POEMS OF JAMES RYDER RANDALL
MARATHON
Written at the Age of Eighteen
Stern Marathon! the mountains view thee yet;
Thy monarch plain with dew eternal’s wet!
Each blade of grass that feathers from thy green
Bears the bright impress of a hallowed mien.
Shoot to the sky their cloud-defiant crest
The bristling rocks, with climbing vines caressed;
Cradle the King-bird in his eyrie home,
When down he darts from heaven’s starry dome;
Stand the bold sentries of the holy vast;
Hurl from their thrones the thunder-throated blast;
Sigh o’er the graves of valorous renown;
Then lordly smile whilst gazing grandly down—
Tomb of the Brave! thy echo sways the breeze,
Before thy name all mimic grandeur flees,
Before thy fame the world is thrilled with awe,
Time has no tooth—Oblivion rends its maw!
Those martyr forms whom ages cannot quell
Haunt the grey sod whereon they grap’ling fell—
Call from the dust the Persian’s fiery host,
And lo! what tumult stirs each gibbering ghost!
Thus when the lurid bolt is whirled along,
These grim old foes are mingled once again:
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