Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Marathon
MARATHON
Written at the Age of Eighteen
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.
Shoot to the sky their cloud-defiant crest
The bristling rocks, with climbing vines caressed;
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 whilst 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 grey sod whereon they grap’ling 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 grim old foes are mingled once again:
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 Plateau 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 scimetar, 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 centred 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!