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.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 4