Marathon

I could believe that under such a sky,
Thus grave, thus streaked with thunderlight, of yore,
The small Athenian troop rushed onward, more
As Bacchanals, than men about to die.
How weak that massive motley enemy
Seemed to those hearts, full--fed on that high lore,
Which, for their use, in his melodious store,
Old Homer had laid up immortally!
Thus Marathon was Troy,--thus here again,
They were at issue with the barb'rous East,
And favo'ring Gods spoke out, and walked the plain;
And every man was an anointed priest
Of Nemesis, empower├Ęd to chastise
The rampant insolence that would not be made wise.

Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.