THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.
215
Was it the hunter's choral strain
To the woodland-goddess pour'd?
Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane
Strike the full sounding chord?
But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!
And the mountain echoes of the land
Swell'd through the deep blue sky,
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.
They marched not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out,
And the laurel-groves, as on they passed,
Rung with no battle shout!
