The Messenger From Marathon

Victory! cry of all cries after battle,
Victory! only cry worthy of breath,
Lifting the soul up and thrilling the heart strings,
Shaking the heavens and laughing at death.
Never glowed sunburst more sudden and wondrous,
Scattering darkness and slaying the night,
Marathon headlong the Greeks charged
Down on the Persians a torrent of fight.
Sword of Miltiades! shield of Athene!
Loud cry for Greekland in whirlwind of slaughter,
Ten gainst a hundred of thousands, yet drove them
And slew them in scores to the edge of the water.
Virgin of Athens! Victory! Victory!
Voice of Miltiades : "Who'll bear the word of it
Fastest to Athens and free her from fear?"
Springs a young soldier forth, crying out: "Here!"
Dropping helmet and spear.
Six words of a pray'r to Athene then gone.
Swiftly he skims the red plain,
Skirting the blood-pools and masses of dead.
Light on the forehead; joy in his tread;
Lavish of vigor, lengthy of stride;
Ever on! Ever on!
Scorning the stress and the strain,
Sees the broad slopes of the mountain arise,
Laughs at the hot sun that flames in his eyes,
Faces the steep of Pentelicus,
Fired by the word in his heart held,
"Victory! Victory! Victory!"
Where echo alone from the mountain replies:
Victory!
Smothering heart-beat and breath-drawing pain
He shouts it again
Victory!
Never a pause as he masters the top,
But plunges on down the white line of the road;
Long-drawn-out distances stretch dim before him;
Hot pace and hot sun are wearing him down;
Hill after hill comes as load upon load;
But the joy he is bringing still serves as a goad;
Thirst in the throat, but of water no drop;
Dust stings and blinds him and chokes him;
Shudd ring, he thinks, if the heart beats so,
Why must the beat of his feet fall slow?
His head swims faint in the blasting heat,
Sisyphus rock seems as laid on his shoulders,
Breaking his loins and crushing his knees,
And the roadstones loom in giant boulders.
"O gods," he cries, "for a draught or a breeze";
But he must not stop.
Though his footfalls drag Klop! Klop! Klop! Klop!
For the wonderful word must in Athens be spoken,
And the fear of her people be broken.
And still in short gaspings the baked lips utter:
Victory! Victory!
Virgin of Athens, uphold him staggering on!
In the violet-turreted town.
Hours creep to hours thro the dragging day:
Shadows upon Hymettus slope
Lengthen like dark despair o'ermastering hope;
Priests in the temples, fearful, pray:
Old men silent pace up and down:
High from Acropolis eyeballs strain
Cross the Attic plain
To the hillside streak of the road from Marathon.
One cries "Some form is moving there." "Speak, speak!
Is it Persian or Greek?"
"God knows! Run forth to meet him: run!"
"No, wait;
A Greek must not fear to face his fate."
Yet some forth venture, and they see
A man dust-covered staggering zigzag on.
"He s Greek," they cry, "but life has gone
From out his staring eyes and rigid face;
His arms swing deadlike: look, he ll fall."
"No! see, he s swerving to the market-place."
They close around him. "Tell, oh tell !
Tell us in the battle what befell."
He touches one, shrinks back, and swaying dazed, he stands.
Then sudden flame his eyes, and lifts his head,
And throwing up his hands, he cries
"Victory!"
And at their feet falls dead.
"Victory! Victory!"
Now a thousand voices shout,
And a hundred trumps ring out
Victory!
Forever glorious Marathon! forever glorious Messenger!
Victory! Victory! Victory!