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  Ah me unhappy! when shall sorrow cease;

  Too well I know the fatal might of Greece;

  Was’t not enough, imperial Troy should fall,

  That Argive hands should raze the god built wall?

  Was’t not enough Anchises’ Son should roam

  Far from his native shore and much loved home?

  All this unconscious of thy fraud I bore

  For thou, oh Sire, t’ allay my vengeance, swore

  That Athens towering in her might should fall

  And Rome should triumph on her prostrate wall;

  But oil, if haughty Greece, should captive bring

  The great Darius, Persia’s mighty King,

  What power her pride what power her might shall move

  Not e’en the Thunderer, not eternal Jove,

  E’en to thy heav’n shall rise her towering fame,

  And prostrate nations will adore her name.

  Rather on me thy instant vengeance take

  Than all should fall for Cytherea’s sake

  Oh I hurl me flaming in the burning lake.

  Transfix me there unknown to Olympian calm

  Launch thy red bolt, and bare thy crimson arm.

  I’d suffer all — more — bid my woes increase

  To hear but one sad groan from haughty Greece.”

  She thus her grief with fruitless rage expressed

  And pride and anger swelled within her breast.

  But he whose thunders awe the troubled sky

  Thus mournful spake, and curbed the rising sigh:

  “And is it thus celestial pleasures flow

  E’en here shall sorrow reach and mortal woe!

  Shall strife the heavenly powers for ever move

  And e’en insult the sacred ear of Jove?

  Know, oh rebellious, Greece shall rise sublime

  In fame the first, nor daughter, mine the crime,

  In valor foremost, and in virtue great

  Fame’s highest glories shall attend her state.

  So fate ordains, nor all my boasted power

  Can raise those virtues, or those glories low’r:

  But rest secure, destroying time must come

  And Athens self must own imperial Rome.

  Thus the great Thunderer, and with visage mild

  Shook his ambrosial curls before his child

  And bending awful gave the eternal nod,

  Heav’n quaked, and fate adored the parent God.

  Joy seized the Goddess of the smiles and loves

  Nor longer, care, her heavenly bosom moves.

  Hope rose, and o’er her soul its powers displayed,

  Nor checked by sorrow, nor by grief dismayed.

  She thus— “Oh thou, whose awful thunders roll

  Thro’ heaven’s etherial vaults, and shake the pole,

  Eternal Sire, so wonderfully great.

  To whom is known the secret page of fate.

  Say, shall great Persia, next to Rome most dear

  To Venus breast, shall Persia learn to fear?

  Say, shall her fame, and princely glories cease

  Shall Persia servile, own the sway of Greece?”

  To whom the Thunderer bent his brow divine

  And thus in accents heavenly and benign,

  “Daughter, not mine the secrets to relate

  The mysteries of all revolving fate,

  But ease thy breast, enough for thee to know,

  What powerful fate decrees, will Jove bestow..

  He then her griefs, and anxious woes beguiled,

  And in his sacred arms embraced his child.

  Doubt clouds the Goddess’ breast — she calls her car,

  And lightly sweeps the liquid fields of air.

  When sable night midst silent nature springs,

  And o’er Athena shakes her drowsy wings.

  The Paphian Goddess from Olympus flies

  And leaves the starry senate of the skies;

  To Athens heaven’s blest towers, the Queen repairs

  To raise more sufferings, and to cause more cares;

  The Pylian Sage she moved so loved by fame

  In face, in wisdom, and in voice the same.

  Twelve Chiefs in sleep absorbed and grateful rest

  She first beheld, and them she thus addrest.

  “Immortal Chiefs, the fraudful Goddess cries,

  While all the hero, kindled in her eyes.

  For you, these aged arms did I employ

  For you, we razed the sacred walls of Troy,

  And now for you, my shivering shade is driven

  From Pluto’s dreary realms by urgent heaven;

  Then, oh be wise, nor tempt th’ unequal tight

  In open fields, but wait superior might

  Within immortal Athens’ sacred wall,

  There strive, there triumph, nor there fear to fall;

  To own the Thunderer’s sway, then Greeks prepare.”

  Benign she said, and melted into air.

  BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK II

  WHEN from the briny deep, the orient morn

  Exalts her purple light, and beams unshorn;

  And when the flaming orb of infant day

  Glares o’er the earth, and re-illumes the sky;

  The twelve deceived, with souls on fire arose,

  While the false vision fresh in memory glows;

  The Senate first they sought, whose lofty wall

  Midst Athens rises, and o’ershadows all;

  The pride of Greece, it lifts its front sublime

  Unhurt amidst the ravages of time:

  High on their towering seats, the heroes found

  The Chiefs of Athens solemn ranged around;

  One of the twelve the great Clombrotus then,

  Renowned for piety, and loved by men;

  “Assembled heroes, Chiefs to Pallas dear

  All great in battle, and in virtue, hear!

  When night with sable wings extended rose

  And wrapt our weary limbs in sweet repose,

  I and my friends, Cydoon famed in song,

  Thelon the valiant, Herocles the strong,

  Cleon and Thermosites, in battle great

  By Pallas loved, and blest by partial fate.

  To us and other six, while day toils steep

  Our eyes in happy dreams, and grateful sleep.

  The Pylian Sage appeared, but not as when

  On Troy’s last dust he stood, the pride of men;

  Driven from the shore of Acheron he came

  From lower realms to point the path to fame,

  Oh glorious Chiefs, the sacred hero said

  For you and for your fame, all Troy has bled;

  Hither for you, my shivering shade is driv’n

  From Pluto’s dreary realms by urgent heav’n;

  Then oh be wise, nor tempt th’ unequal fight

  In open field, but wait superior might

  Within immortal Athens sacred wall

  There strive, there triumph, nor there fear to fall!

  To own the Thunderer’s sway, then Greeks prepare.

  Benign he said, and melted into air.

  Leave us not thus I cried, Oh Pylian Sage

  Experienced Nestor, famed for reverend age,

  Say first, great hero, shall the trump of fame

  Our glory publish, or disclose our shame?

  Oh what are Athens fates? in vain I said

  E’en as I spoke the shadowy Chief had fled.

  Then here we flew, to own the visions sway

  And heaven’s decrees to adore and to obey.”

  He thus — and as before the blackened skies,

  Sound the hoarse breezes, murmuring as they rise

  So thro’ th’ assembled Greeks, one murmur rose

  One long dull echo lengthening as it goes.

  Then all was hushed in silence — breathless awe

  Opprest each tongue, and trembling they adore.

  But now uprising fro
m th’ astonished Chiefs,

  Divine Miltiades exposed his griefs,

  For well the godlike warrior Sage had seen,

  The frauds deceitful of the Paphian Queen,

  And feared for Greece, for Greece to whom is give

  Eternal fame, the purest gift of heaven.

  And yet he feared — the pious hero rose

  Majestic in his sufferings in his woes;

  Grief clammed his tongue, but soon his spirit woke,

  Words burst aloft, and all the Patriot spoke.

  “Oh Athens, Athens! all the snares I view

  Thus shalt thou fall, and fall inglorious too!

  Are all thy boasted dignities no more?

  Is all thy might, are all thy glories o’er?

  Oh woe on woe, unutterable grief

  Not Nestor’s shade, that cursed phantom chief,

  But in that reverend air that lofty mien

  Behold the frauds of love’s revengeful Queen,

  Not yet, her thoughts does vengeance cease t’ employ.

  Her Son Aeneas’ wrongs, and burning Troy

  Not yet forgotten lie within her breast,

  Nor soothed by time, nor by despair deprest.

  Greeks still extolled by glory, and by fame

  For yet, oh Chiefs! ye bare a Grecian name.

  If in these walls, these sacred walls we wait

  The might of Persia, and the will of fate,

  Before superior force, will Athens fall

  And one o’erwhelming ruin bury all.

  Then in the open plain your might essay,

  Rush on to battle, crush Darius’ sway;

  The frauds of Venus, warrior Greeks beware,

  Disdain the Persian foes, nor stoop to fear.”

  This said, Clombrotus, him indignant heard

  Nor felt his wisdom, nor his wrath he feared,

  With rage the Chief, the godlike Sage beheld.

  And passion in his stubborn soul rebelled.

  “Tliricc impious man, th’ infuriate Chieftain cries,

  (Flames black and fearful, flashing from his eyes,)

  Where lies your spirit Greeks? and can ye bow

  To this proud upstart of your power so low?

  What! does his aspect awe ye? is his eye

  So full of haughtiness and majesty?

  Behold the impious soul, that dares defy

  The power of Gods and Sovereign of the sky!

  And can your hands no sacred weapon wield,

  To crush the tyrant, and your country shield?

  On Greeks! — your sons, your homes, your country free

  From such usurping Chiefs and tyranny!”

  He said, and grasped his weapon — at his words

  Beneath the horizon gleamed ten thousand swords,

  Ten thousand swords e’en in one instant raised,

  Sublime they danced aloft, and midst the Senate blazed.

  Nor wisdom checked, nor gratitude represt,

  They rose, and flashed before the Sage’s breast.

  With pride undaunted, greatness unsubdued,

  ‘Gainst him in arms, the impetuous Greeks he viewed

  Unarmed, unawed, before th’ infuriate bands,

  Nor begged for life, nor stretched his suppliant hands.

  He stood astounded, rivetted, oppressed.

  By grief unspeakable, which swelled his breast,

  Life, feeling, being, sense forgotten lie,

  Buried in one wide waste of misery;

  Can this be Athens! this her Senates pride?

  He asked but gratitude, — was this denied?

  Tho’ Europe’s homage at his feet were hurled

  Athens forsakes him — Athens was his world.

  Unutterable woe! by anguish stung

  All his full soul, rushed heaving to his tongue,

  And thoughts of power, of fame, of greatness o’er

  He cried “Athenians!” and he could no more.

  Awed by that voice of agony, that word,

  Hushed were the Greeks, and sheathed the obedient sword.

  They stood abashed — to them the ancient Chief,

  Began — and thus relieved his swelling grief.

  “Athenians! warrior Greeks! my words revere

  Strike me, but listen — bid me die, but hear!

  Hear not Clombrotus, when he bids you wait,

  In Athens’ walls, Darius and your fate;

  I feel that Pallas’ self, my soul inspires

  My mind she strengthens, and my bosom fires;

  Strike Greeks! but hear me; think not to this heart

  Yon thirsty swords, one breath of fear impart;

  Such slavish, low born thoughts, to Greeks unknown

  A Persian feels, and cherishes alone!

  Hear me Athenians! hear me, and believe,

  See Greece mistaken! e’en the Gods deceive;

  But fate yet wavers — yet may wisdom move

  These threatening woes and thwart the Queen of Love.

  Obey my counsels, and invoke for aid

  The cloud compelling God, and blue eyed maid;

  I fear not for myself the silent tomb,

  Death lies in every shape, and death must come.

  But ah! ye mock my truth, traduce my fame,

  Ye blast my honor, stigmatize my name!

  Ye call me tyrant when I wish thee free,

  Usurper, when I live but Greece, for thee!”

  And thus the Chief — and boding silence drowned

  Each clam’rous tongue, and sullen reigned around,

  “Oh Chief!” great Aristides first began

  “Mortal yet perfect, godlike and yet man!

  Boast of ungrateful Greece I my prayer attend,

  Oh I be my Chieftain, Guardian, Father, Friend!

  And ye, oh Greeks! impetuous and abhorred,

  Again presumptuous, lift the rebel sword,

  Again your weapons raise, in hateful ire,

  To crush the Leader, Hero, Patriot, Sire!

  Not such was Greece, when Greeks united stood

  To bathe perfidious Troy in hostile blood,

  Not such were Greeks inspired by glory, then

  As Gods they conquered, now they’re less than men!

  Degenerate race! now lost to once loved fame

  Traitors to Greece, and to the Grecian name.

  Who now your honors, who your praise will seek

  Who now shall glory in the name of Greek!

  But since such discords your base souls divide

  Procure the lots, let Jove and Heaven decide.”

  To him Clombrotus thus admiring cries

  “Thy thoughts how wondrous, and thy words how wise!

  So let it be, avert, the threatened w oes.

  And Jove be present, and the right disclose;

  But give me. Sire of Gods and powers above.

  The heavenly vision, and my truth to prove!

  Give me t’ avenge the breach of all thy laws

  T’ avenge myself, then aid my righteous cause!

  If this thou wilt, I’ll to thine altars lead

  Twelve bulls which to thy sacred name shall bleed,

  Six snow white heifers of a race divine

  Prostrate shall fall, and heap the groaning shrine,

  Nor this the most — six rams that fearless stray

  Untouched by man, for thee this arm shall slay.”

  Thus prayed the Chief, with shouts the heavens resound

  Jove weighs the balance and the lots go round!

  Declare oh muse! for to thy piercing eyes

  The book of fate irrevocably lies;

  What lots leapt forth, on that eventful day

  Who won, who lost, all seeing Goddess say!

  First great Clonibrotus, all his fortune tried

  And strove with fate, but Jove his prayer denied

  Infuriate to the skies his arms are driven,

  And raging thus upbraids the King of heaven.

 
“Is this the virtue of the blest abodes.

  And this the justice of the God of Gods?

  Can he who hurls the bolt, and shakes the sky

  The prayer of truth, unblemished truth deny.

  Has he no faith by whom the clouds are riven

  Who sits superior on the throne of Heaven?

  No wonder earth born men are prone to fall

  In sin, or listen to dishonor’s call

  When Gods, th’ immortal Gods, transgress the laws

  Of truth, and sin against a righteous cause.”

  Furious he said, by anger’s spirit fired

  Then sullen from the Senate walls retired.

  ‘Tis now Miltiades’ stern fate to dare

  But first he lifts his pious soul in prayer.

  “Daughter of Jove! the mighty Chief began.

  Without thy wisdom, frail and weak is man

  A phantom Greece adores, oh show thy power,

  And prove thy love in this eventful hour!

  Crown all thy glory, all thy might declare!”

  The Chieftain prayed, and Pallas heard his prayer.

  Swayed by the presence of the power divine

  The fated lot Miltiades was thine!

  That hour the swelling trump of partial fame

  Diffused eternal glory on thy name!

  “Daughter of Jove, he cries, unconquered maid!

  Thy power I own, and I confess thy aid,

  For this twelve ewes upon thy shrine shall smoke

  Of milk white fleece, the comeliest of their flock.

  While hecatombs and generous sacrifice

  Shall fume and blacken half th’ astonished skies.”

  And thus the Chief — the shouting Greeks admire

  While truth’s bright spirit, sets their souls on fire:

  Then thus Themistocles, “Ye Grecian host

  Not now the time for triumph or for boast,

  Now Greeks! for graver toils your minds prepare

  Not for the strife, but council of the war.

  Behold the sacred herald! sent by Greece

  To Sparta’s vales now hushed in leagues of peace;

  Her Chiefs, to aid the common cause, t’ implore

  And bid Darius shun the Argive shore;

  Behold liiiii here! then let the leader Greek

  Command the bearer of our hopes to speak.”

  And thus the Sage, “Where’er the herald stands

  Bid him come forth, ‘tis Athens Chief commands.

  And bid him speak with freedom uncontrolled,

  His thoughts deliver and his charge unfold.”

  He said and sat — the Greeks impatient wait

  The will of Sparta, and Athena’s fate.

  Silent they sat — so ere the whirlwinds rise,

  Ere billows foam and thunder to the skies,

  Nature in death-like calm her breath suspends.