god in the sky hath doomed them to lieIn dust on Marathon.

Who shall number the host of the Mede?

Their high-tiered galleys ride

Like locust-bands with darkening speed

Across the groaning tide.

Who shall tell the many-hoofed tramp

That shakes the dusty plain?

Where the pride of the horse is the strength of his camp,

Shall the Mede forget to gain?

O fair is the pride of those turms as they ride,

To the eye of the morning shown!

But a god in the sky hath doomed them to lie

In dust on Marathon.

5.

5.

Dauntless beside the sounding seaThe Athenian men revealTheir steady strength. That they are freeThey know; and inly feelTheir high election on that dayIn foremost fight to stand,And dash the enslaving yoke awayFrom all the Grecian land.Their praise shall sound the world around,Who shook the Persian throne,When the shout of the free travelled over the seaFrom famous Marathon.

Dauntless beside the sounding sea

The Athenian men reveal

Their steady strength. That they are free

They know; and inly feel

Their high election on that day

In foremost fight to stand,

And dash the enslaving yoke away

From all the Grecian land.

Their praise shall sound the world around,

Who shook the Persian throne,

When the shout of the free travelled over the sea

From famous Marathon.

6.

6.

From dark Cithæron’s sacred slopeThe small Platæan bandBring hearts that swell with patriot hopeTo wield a common brandWith Theseus’ sons at danger’s gates;While spell-bound Sparta stands,And for the pale moon’s changes waitsWith stiff and stolid hands,And hath no share in the glory rareThat Athens made her own,When the long-haired Mede with fearful speedFell back from Marathon.

From dark Cithæron’s sacred slope

The small Platæan band

Bring hearts that swell with patriot hope

To wield a common brand

With Theseus’ sons at danger’s gates;

While spell-bound Sparta stands,

And for the pale moon’s changes waits

With stiff and stolid hands,

And hath no share in the glory rare

That Athens made her own,

When the long-haired Mede with fearful speed

Fell back from Marathon.

7.

7.

“On, sons of the Greeks!” the war-cry rolls,“The land that gave you birth,Your wives, and all the dearest soulsThat circle round each hearth;The shrines upon a thousand hills,The memory of your sires,Nerve now with brass your resolute wills,And fan your valorous fires!”And on like a wave came the rush of the brave—“Ye sons of the Greeks, on, on!”And the Mede stept back from the eager attackOf the Greek in Marathon.

“On, sons of the Greeks!” the war-cry rolls,

“The land that gave you birth,

Your wives, and all the dearest souls

That circle round each hearth;

The shrines upon a thousand hills,

The memory of your sires,

Nerve now with brass your resolute wills,

And fan your valorous fires!”

And on like a wave came the rush of the brave—

“Ye sons of the Greeks, on, on!”

And the Mede stept back from the eager attack

Of the Greek in Marathon.

8.

8.

Hear’st thou the rattling of spears on the right?See’st thou the gleam in the sky?The gods come to aid the Greeks in the fight,And the favouring heroes are nigh.The lion’s hide I see in the sky,And the knotted club so fell,And kingly Theseus’ conquering eye,And Macaria, nymph of the well.[27]Purely, purely the fount did flow,When the morn’s first radiance shone;But eve shall know the crimson flowOf its wave by Marathon.

Hear’st thou the rattling of spears on the right?

See’st thou the gleam in the sky?

The gods come to aid the Greeks in the fight,

And the favouring heroes are nigh.

The lion’s hide I see in the sky,

And the knotted club so fell,

And kingly Theseus’ conquering eye,

And Macaria, nymph of the well.[27]

Purely, purely the fount did flow,

When the morn’s first radiance shone;

But eve shall know the crimson flow

Of its wave by Marathon.

9.

9.

On, son of Cimon, bravely on!And Aristides just!Your names have made the field your own,Your foes are in the dust.The Lydian satrap spurs his steed,The Persian’s bow is broken;His purple pales; the vanquished MedeBeholds the angry tokenOf thundering Jove that rules above;And the bubbling marshes moan[28]With the trampled dead that have found their bedIn gore at Marathon.

On, son of Cimon, bravely on!

And Aristides just!

Your names have made the field your own,

Your foes are in the dust.

The Lydian satrap spurs his steed,

The Persian’s bow is broken;

His purple pales; the vanquished Mede

Beholds the angry token

Of thundering Jove that rules above;

And the bubbling marshes moan[28]

With the trampled dead that have found their bed

In gore at Marathon.

10.

10.

The ships have sailed from MarathonOn swift disaster’s wings;And an evil dream hath fetched a groanFrom the heart of the king of kings.An eagle he saw, in the shades of night,With a dove that bloodily strove;And the weak hath vanquished the strong in fight—The eagle hath fled from the dove.Great Jove, that reigns in the starry plains,To the heart of the king hath shown,That the boastful parade of his pride was laidIn dust at Marathon.

The ships have sailed from Marathon

On swift disaster’s wings;

And an evil dream hath fetched a groan

From the heart of the king of kings.

An eagle he saw, in the shades of night,

With a dove that bloodily strove;

And the weak hath vanquished the strong in fight—

The eagle hath fled from the dove.

Great Jove, that reigns in the starry plains,

To the heart of the king hath shown,

That the boastful parade of his pride was laid

In dust at Marathon.

11.

11.

But through Pentelicus’ winding valesThe hymn triumphal runs,And high-shrined Athens proudly hailsHer free-returning sons.Chaste Pallas, from her ancient rock,Her round shield’s beaming blazeRays down; her frequent worshippers flock,And high the pæan raise,How in deathless glory the famous storyShall on the winds be blown,That the long-haired Mede was driven with speedBy the Greeks from Marathon.

But through Pentelicus’ winding vales

The hymn triumphal runs,

And high-shrined Athens proudly hails

Her free-returning sons.

Chaste Pallas, from her ancient rock,

Her round shield’s beaming blaze

Rays down; her frequent worshippers flock,

And high the pæan raise,

How in deathless glory the famous story

Shall on the winds be blown,

That the long-haired Mede was driven with speed

By the Greeks from Marathon.

12.

12.

And Greece shall be a hallowed nameWhile the sun shall climb the pole,And Marathon fan strong freedom’s flameIn many a pilgrim soul.And o’er that mound where heroes sleep,[29]By the waste and reedy shore,Full many a patriot eye shall weep,Till Time shall be no more.And the Bard shall brim with a holier hymn,When he stands by that mound alone,And feel no shrine on earth more divineThan the dust of Marathon.J. S. B.

And Greece shall be a hallowed name

While the sun shall climb the pole,

And Marathon fan strong freedom’s flame

In many a pilgrim soul.

And o’er that mound where heroes sleep,[29]

By the waste and reedy shore,

Full many a patriot eye shall weep,

Till Time shall be no more.

And the Bard shall brim with a holier hymn,

When he stands by that mound alone,

And feel no shrine on earth more divine

Than the dust of Marathon.

J. S. B.

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