Where Indus and Hydaspes roll, Where treeless deserts glow, Where Scythians roam beneath the pole, O'er hills of hardened snow, The great Darius rules: and now, Thou little Greece, to thee He comes: thou thin-soiled Athens, how Shalt thou dare to be free? There is a God that wields the rod Above: by him alone The Greek shall be free, when the Mede shall flee In shame from Marathon. He comes; and o'er the bright Ægean, Where his masted army came, The subject isles uplift the pæan Of glory to his name. Strong Naxos, strong Ere'tria yield; His captains near the shore Of Marathon's fair and fateful field, Where a tyrant marched before. And a traitor guide, the sea beside, Now marks the land for his own, Where the marshes red shall soon be the bed Of the Mede in Marathon. Who shall number the host of the Mede? Their high-tiered galleys ride, Like locust-bands with darkening speed, Across the groaning tide. Who shall tell the many hoofed tramp That shakes the dusty plain? Where the pride of his horse is the strength of his camp, Shall the Mede forget to gain? O fair is the pride of the cohorts that ride, To the eye of the morning shown! But a god in the sky hath doomed them to lie In dust on Marathon. Dauntless, beside the sounding sea, The Athenian men reveal Their steady strength. That they are free They know; and inly feel Their high election, on that day, In foremost fight to stand, And dash the enslaving yoke away From all the Grecian land. Their praise shall sound the world around, Who shook the Persian throne, When the shout of the free travelled over the sea From famous Marathon. From dark Cithæ'ron's sacred slope The small Platæan band Bring hearts that swell with patriot hope, To wield a common brand With Theseus' sons, at danger's gates, While spellbound Sparta stands, And for the pale moon's changes waits With stiff and stolid hands; And hath no share in the glory rare, That Athens shall make her own, When the long-haired Mede with fearful speed Falls back from Marathon. "On, sons of the Greeks!" the war-cry rolls; "The land that gave you birth, Your wives, and all the dearest souls That circle round each hearth; The shrines upon a thousand hills, The memory of your sires, Nerve now with brass your resolute wills, And fan your valorous fires!" And on like a wave came the rush of the brave-- "Ye sons of the Greeks, on, on!" And the Mede stepped back from the eager attack Of the Greek in Marathon.