| |
| HE cometh from the purple hills, | |
| Where the fight has been to-day; | |
| He bears the standard on his hand,— | |
| Shout round the victor’s way. | |
| The sunset of a battle won | 5 |
| Is round his steps from Marathon. | |
| |
| Gather the myrtles near, | |
| And fling them on his path; | |
| Take from her braided hair | |
| The flowers the maiden hath, | 10 |
| A welcome to the welcome one | |
| Who hastens now from Marathon. | |
| |
| They crowd around his steps, | |
| Rejoicing young and old; | |
| The laurel branch he bears, | 15 |
| His glorious tale hath told, | |
| The Persian’s hour of pride is done, | |
| Victory is on Marathon. | |
| |
| She cometh with brightened cheek; | |
| She who all day hath wept | 20 |
| The wife and mother’s tears | |
| Where her youngest infant slept; | |
| The heart is in her eyes alone, | |
| What careth she for Marathon! | |
| |
| But down on his threshold, down! | 25 |
| Sinks the warrior’s failing breath, | |
| The tale of that mighty field | |
| Is left to be told by Death. | |
| ’T is a common tale,—the victor’s sun | |
| Sets in tears and blood o’er Marathon. | 30 |
| |
