Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Illustrated) E-Book

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 3859

Beschreibung

The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the complete works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, with beautiful illustrations, rare texts and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Barrett Browning's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Rare non-fiction works, including Barrett Browning's reviews on Wordsworth and Horne
* Includes Barrett Browning's letters - spend hours exploring the poet's personal correspondence with her husband, friends and family
* Features two biographies - discover Barrett Browning's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Poetry Collections
THE BATTLE OF MARATHON
A ESSAY ON MIND, WITH OTHER POEMS
PROMETHEUS BOUND
POEMS, 1838-50
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
SONNETS
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS
AURORA LEIGH
POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS
LAST POEMS

The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Non-Fiction
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE GREEK CHRISTIAN POETS
THE BOOK OF THE POETS
REVIEW OF ëPOEMS, CHIEFLY OF EARLY AND LATE YEARS, INCLUDING THE BORDERERS, A TRAGEDY BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH'
REVIEWS OF CORNELIUS MATHEWS' POETRY
REVIEW OF ëORION: AN EPIC POEM by R. H. Horne'

The Letters
THE LETTERS OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

The Biographies
THE BROWNINGS: THEIR LIFE AND ART by Lilian Whiting
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING by G. K. Chesterton

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Leseprobe

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

(1806-1861)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

THE BATTLE OF MARATHON

A ESSAY ON MIND, WITH OTHER POEMS

PROMETHEUS BOUND

POEMS, 1838-50

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

SONNETS

CASA GUIDI WINDOWS

AURORA LEIGH

POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS

LAST POEMS

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Non-Fiction

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE GREEK CHRISTIAN POETS

THE BOOK OF THE POETS

REVIEW OF ‘POEMS, CHIEFLY OF EARLY AND LATE YEARS, INCLUDING THE BORDERERS, A TRAGEDY BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH’

REVIEWS OF CORNELIUS MATHEWS’ POETRY

REVIEW OF ‘ORION: AN EPIC POEM by R. H. Horne’

The Letters

THE LETTERS OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

The Biographies

THE BROWNINGS: THEIR LIFE AND ART by Lilian Whiting

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING by G. K. Chesterton

© Delphi Classics 2013

Version 1

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

By Delphi Classics, 2013

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Poetry Collections

Elizabeth Barrett Moulton-Barrett was born on 6 March 1806, in Coxhoe Hall, between the villages of Coxhoe and Kelloe in County Durham. Her parents were wealthy Sugar plantation owners, who leased the hall when they returned to England from the West Indies.

The house shortly before it was demolished by the National Coal Board in 1956.

The poet, aged nine

THE BATTLE OF MARATHON

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861) was born into a wealthy family, whose ancestors had owned estates in northern Jamaica for several centuries. The poet’s maternal grandfather owned sugar plantations, mills, glassworks and ships that traded between the West Indies and Newcastle. Elizabeth’s father chose to raise his family in England, while his fortune grew in Jamaica.  Her parents were Edward Barrett Moulton Barrett and Mary Graham Clarke and she was the eldest of twelve children. When she was nine, her father bought Hope End, a 500-acre estate near the Malvern Hills in Ledbury, Herefordshire, where Elizabeth spent her childhood and was inspired to write much of her early poetry.

She was educated at home and attended lessons from a private tutor with her oldest brother. During this period, she was an intensely studious and precocious child, reading novels at the age of six, studying Alexander Pope’s translations of Homer aged eight and studying Greek at ten.  It was at this young age that Barrett Browning began writing her own Homeric epic, The Battle of Marathon. Her mother compiled early efforts of the child’s poetry into collections and her father titled her the ‘Poet Laureate of Hope End’, being a great encouragement to his daughter in her work. On her fourteenth birthday her father gave the gift of 50 printed copies of the epic poem.

It recounts the famous ancient battle, which took place in 490 BC, during the first Persian invasion of Greece. The Battle of Marathon was fought between the citizens of Athens, aided by Plataea, and a Persian force commanded by Datis and Artaphernes. It was the culmination of the first attempt by Persia, under King Darius I, to subjugate Greece.

In 1809, after the birth of their fifth child, Barrett Browning’s parents bought Hope End, near the Malvern Hills in Herefordshire, where Elizabeth spent her childhood.

CONTENTS

BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK I.

BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK II

BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK III.

BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK IV.

The Battle of Marathon

The site of the battle today

THE BATTLE OF MARATHON

A POEM.

“Behold

What care employs me now, my vows I pay

To the sweet Muses, teachers of my youth!”

Akenside.

“Ancient of days! August Athena! Where!

Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul!

Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that were.

First in the race that led to glory’s goal,

They won, and passed away.”

Byron.

TO HIM,

TO WHOM “I OWE THE MOST,”

And whose Admonitions have guided my Youthful Muse even from her earliest infancy,

TO THE FATHER,

Whose never-failing kindness, whose unwearied affection I never can repay,

I OFFER THESE PAGES,

AS A SMALL TESTIMONY OF THE GRATITUDE OF HIS AFFECTIONATE CHILD,

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT

Hope End, 1819.

Preface.

That Poetry is the first, and most celebrated of all the fine arts, has not been denied in any age, or by any philosopher. The culture of the soul, which Sallust so nobly describes, is necessary to those refined pleasures, and elegant enjoyments, in which man displays his superiority to brutes. It is alone the elevation of the soul, not the form of the body, which constitutes the proud distinction, according to the learned historian, “Alterum nobis cum diis, alterum cum belluis commune est.” The noblest of the productions of man, that which inspires the enthusiasm of virtue, the energy of truth, is Poetry: Poetry elevates the mind to Heaven, kindles within it unwonted fires, and bids it throb with feelings exalting to its nature.

This humble attempt may by some be unfortunately attributed to vanity, to an affectation of talent, or to the still more absurd desire of being thought a genius. With the humility and deference due to their judgments, I wish to plead not guilty to their accusations, and, with submission, to offer these pages to the perusal of the few kind and partial friends who may condescend to read them, assured that their criticism will be tempered with mercy.

Happily it is not now, as it was in the days of Pope, who was so early in actual danger of thinking himself “the greatest genius of the age.” Now, even the female may drive her Pegasus through the realms of Parnassus, without being saluted with that most equivocal of all appellations, a learned lady; without being celebrated by her friends as a Sappho, or traduced by her enemies as a pedant; without being abused in the Heview, or criticised in society; how justly then may a child hope to pass unheeded!

In these reading days, there need be little vulgar anxiety among Poets for the fate of their works: the public taste is no longer so epicurean. As the press pours forth profusion, the literary multitude eagerly receive its lavish offerings, while the sublimity of Homer, and the majesty of Virgil, those grand and solitary specimens of ancient poetic excel- lence, so renowned through the lapse of ages, are by many read only as school books, and are justly estimated alone by the comparative few, whose hearts can be touched by the grandeur of their sentiments, or exalted by their kindred fire; by them this dereliction must be felt, but they can do no more than mourn over this semblance of decline in literary judgment and poetic taste. Yet, in contemplating the Poets of our own times — (for there are real Poets, though they be mingled with an inferior multitude of the common herd) — who, unsophisticated by prejudice, can peruse those inspired pages emitted from the soul of Byron, or who can be dazzled by the gems sparkling from the rich mine of the imagination of Moodie, or captivated by scenes glowing in the descriptive powers of Scott, without a proud consciousness that our day may boast the exuberance of true poetic genius? And if criticism be somewhat too general in its suffrage, may it not be attributed to an overwhelming abundance of cotemporary Authors, which induces it to err in discrimination, and may cause its praises to be frequently ill-merited, and its censures ill-deserved; as the eye, wandering over a garden where flowers are mingled with weeds, harassed by exertion, and dimmed by the brilliancy of colors, frequently mistakes the flower for the weed, and the weed for the flower.

It is worthy of remark, that when Poetry first burst from the mists of ignorance — when first she shone a bright star illumining the then narrow understanding of the Greeks — from that period when Homer, the sublime Poet of antiquity, awoke the first notes of poetic inspiration to the praise of valor, honor, patriotism, and, best of all, to a sense of the high attributes of the Deity, though darkly and mysteriously revealed; then it was, and not till then, that the seed of every virtue, of every great quality, which had so long lain dormant in the souls of the Greeks, burst into the germ; as when the sun disperses the mist cowering o’er the face of the Heavens, illumes with his resplendant rays the whole creation, and speaks to the verdant beauties of nature, joy, peace, and gladness. Then it was that Greece began to give those immortal examples of exalted feeling, and of patriotic virtue, which have since astonished the world; then it was that the unenlightened soul of the savage rose above the degradation which assimilated him to the brute creation, and discovered the first rays of social independance, and of limited freedom; not the freedom of barbarism, but that of a state enlightened by a wise jurisdiction, and restrained by civil laws. Prom that period man seems to have first proved his resemblance to his Creator, and his superiority to brutes, and the birth of Poetry was that of all the kindred arts; in the words of Cicero, “Quo minus ergo honoris erat poetis eo minora studia fuerunt.”

It is no disparagement to an historical poem to enlarge upon its subject; but where truth is materially outraged, it ceases to be history. Homer, in his Illiad and Odyssey, and Virgil, in his Aeneid, liaA^e greatly beautified their subjects, so grand in themselves, and, with true poetic taste and poetic imagery, have contributed with magnificent profusion to adorn those incidents which otherwise would appear tame, barren, and uninteresting. It is certain, however happily they have succeeded, their Poems cannot be called strictly historical, because the truth of history is not altogether undeviated from. Virgil, especially, has introduced in his Aeneid “an anachronism of nearly three hundred years, Dido having fled from Phoenicia that period after the age of Aeneas.” But in that dependance upon the truth of history which I would enforce as a necessary quality in an historical Poem, I do not mean to insinuate that it should be mere prose versified, or a suspension of the functions of the imagination, for then it could no longer be Poetry. It is evident that an historical Poem should possess the following qualifications: — Imagination, invention, judgment, taste, and truth; the four first are ne- cessary to Poetry, the latter to history. He who writes an historical Poem must be directed by the pole-star of history, truth; his path may be laid beneath the bright sun of invention, amongst the varied walks of imagination, with judgment and taste for his guides, but his goal must be that resplendant an«j unchangeable luminary, truth.

Imagination must be allowed to be the characteristic, and invention the very foundation, of Poetry. The necessity of the latter in all poetic effusions is established by that magnificent translator of the greatest of Poets, Pope, in this beautiful passage: “It is the invention that in different degrees distinguishes all great geniuses: the utmost extent of human study, learning, and industry, which masters every thing besides, can never attain to this. It furnishes art with all her materials, and without it, judgment itself can but steal wisely; for art is only a prudent steward, who lives on managing the riches of nature.” And in this ingenious note the editor, Mr. Wakefield, elegantly exemplifies it: “For Poetry, in its proper acceptation, is absolutely creation, Ποιησις or invention. In the three requisites prescribed by Horace of poetic excellence, ‘Ingenium cui sit cui mens divinor at que os magna sonaturum.’ The first, ‘ingenium,’ or native fertility of intellect, corresponds to the ‘invention’ of Pope.”

The battle of Marathon is not, perhaps, a subject calculated to exercise the powers of the imagination, or of poetic fancy, the incidents being so limited; but it is a subject every way formed to call forth the feelings of the heart, to awake the strongest passions of the soul. Who can be indifferent, who can preserve his tranquillity, when he hears of one little city rising undaunted, and daring her innumerable enemies, in defence of her freedom — of a handful of men overthrowing the invaders, who sought to molest their rights and to destroy their liberties? Who can hear unmoved of such an example of heroic virtue, of patriotic spirit, which seems to be crying from the ruins of Athens for honor and im- mortality? The heart, which cannot be fired by such a recital, must be cold as the icy waters of the pole, and must be devoid at once of manly feeling and of patriotic virtue; for what is it that can awaken the high feelings which sometimes lie dormant in the soul of man, if it be not liberty? Liberty, beneath whose fostering sun, the arts, genius, every congenial talent of the mind, spring up spontaneously, and unite in forming one bright garland of glory around the brow of independance; liberty, at whose decline virtue sinks before the despotic sway of licentiousness, effeminacy, and vice. At the fall of liberty, the immortal Republics of Rome and Athens became deaf to the call of glory, fame, and manly virtue. “On vit manifestement (says Montesquieu) pendant le pen de temps que dura la tyrannie des decemvirs, a quel point l’agrandissement de Rome dependoit de sa liberie: l’etat sembla avoir perdu Tame qui la faisoit mouvoir.” And Bigland thus : “It was not till luxury had corrupted their manners, and their liberties were on the eve of their extinction, that the principal citizens of Athens and of E-ome began to construct magnificent houses, and to display their opulence and splendour in private life.”

It may be objected to my little Poem, that the mythology of the Ancients is too much called upon to support the most considerable incidents; it may unhappily offend those feelings most predominant in the breast of a Christian, or it may be considered as injudicious in destroying the simplicity so necessary to the epic. Glover’s Leonidas is commended by Lyttleton, because he did not allow himself the liberty so largely taken by his predecessors, of “wandering beyond the bounds, and out of sight, of common sense in the airy regions of poetic mythology;” yet, where is the Poet more remarkable for simplicity than Homer, and where is the author who makes more frequent use of Heathen mythology? “The Heathens,” says Rollin, “addrest themselves to their gods, as to beings worthy of adoration.”

He who writes an epic poem must transport himself to the scene of action; he must imagine himself possessed of the same opinions, manners, prejudices, and belief; he must suppose himself to he the hero he delineates, or his picture can no longer he nature, and what is not natural cannot please. It would he considered ridiculous in the historian or poet describing the ancient manners of Greece, to address himself to that Omnipotent Being who first called the world out of chaos, nor would it be considered less so if he were to be silent upon the whole subject; for in all nations, in all ages, religion must be the spur to every noble action, and the characteristic of every lofty soul.

Perhaps I have chosen the rhymes of Pope, and departed from the noble simplicity of the Miltonic verse injudiciously. The immortal Poet of England, in his apology for the verse of Paradise Lost, declares “rhymes to be, to all judicious ears, trivial, and of no true musical delight.” In my opinion, humble as it is, the custom of rhyming would ere now have been abolished amongst Poets, had not Pope, the disciple of the immortal Dryden, awakened the lyre to music, and proved that rhyme could equal blank verse in simplicity and gracefulness, and vie with it in elegance of composition, and in sonorous melody. No one who has read his translation of Homer, can refuse him the immortality which he merits so well, and for which he laboured so long. — He it was who planted rhyme for ever in the regions of Parnassus, and uniting elegance with strength, and sublimity with beauty, raised the English language to the highest excellence of smoothness and purity.

I confess that I have chosen Homes, for a model, and perhaps I have attempted to imitate his style too often and too closely; and yet some imitation is authorized by poets immortalized in the annals of Parnassus, whose memory will be revered as long as man has a soul to appreciate their merits. Virgil’s magnificent description of the storm in the first book of the Aeneid, is almost literally translated from Homer, where Ulysses, quitting the Isle of Calypso for “Phoeacia’s dusky shore,” is overwhelmed by Neptune. That sublime picture, “Ponto nox incubat atra,” and the beautiful apostrophe, “Oh terque quaterque beati,” is a literal translation of the same incident in Homer. There are many other imitations, which it would be unnecessary and tedious here to enumerate. Even Milton, the pride and glory of English taste, has not disdained to replenish his imagination from the abundant fountains of the first and greatest of poets. It would have been both absurd and presumptuous, young and inexperienced as I am, to have attempted to strike out a path for myself, and to have wandered among the varied windings of Parnassus, without a guide to direct my steps, or to warn me from those fatal quicksands of literary blunders, in which, even with the best guide, I find myself so frequently immersed. There is no humility, but rather folly, in taking inferiority for a model, and there is no vanity, but rather wisdom, in following humbly the footsteps of perfection; for who would prefer quenching his thirst at the stagnant pool, when he may drink the pure waters of the fountain head? Thus, then, however unworthily, I have presumed to select, from all the poets of ancient or modern ages, Homer, the most perfect of the votaries of Apollo, whom every nation has contributed to immortalize, to celebrate, and to admire.

If I have in these pages proved what I desired, that Poetry is the parent of liberty, and of all the fine arts, and if I have succeeded in clearing up some of the obscurities of my little Poem, I have attained my only object; but if, on the contrary, I have failed, it must be attributed to my incapacity, and not to my inclination. Either way, it would be useless to proceed further, for nothing can be more true than the declaration of Bigland, “that a good book seldom requires, and a worthless one never deserves, a long preface.”

BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK I.

THE war of Greece with Persia’s haughty King,No vulgar strain, eternal Goddess, sing!What dreary ghosts to glutted Pluto fled.What nations suffered, and what heroes bled:Sing Asia’s powerful Prince, who envious sawThe fame of Athens, and her might in war;And scorns her power, at Cytherea’s callHer ruin plans and meditates her fall;How Athens blinded, to the approaching chainsBy Vulcan’s artful spouse, unmoved remains;Deceived by Venus thus, unconquered GreeceForgot her glories in the lap of peace;While Asia’s realms, and Asia’s lord prepareT’ensnare her freedom, by the wiles of war:Hippias t’ exalt upon th’ Athenian throne,Where once Pisistratus his father shone.For yet her son Aeneas’ wrongs impartRevenge and grief to Cytherea’s heart;And still from smoking Troy’s once sacred wall,Does Priam’s reeking shade for vengeance call,Minerva saw, and Paphia’s Queen defied,A boon she begored, nor Jove the boon denied:That Greece should rise, triumphant o’er her foeDisarm th’ invaders, and their power o’erthrow;Her prayer obtained, the blue eyed Goddess fliesAs the fierce eagle, thro’ the radiant skies.To Aristides then she stood confessed,Shews Persia’s arts, and fires his warlike breast:Then pours celestial ardour o’er his frameAnd points the way to glory and to fame.Awe struck the Chief, and swells his troubled soul.In pride and wonder thoughts progressive roll.He inly groaned, and smote his labouring breast.At once by Pallas, and by care opprest.Inspired he moved, earth echoed where he trod.All full of Heaven, all burning with the God.Th’ x\Athenians viewed with awe the mighty man.To whom the Chief impassioned thus began.“Hear, all ye Sons of Greece! Friends, Fathers, hear!The Gods command it, and the Gods revere!No madness mine, for mark, oh favored Greeks!That by my month the martial Goddess speaks!This, know Athenians, that proud Persia nowPrepares to twme thy laurels on her brow;Behold her princely Chiefs, their weapons wieldBy Venus fired, and shake the brazen shield.I hear their shouts that echo to the skies,I see their lances blaze, their banners rise,I hear the clash of arms, the battle’s roar,And all the din, and thunder of the war!I know that Greeks shall purchase just renown,And fame impartial, shall Athena crown.Then Greeks, prepare your arms! award the yoke,Thus Jove commands” — sublime the hero spoke;The Greeks assent with shouts, and rend the skiesWith martial clamour, and tumultuous cries.So struggling winds with rage indignant sweepThe azure waters of the silent deep,Sudden the seas rebellowino:, frightful rise,And dash their foaming surges to the skies;Burst the firm sand, and boil with dreadful roar,Lift their black waves, and combat with the shore.So each brave Greek, in thought aspires to fame,Stung by his words, and dread of future shame;Glory’s own fires, within their bosom riseAnd shouts tumultuous, thunder to the skies.But Love’s celestial Queen, resentful sawThe Greeks (by Pallas warned) prepare for war;Th’ indignant Goddess of the paphian bowerDeceives Themistocles with heavenly power;The hero rising spoke, “Oh rashly blind,What sudden fury thus has seized thy mind,Boy as thou art, such empty dreams bewareShall we, for griefs and wars unsought, prepare?The will of mighty Jove, whate’er it beObey, and own th’ Omnipotent decree.If our disgrace and fall the fates employ.Why did we triumph o’er perfidious Troy?Why say, oh Chief, in that eventful hourDid Grecian heroes crush Dardanian power?”Him eyeing sternly, thus the Greek replies,Renowned for truth, and as Minerva wise,“Oh Son of Greece, no heedless boy am IDespised in battle’s toils, nor first to fly,Nor dreams, or phrenzy call my words astray,The heaven sent mandate pious I obey.If Pallas did not all my words inspire,May heaven pursue me with unceasing ire!But if (oh grant my prayer almighty Jove)I bear a mandate from the Courts above,Then thro’ yon heaven, let awful thunder roarTill Greeks believe my mission, and adore!”He ceased — and thro’ the host one murmur ran,With eyes transfixed, upon the godlike man.But hark! o’er earth expands the solemn sound,It lengthening grows — heaven’s azure vaults resound,While peals of thunder beat the echoing ground.Prostrate, convinc’d divine ThemistoclesEmbraced the hero’s hands, and clasped his knees:“Behold me here, (the awe struck Chieftain criesWhile tears repentant glisten in his eyes,)“Behold me here, thy friendship to entreatThemistocles, a suppliant at thy feet.Before no haughty despot’s royal throneThis knee has bent — it bends to thee aloneThy mission to adore, thy truth to own.Behold me Jove, and witness what I swearBy all on earth I love, by all in heav’n I fear,Some fiend inspired my words, of dark design,Some fiend concealed beneath a robe divine;Then aid me in my prayer ye Gods aboveBid Aristides give me back his love!”He spake and wept; benign the godlike manFelt tears descend and paused, then thus began,“Thrice worthy Greek for this shall we contendAh no! I feel thy worth, thou more than friend,Pardon sincere Themistocles receiveThe heart declares ‘tis easy to forgive.”He spake divine, his eye with Pallas bumsHe spoke and sighed, and sighed and wept by turns.Themistocles beheld the Chief opprest,Awe struck he paused, then rushed upon his breast,Whom sage Miltiades with joy addressed.“Hero of Greece, worthy a hero’s nameAdored by Athens, fav’rite child of fame!Glory’s own spirit does with tiiith combineTo form a soul, so godlike, so divine!Oh Aristides rise, our Chief! to saveThe fame, the might of Athens from the grave.Nor then refuse thy noble arm to lendTo guard Athena, and her state defend.First I obedient, ‘customed homage payTo own a hero’s and a leader’s sway”He said, and would have knelt; the man divinePerceiv’d his will, and stayed the Sire’s design.“Not mine, oh Sage, to lead this gallant bandHe generous said, and grasped his aged hand,“Proud as I am in glory’s arms to riseAthenian Greeks, to shield your liberties,Yet ‘tis not mine to lead your powerful state,Enough it is, to tempt you to be great;Be’t for Miltiades experienced sageTo curb your ardour and restrain your rage,Your souls to temper — by his skill prepareTo succour Athens, and conduct the war.More fits my early youth to purchase fame,By deeds in arms t’ immortalize my name.”Firmly he spake, his words the Greek inspire.And all were hushed to listen and admire.The Sage thus— “Most Allied to Gods! the fameThe pride, the glory of the Grecian nameE’en by thee, Chief, I swear, to whom is givenThe sacred mandate of yon marble heaven — To lead, not undeserving of thy loveT’ avert the yoke, if so determines Jove.”Amidst the host imagination roseAnd paints the combat, but disdains the woes.And heaven born fancy, with dishevelled hair,Points to the ensanguined field, and victory there.But soon, too soon, these empty dreams are drivenForth from their breasts — but soothing hope is givenHope sprung from Jove, man’s sole, and envied heav’n.Then all his glory, Aristides feltAnd begged the Chieftain’s blessing as he knelt:Miltiades his pious arms out spreadCalled Jove’s high spirit on the hero’s head,Nor called unheard — sublime in upper airThe bird of Jove appeared to bless his prayer.Lightning he breathed, not harsh, not fiercely bright,But one pure stream of heaven collected light:Jove’s sacred smile lulls every care to rest,Calms every woe, and gladdens every breast.But what shrill blast thus bursts upon the ear;What banners rise, what heralds forms appear;That haughty mien, and that commanding faceBespeak them Persians, and of noble race;One on whose hand Darius signet beamed,Superior to the rest, a leader seemed,With brow contracted, and with flashing eyeThus threatening spoke, in scornful majesty;“Know Greeks that I, a sacred herald, bringThe awful mandate of the Persian King,To force allegiance from the Sons of Greece,Then earth and water give, nor scorn his peace.For, if for homage, back reproof I bear.To meet his wrath his vengeful wrath prepare,For not ill vain ye scorn his dread commandWhen Asia’s might comes thundering in his hand.”To whom Miltiades with kindling eye,“We scorn Darius, and his threats defy;And now, proud herald, shall we stoop to shame?Shall Athens tremble at a tyrant’s name?Persian away! such idle dreams forbear,And shun our anger and our vengeance fear.”“Oh! vain thy words, the herald fierce began;Thrice vain thy dotaged words, oh powerless man,Sons of a desert, hoping to withstandAll the joint forces of Darius’ hand,Fools, fools, the King of millions to defyFor freedom’s empty name, to ask to die!Yet stay, till Persia’s powers their banners rear,Then shall ye learn our forces to revereAnd ye, oh impotent, shall deign to fear!”To whom great Aristides: rising ireBoiled in his breast, and set his soul on fire:“Oh wretch accurst, the hero cried, to seekT’ insult experienced age, t’ insult a Greek!Inglorious slave! Whom truth and heaven denyUnfit to live, yet more unfit to die:But, trained to pass the goblet at the boardAnd servile kiss the footsteps of thy lord,Whose wretched life no glorious deeds beguileWho lives upon the semblance of a smile,Die! thy base shade to gloomy regions fled,Join there, the shivering phantoms of the dead.Base slave, return to dust” — his victim thenIn fearful accents cried, “Oh best of menMost loved of Gods, most merciful, most just,Behold me humbled, grovelling in the dust:Not mine th’ offence, the mandate stern I bringFrom great Darius, Asia’s tyrant King.Oh strike not Chief, not mine the guilt, not mine,Ah o’er those brows severe, let mercy shineSo dear to heav’n, of origin divine!Tributes, lands, gold, shall wealthy Persia giveAll, and yet more, but bid me, wretched, live!”He trembling, thus persuades with fond entreatAnd nearer prest, and clasped the hero’s feet,Forth from the Grecian breast, all rage is driv’n.He lifts his arms, his eyes, his soul to heav’n.“Hear, Jove omnipotent, all wise, all greatTo whom all fate is known; whose will is fate.Hear thou all-seeing one, hear Sire divine.Teach me thy will, and be thy wisdom mine!Behold this suppliant! life or death decreeBe thine the judgment, for I bend to thee.”And thus the Sire of Gods, and men replies,While pealing thunder shakes the groaning skies,The awful voice, thro’ spheres unknown was driv’nResounding thro’ the darkning realms of heaven.Aloft in air sublime the echo rodeAnd earth resounds the glory of the God:“Son of Athena, let the coward die,And his pale ghost, to Pluto’s empire fly,Son of Athena, our command obey,Know thou our might, and then adore our sway.”Th’ Almighty spake — the heavens convulsive startFrom the black clouds, the whizzing lightnings dartAnd dreadful dance along the troubled skyStruggling with fate in awful mystery.The hero heard, and Jove his breast inspiredNor now by pity touched, but anger fired;While his big heart within his bosom burns,Oft from his feet the clinging slave he spurns.Vain were his cries, his prayers ‘gainst fate above,Jove wills his fall, and who can strive with Jove?To whom the hero— “Hence to Pluto’s swayTo realms of night, ne’er lit by Cynthia’s ray,Hence from yon gulph, the earth and water bringAnd crown with victory your mighty King.”He said — and where the gulph of death appearedWhere raging waves, with rocks sublimely rearedHe hurled the wretch at once of hope bereaved,Struggling he fell, the roaring flood received.E’en now for life his shrieks, his groans implore,And now death’s latent agony is o’er,He struggling sinks, and sinks to rise no more.The train amaz’d, behold their herald dieAnd Greece in arms — they tremble and they fly;So some fair herd, upon the verdant meadSee by the lion’s jaws their foremost bleed,Fearful they fly, lest what revolving fateHad doomed their leader, should themselves await.Then shouts of glorious war, and fame resound,Athena’s brazen gates receive the lofty sound.But she whom Paphia’s radiant climes adoreFrom her own bower the work of Pallas saw:Tumultuous thoughts, within her bosom riseShe calls her car, and at her will it flies.Th’ eternal car with gold celestial burns,Its polished wheel on brazen axle turns:This to his spouse by Vulcan’s self was givenAn off’ering worthy of the forge of heav’n.The Goddess mounts the seat, and seized the reinsThe doves celestial cut the aerial plains,Before the sacred birds and car of goldSelf moved the radiant gates of heav’n unfold.She then dismounts, and thus to mighty JoveBegins the Mother and Queen of love.“And is it thus, oh Sire, that fraud shall springFrom the pure breast of heaven’s eternal King?Was it for this, Saturnius’ word was givenThat Greece should fall ‘mong nations curst of heaven,Thou swore by hell’s black flood, and heaven above.Is this, oh say, is this the faith of Jove?Behold stern Pallas, Athens’ Sons alarmsDarius’ herald crushed, and Greece in arms.E’en now behold her crested streamers flyEach Greek resolved to triumph or to die:Ah me unhappy! when shall sorrow cease;Too well I know the fatal might of Greece;Was’t not enough, imperial Troy should fall,That Argive hands should raze the god built wall?Was’t not enough Anchises’ Son should roamFar from his native shore and much loved home?All this unconscious of thy fraud I boreFor thou, oh Sire, t’ allay my vengeance, sworeThat Athens towering in her might should fallAnd Rome should triumph on her prostrate wall;But oil, if haughty Greece, should captive bringThe great Darius, Persia’s mighty King,What power her pride what power her might shall moveNot e’en the Thunderer, not eternal Jove,E’en to thy heav’n shall rise her towering fame,And prostrate nations will adore her name.Rather on me thy instant vengeance takeThan all should fall for Cytherea’s sakeOh I hurl me flaming in the burning lake.Transfix me there unknown to Olympian calmLaunch thy red bolt, and bare thy crimson arm.I’d suffer all — more — bid my woes increaseTo hear but one sad groan from haughty Greece.”She thus her grief with fruitless rage expressedAnd pride and anger swelled within her breast.But he whose thunders awe the troubled skyThus mournful spake, and curbed the rising sigh:“And is it thus celestial pleasures flowE’en here shall sorrow reach and mortal woe!Shall strife the heavenly powers for ever moveAnd e’en insult the sacred ear of Jove?Know, oh rebellious, Greece shall rise sublimeIn fame the first, nor daughter, mine the crime,In valor foremost, and in virtue greatFame’s highest glories shall attend her state.So fate ordains, nor all my boasted powerCan raise those virtues, or those glories low’r:But rest secure, destroying time must comeAnd Athens self must own imperial Rome.Thus the great Thunderer, and with visage mildShook his ambrosial curls before his childAnd bending awful gave the eternal nod,Heav’n quaked, and fate adored the parent God.Joy seized the Goddess of the smiles and lovesNor longer, care, her heavenly bosom moves.Hope rose, and o’er her soul its powers displayed,Nor checked by sorrow, nor by grief dismayed.She thus— “Oh thou, whose awful thunders rollThro’ heaven’s etherial vaults, and shake the pole,Eternal Sire, so wonderfully great.To whom is known the secret page of fate.Say, shall great Persia, next to Rome most dearTo Venus breast, shall Persia learn to fear?Say, shall her fame, and princely glories ceaseShall Persia servile, own the sway of Greece?”To whom the Thunderer bent his brow divineAnd thus in accents heavenly and benign,“Daughter, not mine the secrets to relateThe mysteries of all revolving fate,But ease thy breast, enough for thee to know,What powerful fate decrees, will Jove bestow..He then her griefs, and anxious woes beguiled,And in his sacred arms embraced his child.Doubt clouds the Goddess’ breast — she calls her car,And lightly sweeps the liquid fields of air.When sable night midst silent nature springs,And o’er Athena shakes her drowsy wings.The Paphian Goddess from Olympus fliesAnd leaves the starry senate of the skies;To Athens heaven’s blest towers, the Queen repairsTo raise more sufferings, and to cause more cares;The Pylian Sage she moved so loved by fameIn face, in wisdom, and in voice the same.Twelve Chiefs in sleep absorbed and grateful restShe first beheld, and them she thus addrest.“Immortal Chiefs, the fraudful Goddess cries,While all the hero, kindled in her eyes.For you, these aged arms did I employFor you, we razed the sacred walls of Troy,And now for you, my shivering shade is drivenFrom Pluto’s dreary realms by urgent heaven;Then, oh be wise, nor tempt th’ unequal tightIn open fields, but wait superior mightWithin immortal Athens’ sacred wall,There strive, there triumph, nor there fear to fall;To own the Thunderer’s sway, then Greeks prepare.”Benign she said, and melted into air.

BATTLE OF MARATHON: BOOK II

WHEN from the briny deep, the orient mornExalts her purple light, and beams unshorn;And when the flaming orb of infant dayGlares o’er the earth, and re-illumes the sky;The twelve deceived, with souls on fire arose,While the false vision fresh in memory glows;The Senate first they sought, whose lofty wallMidst Athens rises, and o’ershadows all;The pride of Greece, it lifts its front sublimeUnhurt amidst the ravages of time:High on their towering seats, the heroes foundThe Chiefs of Athens solemn ranged around;One of the twelve the great Clombrotus then,Renowned for piety, and loved by men;“Assembled heroes, Chiefs to Pallas dearAll great in battle, and in virtue, hear!When night with sable wings extended roseAnd wrapt our weary limbs in sweet repose,I and my friends, Cydoon famed in song,Thelon the valiant, Herocles the strong,Cleon and Thermosites, in battle greatBy Pallas loved, and blest by partial fate.To us and other six, while day toils steepOur eyes in happy dreams, and grateful sleep.The Pylian Sage appeared, but not as whenOn Troy’s last dust he stood, the pride of men;Driven from the shore of Acheron he cameFrom lower realms to point the path to fame,Oh glorious Chiefs, the sacred hero saidFor you and for your fame, all Troy has bled;Hither for you, my shivering shade is driv’nFrom Pluto’s dreary realms by urgent heav’n;Then oh be wise, nor tempt th’ unequal fightIn open field, but wait superior mightWithin immortal Athens sacred wallThere strive, there triumph, nor there fear to fall!To own the Thunderer’s sway, then Greeks prepare.Benign he said, and melted into air.Leave us not thus I cried, Oh Pylian SageExperienced Nestor, famed for reverend age,Say first, great hero, shall the trump of fameOur glory publish, or disclose our shame?Oh what are Athens fates? in vain I saidE’en as I spoke the shadowy Chief had fled.Then here we flew, to own the visions swayAnd heaven’s decrees to adore and to obey.”He thus — and as before the blackened skies,Sound the hoarse breezes, murmuring as they riseSo thro’ th’ assembled Greeks, one murmur roseOne long dull echo lengthening as it goes.Then all was hushed in silence — breathless aweOpprest each tongue, and trembling they adore.But now uprising from th’ astonished Chiefs,Divine Miltiades exposed his griefs,For well the godlike warrior Sage had seen,The frauds deceitful of the Paphian Queen,And feared for Greece, for Greece to whom is giveEternal fame, the purest gift of heaven.And yet he feared — the pious hero roseMajestic in his sufferings in his woes;Grief clammed his tongue, but soon his spirit woke,Words burst aloft, and all the Patriot spoke.“Oh Athens, Athens! all the snares I viewThus shalt thou fall, and fall inglorious too!Are all thy boasted dignities no more?Is all thy might, are all thy glories o’er?Oh woe on woe, unutterable griefNot Nestor’s shade, that cursed phantom chief,But in that reverend air that lofty mienBehold the frauds of love’s revengeful Queen,Not yet, her thoughts does vengeance cease t’ employ.Her Son Aeneas’ wrongs, and burning TroyNot yet forgotten lie within her breast,Nor soothed by time, nor by despair deprest.Greeks still extolled by glory, and by fameFor yet, oh Chiefs! ye bare a Grecian name.If in these walls, these sacred walls we waitThe might of Persia, and the will of fate,Before superior force, will Athens fallAnd one o’erwhelming ruin bury all.Then in the open plain your might essay,Rush on to battle, crush Darius’ sway;The frauds of Venus, warrior Greeks beware,Disdain the Persian foes, nor stoop to fear.”This said, Clombrotus, him indignant heardNor felt his wisdom, nor his wrath he feared,With rage the Chief, the godlike Sage beheld.And passion in his stubborn soul rebelled.“Tliricc impious man, th’ infuriate Chieftain cries,(Flames black and fearful, flashing from his eyes,)Where lies your spirit Greeks? and can ye bowTo this proud upstart of your power so low?What! does his aspect awe ye? is his eyeSo full of haughtiness and majesty?Behold the impious soul, that dares defyThe power of Gods and Sovereign of the sky!And can your hands no sacred weapon wield,To crush the tyrant, and your country shield?On Greeks! — your sons, your homes, your country freeFrom such usurping Chiefs and tyranny!”He said, and grasped his weapon — at his wordsBeneath the horizon gleamed ten thousand swords,Ten thousand swords e’en in one instant raised,Sublime they danced aloft, and midst the Senate blazed.Nor wisdom checked, nor gratitude represt,They rose, and flashed before the Sage’s breast.With pride undaunted, greatness unsubdued,‘Gainst him in arms, the impetuous Greeks he viewedUnarmed, unawed, before th’ infuriate bands,Nor begged for life, nor stretched his suppliant hands.He stood astounded, rivetted, oppressed.By grief unspeakable, which swelled his breast,Life, feeling, being, sense forgotten lie,Buried in one wide waste of misery;Can this be Athens! this her Senates pride?He asked but gratitude, — was this denied?Tho’ Europe’s homage at his feet were hurledAthens forsakes him — Athens was his world.Unutterable woe! by anguish stungAll his full soul, rushed heaving to his tongue,And thoughts of power, of fame, of greatness o’erHe cried “Athenians!” and he could no more.Awed by that voice of agony, that word,Hushed were the Greeks, and sheathed the obedient sword.They stood abashed — to them the ancient Chief,Began — and thus relieved his swelling grief.“Athenians! warrior Greeks! my words revereStrike me, but listen — bid me die, but hear!Hear not Clombrotus, when he bids you wait,In Athens’ walls, Darius and your fate;I feel that Pallas’ self, my soul inspiresMy mind she strengthens, and my bosom fires;Strike Greeks! but hear me; think not to this heartYon thirsty swords, one breath of fear impart;Such slavish, low born thoughts, to Greeks unknownA Persian feels, and cherishes alone!Hear me Athenians! hear me, and believe,See Greece mistaken! e’en the Gods deceive;But fate yet wavers — yet may wisdom moveThese threatening woes and thwart the Queen of Love.Obey my counsels, and invoke for aidThe cloud compelling God, and blue eyed maid;I fear not for myself the silent tomb,Death lies in every shape, and death must come.But ah! ye mock my truth, traduce my fame,Ye blast my honor, stigmatize my name!Ye call me tyrant when I wish thee free,Usurper, when I live but Greece, for thee!”And thus the Chief — and boding silence drownedEach clam’rous tongue, and sullen reigned around,“Oh Chief!” great Aristides first began“Mortal yet perfect, godlike and yet man!Boast of ungrateful Greece I my prayer attend,Oh I be my Chieftain, Guardian, Father, Friend!And ye, oh Greeks! impetuous and abhorred,Again presumptuous, lift the rebel sword,Again your weapons raise, in hateful ire,To crush the Leader, Hero, Patriot, Sire!Not such was Greece, when Greeks united stoodTo bathe perfidious Troy in hostile blood,Not such were Greeks inspired by glory, thenAs Gods they conquered, now they’re less than men!Degenerate race! now lost to once loved fameTraitors to Greece, and to the Grecian name.Who now your honors, who your praise will seekWho now shall glory in the name of Greek!But since such discords your base souls divideProcure the lots, let Jove and Heaven decide.”To him Clombrotus thus admiring cries“Thy thoughts how wondrous, and thy words how wise!So let it be, avert, the threatened w oes.And Jove be present, and the right disclose;But give me. Sire of Gods and powers above.The heavenly vision, and my truth to prove!Give me t’ avenge the breach of all thy lawsT’ avenge myself, then aid my righteous cause!If this thou wilt, I’ll to thine altars leadTwelve bulls which to thy sacred name shall bleed,Six snow white heifers of a race divineProstrate shall fall, and heap the groaning shrine,Nor this the most — six rams that fearless strayUntouched by man, for thee this arm shall slay.”Thus prayed the Chief, with shouts the heavens resoundJove weighs the balance and the lots go round!Declare oh muse! for to thy piercing eyesThe book of fate irrevocably lies;What lots leapt forth, on that eventful dayWho won, who lost, all seeing Goddess say!First great Clonibrotus, all his fortune triedAnd strove with fate, but Jove his prayer deniedInfuriate to the skies his arms are driven,And raging thus upbraids the King of heaven.“Is this the virtue of the blest abodes.And this the justice of the God of Gods?Can he who hurls the bolt, and shakes the skyThe prayer of truth, unblemished truth deny.Has he no faith by whom the clouds are rivenWho sits superior on the throne of Heaven?No wonder earth born men are prone to fallIn sin, or listen to dishonor’s callWhen Gods, th’ immortal Gods, transgress the lawsOf truth, and sin against a righteous cause.”Furious he said, by anger’s spirit firedThen sullen from the Senate walls retired.‘Tis now Miltiades’ stern fate to dareBut first he lifts his pious soul in prayer.“Daughter of Jove! the mighty Chief began.Without thy wisdom, frail and weak is manA phantom Greece adores, oh show thy power,And prove thy love in this eventful hour!Crown all thy glory, all thy might declare!”The Chieftain prayed, and Pallas heard his prayer.Swayed by the presence of the power divineThe fated lot Miltiades was thine!That hour the swelling trump of partial fameDiffused eternal glory on thy name!“Daughter of Jove, he cries, unconquered maid!Thy power I own, and I confess thy aid,For this twelve ewes upon thy shrine shall smokeOf milk white fleece, the comeliest of their flock.While hecatombs and generous sacrificeShall fume and blacken half th’ astonished skies.”And thus the Chief — the shouting Greeks admireWhile truth’s bright spirit, sets their souls on fire:Then thus Themistocles, “Ye Grecian hostNot now the time for triumph or for boast,Now Greeks! for graver toils your minds prepareNot for the strife, but council of the war.Behold the sacred herald! sent by GreeceTo Sparta’s vales now hushed in leagues of peace;Her Chiefs, to aid the common cause, t’ imploreAnd bid Darius shun the Argive shore;Behold liiiii here! then let the leader GreekCommand the bearer of our hopes to speak.”And thus the Sage, “Where’er the herald standsBid him come forth, ‘tis Athens Chief commands.And bid him speak with freedom uncontrolled,His thoughts deliver and his charge unfold.”He said and sat — the Greeks impatient waitThe will of Sparta, and Athena’s fate.Silent they sat — so ere the whirlwinds rise,Ere billows foam and thunder to the skies,Nature in death-like calm her breath suspends.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 declareTheir will to aid our freedom and the war,Instant they armed, by zeal and impulse drivenBut on the plains of the mysterious heavenComets and fires were writ — an awful sign,And dreadful omen of the wrath divineWhile threatened plagues upon their shores appearThey 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’erThe Spartan warriors should desert their shoreThreats following threats succeed the mandate direPlagues to themselves, and to their harvests fire.The Spartan Chiefs desist, their march delayTo 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 woeI 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 floodsThro’ verdant valleys, and thro’ shady woods.And crowned in majesty o’ertowering allIn bright effulgence, Sparta’s lofty wall.To these I looked farewell, and humbled, bowedIn chastened sorrow, to the thundering God.‘Twas thus I mused, when from a verdant groveThat wafts delicious perfume from aboveThe monster Pan, his form gigantic rearedAnd 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 faceTho’ grim, and stranger to celestial grace.Within his hand a shepherd’s crook he boreThe gift of Dian, on th’ Arcadian shore;Before th’ immortal power I, fearing, bowedCongealed 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 bringFrom Sparta’s Chiefs, and Sparta’s royal King,That heaven enjoins them to refrain from fightTill Dian fills again her horns with light?Then vain their aid, ere then may Athens fallAnd Persia’s haughty Chiefs invest her wall.I said and sighed, the God in accents mildMy sorrow thus, and rigid griefs beguiled.Not to destroy I come, oh chosen GreekNot Athens fall, but Athens fame I seek,Then give again to honor and to fameMy 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 hourOn Marathonian plains, the Persian power?E’en Hippias self inspires th’ embattled hostTh’ Athenian’s terror, as the Persian’s boast;Bid Athens rise and glory’s powers attestEnough — no more — the fates conceal the rest.He said, his visage burned with heavenly lightHe spoke and speaking, vanished from my sightAnd awed, I sought where these loved walls inviteBut think not, warrior Greeks, the fault is mine,If Athens fall — it is by wrath divine.I vainly vainly grieve, the evil springsFrom him — the God of Gods, the King of Kings!”The Herald said, and bent his sacred headWhile cherished hope from every bosom fled.Each dauntless hero, by despair deprestFelt 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 soundRush from their looms and anxious crowd around,They ask the cause, the fatal cause is knownBy each fond sigh, and each renewing groan,While ill their arms some infant love they bearAt once for which they joy, for which they fearHushed on its mother’s breast, the cherished childUnconscious midst the scene of terror smiled;On rush the matrons, they despairing seekMiltiades adored by every Greek;Him found at length, his counsels they entreatHang on his knees, and clasp his sacred feet.Their babes before him on the ground they throwIn all the maddening listlessness of woe.First Delopeia of the matrons chiefThus vents her bursting soul in frantic griefWhile her fond babe she holds aloft in airThus her roused breast, prefers a mother’s prayer.“Oh Son of Cimon for the Grecian’s raiseTo heaven, thy fame, thy honor, and thy praise.Thus — thus — shall Athens and her heroes fallShall thus one ruin seize and bury all!Say, shall these babes be strangers then to fameAnd 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 reignAnd Athens free born Sons be slaves again!Oh Son of Cimon! let thy influence callThe 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 ceaseAnd death-like silence awes the Sons of Greece.Thrice did the mighty Chief of Athens seekTo curb his feelings and essay to speak,‘Twas vain — the ruthless sorrow wrung his breastHis mind disheartened, and his soul opprestHe thus — while o’er his cheek the moisture stole“Retire ye matrons, nor unman my soul,Tho’ little strength this aged arm retainsMy swelling soul Athena’s foe disdains;Hushed be your griefs, to heav’n for victory cryAssured we’ll triumph, or with freedom die.And ye oh Chiefs, when night disowns her swayAnd pensive Dian yields her power to day,To quit these towers for Marathon prepareAnd brave Darius in the ranks of war.For yet may Jove protect the Grecian nameAnd 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 GodIn oceans sinks, green Neptune’s old abodeBlack Erebus on drowsy pinions, springsAnd 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 goldHis hands two spears uphold of equal size,And fame’s bright glories kindle in his eyes;Upon his helmet, plumes of horse hair nodAnd forth he moved, majestic as a God!Upon his snorting steed the warrior sprungThe courser neighed, the brazen armour rung.From heaven’s etherial heights the martial maidWith 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, gainsThe 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 brightThe 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 weightYouth smiles again, when with gigantic mightHis nervous limbs, immortal arms could wieldCrush foe on foe, and raging, heap the field;Yet tho’ such days were past, and ruthless ageTransformed the warrior, to the thoughtful sage,Tho’ the remorseless hand of silent timeImpaired 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 callTo battle! Asia’s King and myriads dare.Swell the loud trump, and raise the din of war.”He said impatient; then the warrior sageBegan, regardless of the fears of age:“Not mine, oh youth, with caution to controulThe fire and glory of thy eager soul;kSo was I wont in brazen arms to shineSuch 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 repliesA thousand lances blazing as they riseAnd Athen’s banners wave, and float along the skie?So from the marsh, the cranes embodied flyClap their glad wings, and cut the liquid skyWith thrilling cries, they mount their joyful wayVig’rous they spring, and hail the new born day,So rose the shouting Greeks, inspired by fameT’ assert their freedom, and maintain their name.First came Themistocles in arms renownedWhose steed impatient, tore the trembling ground,High o’er his helmet snowy plumes ariseAnd shade that brow, which Persia’s might defies;A purple mantle graceful waves behindNor hides his arms but floats upon the wind.His mighty form two crimson belts unfoldRich in embroidery, and stiff with gold.Calimachus the Polemarch, next cameThe theme of general praise and general fame.Cynagirus who e’en the Gods would dareHeap 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 hideAnd the huge war axe clattered at his side,The mighty Chief, a brazen chariot boreWhile fame and glory hail him and adore.Antenor next, his aid to Athens gaveLike Paris youthful, and like Hector brave;Cleon, Minerva’s priest, experienced sageAdvanced in wisdom, as advanced in age.Agregoras, Delenus’ favorite childThe parent’s cares, the glorious son beguiledBut now he leaves his sire to seek his doomHis 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 movedBy Athens honoured, by the Greeks beloved:And Sthenellus the echoing pavements trod,From youth devoted to the martial GodHonor unspotted, crowned the hero’s name,Unbounded virtue, and unbounded fame.Such heroes shone the foremost of the hostAll Athens’ glory, and all Athens’ boast.Behind a sable cloud of warriors riseWith 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 carWhile the shrill blast resounds, to war! to war!