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. 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. 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. 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. 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. LONDON TO WEST PRUSSIA.