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And hushed in silent awe, th’ approaching storm attends.

  Now midst the Senate’s walls the herald stands:

  “Ye Greeks,” he said, and stretched his sacred hands

  “Assembled heroes, ye Athenian bands.

  And thou beloved of Jove, our Chief, oh Sage,

  Renowned for wisdom, as renowned for age,

  And all ye Chiefs in battles rank divine!

  No joyful mission swayed by Pallas mine,

  The hardy Spartans, with one voice declare

  Their will to aid our freedom and the war,

  Instant they armed, by zeal and impulse driven

  But on the plains of the mysterious heaven

  Comets and fires were writ — an awful sign,

  And dreadful omen of the wrath divine

  While threatened plagues upon their shores appear

  They curb their valor, all subdued by fear;

  The oracles declare the will above,

  And of the sister and the wife of Jove,

  That not until the moons bright course was o’er

  The Spartan warriors should desert their shore

  Threats following threats succeed the mandate dire

  Plagues to themselves, and to their harvests fire.

  The Spartan Chiefs desist, their march delay

  To wait th’ appointed hour and heaven obey.

  Grief smote my heart, my hopes and mission vain.

  Their town I quitted for my native plain,

  And when an eminence I gained, in woe

  I gazed upon the verdant fields below,

  Where nature’s ample reign extending wide,

  Displays her graces with commanding pride.

  Where cool Eurotas, winds her limpid floods

  Thro’ verdant valleys, and thro’ shady woods.

  And crowned in majesty o’ertowering all

  In bright effulgence, Sparta’s lofty wall.

  To these I looked farewell, and humbled, bowed

  In chastened sorrow, to the thundering God.

  ‘Twas thus I mused, when from a verdant grove

  That wafts delicious perfume from above

  The monster Pan, his form gigantic reared

  And dreadful, to my awe struck sight appeared.

  I hailed the God who reigns supreme below,

  Known by the horns that started from his brow;

  Up to the hips a goat, but man’s his face

  Tho’ grim, and stranger to celestial grace.

  Within his hand a shepherd’s crook he bore

  The gift of Dian, on th’ Arcadian shore;

  Before th’ immortal power I, fearing, bowed

  Congealed with dread, and thus addressed the God.

  “Comes Hermes Son, as awful as his Sire,

  To vent upon the Greeks immortal ire!

  Is’t not enough the mandate stern I bring

  From Sparta’s Chiefs, and Sparta’s royal King,

  That heaven enjoins them to refrain from fight

  Till Dian fills again her horns with light?

  Then vain their aid, ere then may Athens fall

  And Persia’s haughty Chiefs invest her wall.

  I said and sighed, the God in accents mild

  My sorrow thus, and rigid griefs beguiled.

  Not to destroy I come, oh chosen Greek

  Not Athens fall, but Athens fame I seek,

  Then give again to honor and to fame

  My power despised, and my forgotten name.

  At Sparta’s doom, no longer Chief repine,

  But learn submission to the will divine;

  Behold e’en now, within this fated hour

  On Marathonian plains, the Persian power?

  E’en Hippias self inspires th’ embattled host

  Th’ Athenian’s terror, as the Persian’s boast;

  Bid Athens rise and glory’s powers attest

  Enough — no more — the fates conceal the rest.

  He said, his visage burned with heavenly light

  He spoke and speaking, vanished from my sight

  And awed, I sought where these loved walls invite

  But think not, warrior Greeks, the fault is mine,

  If Athens fall — it is by wrath divine.

  I vainly vainly grieve, the evil springs

  From him — the God of Gods, the King of Kings!”

  The Herald said, and bent his sacred head

  While cherished hope from every bosom fled.

  Each dauntless hero, by despair deprest

  Felt the deep sorrow, swelling in his breast.

  They mourn for Athens, friendless and alone.

  Cries followed cries, and groan succeeded groan.

  Th’ Athenian matrons, startled at the sound

  Rush from their looms and anxious crowd around,

  They ask the cause, the fatal cause is known

  By each fond sigh, and each renewing groan,

  While ill their arms some infant love they bear

  At once for which they joy, for which they fear

  Hushed on its mother’s breast, the cherished child

  Unconscious midst the scene of terror smiled;

  On rush the matrons, they despairing seek

  Miltiades adored by every Greek;

  Him found at length, his counsels they entreat

  Hang on his knees, and clasp his sacred feet.

  Their babes before him on the ground they throw

  In all the maddening listlessness of woe.

  First Delopeia of the matrons chief

  Thus vents her bursting soul in frantic grief

  While her fond babe she holds aloft in air

  Thus her roused breast, prefers a mother’s prayer.

  “Oh Son of Cimon for the Grecian’s raise

  To heaven, thy fame, thy honor, and thy praise.

  Thus — thus — shall Athens and her heroes fall

  Shall thus one ruin seize and bury all!

  Say, shall these babes be strangers then to fame

  And be but Greeks in spirit and in name?

  Oh first ye Gods! and hear a mother’s prayer.

  First let them glorious fall in ranks of war!

  If Asia triumph, then shall Hippias reign

  And Athens free born Sons be slaves again!

  Oh Son of Cimon! let thy influence call

  The souls of Greeks to triumph or to fall!

  And guard their own, their children’s, country’s name,

  From foul dishonor, and eternal shame!”

  Thus thro’ her griefs, the love of glory broke.

  The mother wept, but ‘twas the Patriot spoke.

  And as before the Greek, she bowed with grace.

  The lucid drops, bedewed her lovely face.

  Their shrieks, and frantic cries, the matrons cease

  And death-like silence awes the Sons of Greece.

  Thrice did the mighty Chief of Athens seek

  To curb his feelings and essay to speak,

  ‘Twas vain — the ruthless sorrow wrung his breast

  His mind disheartened, and his soul opprest

  He thus — while o’er his cheek the moisture stole

  “Retire ye matrons, nor unman my soul,

  Tho’ little strength this aged arm retains

  My swelling soul Athena’s foe disdains;

  Hushed be your griefs, to heav’n for victory cry

  Assured we’ll triumph, or with freedom die.

  And ye oh Chiefs, when night disowns her sway

  And pensive Dian yields her power to day,

  To quit these towers for Marathon prepare

  And brave Darius in the ranks of war.

  For yet may Jove protect the Grecian name

  And crown in unborn ages, Athens fame.”

  He said — and glowing with the warlike fire,

  And cheered by hope, the godlike Chiefs retire.

  Now Cynthia rules the earth, the flaming God

  In oceans sinks,
green Neptune’s old abode

  Black Erebus on drowsy pinions, springs

  And o’er Athena cowers his sable wings.

  BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK III.

  WHEN from the deep the hour’s eternal sway,

  Impels the coursers of the flaming day,

  The long haired Greeks, with brazen arms prepare,

  Their freedom to preserve and wage the war.

  First Aristides from the couch arose,

  While his great mind with all Minerva glows;

  His mighty limbs, his golden arms invest,

  The cuirass blazes on his ample breast,

  The glittering cuises both his legs infold,

  And the huge shield’s on fire with burnished gold

  His hands two spears uphold of equal size,

  And fame’s bright glories kindle in his eyes;

  Upon his helmet, plumes of horse hair nod

  And forth he moved, majestic as a God!

  Upon his snorting steed the warrior sprung

  The courser neighed, the brazen armour rung.

  From heaven’s etherial heights the martial maid

  With conscious pride, the hero’s might surveyed.

  Him as she eyed, she shook the gorgon shield

  “Henceforth to me,” she cried, “let all th’ immortals yield,

  Let monster Mars, the Latia regions own,

  For Attica, Minerva stands alone.”

  And now, th’ unconquered Chief of Justice, gains

  The Senate’s walls, and there the steed detains,

  Whence he dismounts — -Miltiades he seeks,

  Beloved of Jove, the leader of the Greeks,

  Nor sought in vain, there clad in armour bright

  The Chieftain stood, all eager for the fight:

  Within his aged hands two lances shine,

  The helmet blazed upon his brows divine,

  And as he bends beneath th’ unequal weight

  Youth smiles again, when with gigantic might

  His nervous limbs, immortal arms could wield

  Crush foe on foe, and raging, heap the field;

  Yet tho’ such days were past, and ruthless age

  Transformed the warrior, to the thoughtful sage,

  Tho’ the remorseless hand of silent time

  Impaired each joint, and stiffened every limb,

  Yet thro’ his breast, the fire celestial stole,

  Throbbed in his veins, and kindled in his soul,

  111 thought, the Lord of Asia, threats no more,

  And Hippias bites the dust, midst seas of gore.

  Ilim as he viewed, the youthful hero’s breast,

  Heaved high with joy, and thus the sage addressed,

  “Chief, best beloved of Pallas,” he began,

  “In fame allied to Gods, oh wondrous man!

  Behold Apollo gilds the Athenian wall,

  Our freedom waits, and fame and glory call

  To battle! Asia’s King and myriads dare.

  Swell the loud trump, and raise the din of war.”

  He said impatient; then the warrior sage

  Began, regardless of the fears of age:

  “Not mine, oh youth, with caution to controul

  The fire and glory of thy eager soul;

  kSo was I wont in brazen arms to shine

  Such strength, and such impatient fire were mine.”

  He said, and bade the trumpet’s peals rebound.

  High, and more high, the echoing war notes sound:

  Sudden one general shout the din replies

  A thousand lances blazing as they rise

  And Athen’s banners wave, and float along the skie?

  So from the marsh, the cranes embodied fly

  Clap their glad wings, and cut the liquid sky

  With thrilling cries, they mount their joyful way

  Vig’rous they spring, and hail the new born day,

  So rose the shouting Greeks, inspired by fame

  T’ assert their freedom, and maintain their name.

  First came Themistocles in arms renowned

  Whose steed impatient, tore the trembling ground,

  High o’er his helmet snowy plumes arise

  And shade that brow, which Persia’s might defies;

  A purple mantle graceful waves behind

  Nor hides his arms but floats upon the wind.

  His mighty form two crimson belts unfold

  Rich in embroidery, and stiff with gold.

  Calimachus the Polemarch, next came

  The theme of general praise and general fame.

  Cynagirus who e’en the Gods would dare

  Heap ranks on ranks and thunder thro’ the war;

  His virtues godlike; man’s his strength surpassed,

  In battle foremost, and in flight the last,

  His ponderous helm’s a shaggy lions hide

  And the huge war axe clattered at his side,

  The mighty Chief, a brazen chariot bore

  While fame and glory hail him and adore.

  Antenor next, his aid to Athens gave

  Like Paris youthful, and like Hector brave;

  Cleon, Minerva’s priest, experienced sage

  Advanced in wisdom, as advanced in age.

  Agregoras, Delenus’ favorite child

  The parent’s cares, the glorious son beguiled

  But now he leaves his sire to seek his doom

  His country’s freedom, or a noble tomb;

  And young Aratus moved with youthful pride,

  And heart elated at the hero’s side.

  Next thou Cleones, thou triumphant moved

  By Athens honoured, by the Greeks beloved:

  And Sthenellus the echoing pavements trod,

  From youth devoted to the martial God

  Honor unspotted, crowned the hero’s name,

  Unbounded virtue, and unbounded fame.

  Such heroes shone the foremost of the host

  All Athens’ glory, and all Athens’ boast.

  Behind a sable cloud of warriors rise

  With ponderous arms, and shouting rend the skies;

  These bands with joy, Miltiades inspire,

  Fame fills his breast, and sets his soul on fire.

  Aloft he springs into the gold wrought car

  While the shrill blast resounds, to war! to war!

  The coursers plunge as conscious of their load

  And proudly neighing, feel they bear a God.

  The snow white steeds by Pallas self were given,

  Which sprung from the immortal breed of heaven,

  The car was wrought of brass and burnished gold

  And divers figures on its bulk were told,

  Of heroes who in plunging to the fight

  Shrouded Troy’s glories in eternal night:

  Of fierce Pelides who relenting gave

  At Priam’s prayer, to Hector’s corpse a grave,

  Here Spartan Helen, flies her native shore

  To bid proud Troy majestic stand no more;

  There Hector clasps his consort to his breast

  Consoles her sufferings, tho’ himself oppressed,

  And there he rushes to the embattled field

  For victory or death, nor e’en in death to yield:

  Here Illium prostrate feels the Argive ire

  Her heroes perished, and her towers on fire.

  And here old Priam breathes his last drawn sigh

  And feels ‘tis least of all his griefs to die;

  There his loved sire, divine Aeneas bears

  And leaves his own with all a patriot’s tears

  While in one hand he holds his weeping boy,

  And looks his last on lost unhappy Troy.

  The warrior seized the reins, the impatient steeds

  Foam at the mouth and spring where glory leads,

  The gates, the heroes pass, th’ Athenian dames

  Bend from their towers, and bid them save from flames

  Their walls,
their infant heirs and fill the skies

  With shouts, entreaties, prayers, and plaintive cries

  Echo repeats their words, the sounds impart

  New vigor to each Greek’s aspiring heart.

  Forward with shouts they press, and hastening on

  Try the bold lance and dream of Marathon.

  Meanwhile the Persians on th’ embattled plain

  Prepare for combat, and the Greeks disdain,

  Twice twenty sable bulls they daily pay

  Unequalled homage to the God of day;

  Such worthy gifts, the wealthy warriors bring.

  And such the offerings of the Persian King;

  While the red wine around his altars flowed

  They beg protection from the flaming God.

  But the bright Patron of the Trojan war

  Accepts their offerings, but rejects their prayer:

  The power of love alone, dares rigid fate.

  To vent on Greece her vengeance and her hate;

  Not love for Persia prompts the vengeful dame,

  But hate for Athens, and the Grecian name:

  In Phoebus name, the fraudful Queen receives

  The hecatombs, and happy omens gives.

  And now the heralds with one voice repeat

  The will of Datis echoing thro’ the fleet,

  To council, to convene the Persian train

  That Athens Chiefs should brave their might in vain,

  The Chiefs and Hippias self his will obey,

  And seek the camp, the heralds lead the way.

  There on the couch, their leader Datis sat

  In ease luxurious, and in Kingly state,

  Around his brow, pride deep, and scornful played,

  A purple robe, his slothful limbs arrayed.

  Which o’er his form, its silken draperies fold

  Majestic sweeps the ground, and glows with gold.

  While Artaphernes resting at his side

  Surveys th’ advancing train with conscious pride.

  The Elder leader, mighty Datis, then,

  “Assembled Princes, great and valiant men.

  And thou thrice glorious Hippias, loved by heav’n,

  To whom as to thy Sire, is Athens giv’n;

  Behold the Grecian banners float afar

  Shouting they hail us, and provoke the war.

  Then mighty Chiefs and Princes, be it yours

  To warm and fire the bosoms of our powers.

  That when the morn has spread her saffron light.

  The Greeks may own and dread Darius’ might;

  For know, oh Chiefs, when once proud Athens falls,

  When Persian flames shall reach her haughty walls.

  From her depression, wealth to you shall spring,

  And honor, fame and glory to your King.”

  He said; his words the Princes’ breast’s inspire,

  Silent they bend, and with respect retire.