Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MARATHON, by JAMES RYDER RANDALL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MARATHON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Stern marathon! The mountains view thee yet
Last Line: For those who perished there—but not in vain!
Subject(s): Death; Greece; Marathon, Greece; Soldiers; War; Dead, The; Greeks


STERN Marathon! the mountains view thee yet;
Thy monarch plain with dew eternal's wet!
Each blade of grass that feathers from thy green
Bears the bright impress of a hallowed mien.
The bristling rocks, with climbing vines caressed,
Shoot to the sky their cloud-defiant crest;
Cradle the King-bird in his eyrie home,
When down he darts from heaven's starry dome;
Stand the bold sentries of the holy vast;
Hurl from their thrones the thunder-throated blast;
Sigh o'er the graves of valorous renown;
Then lordly smile while gazing grandly down.
Tomb of the Brave! thy echo sways the breeze,
Before thy name all mimic grandeur flees,
Before thy fame the world is thrilled with awe,
Time has no tooth—Oblivion rends its maw!
Those martyr forms whom ages cannot quell
Haunt the gray sod whereon they grappling fell.
Call from the dust the Persian's fiery host,
And lo! what tumult stirs each gibbering ghost!
Thus when the lurid bolt is whirled along,
These phantom heroes ring their battle song:
When the hoarse thunder bellows from the sky,
And dusky pinions storm the cliffs on high;
When the big rain comes rattling from the clouds
Starting the dead in myriads from their shrouds—
Amid the clangor of their dread refrain
These grim old foes are mingled once again:
The dark Platean in the tide of war,
The comely Median in his battered car,
The bright Athenian dealing death and fear,
The Persian tottering on his shivered spear—
The cloven helmet and the ghastly blow,
The crimson scimitar, the stringless bow—
They smite their shields, they form, prepare, advance:
Sword splinters sword, lance crashes against lance—
Away! the golden lamp swings forth once more
And all is mute upon that dreamy shore!

The living hills are marble for the dead,
Their burial ground is where they fought and bled,
Their epitaph is centered in a breath—
"The dying freeman yields not quite to death!"
Their deeds are chanted by the choral surge,
That holiest harper of undying dirge!
Each frolic wave that pillows on the plain
Murmurs a praise surpassing mortal strain
For those who perished there—but not in vain!





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