MARATHON
When the hoarse thunder bellows from the sky,
And dusky pinions storm the cliffs on high;
When the big rain comes rattling from the clouds
Starting the dead in myriads from their shrouds—
Amid the clangor of their dread refrain
These grim old foes are mingled once again:
The dark Plateau in the tide of war,
The comely Median in his battered car,
The bright Athenian dealing death and fear,
The Persian tottering on his shivered spear—
The cloven helmet and the ghastly blow,
The crimson scimetar, the stringless bow—
They smite their shields, they form, prepare, advance:
Sword splinters sword, lance crashes against lance—
Away! the golden lamp swings forth once more
And all is mute upon that dreamy shore!
The living hills are marble for the dead,
Their burial ground is where they fought and bled,
Their epitaph is centred in a breath—
“The dying freeman yields not quite to death!”
Their deeds are chanted by the choral surge,
That holiest Harper of undying dirge!
Each frolic wave that pillows on the plain
Murmurs a praise surpassing mortal strain,
For those who perished there—but not in vain!
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