Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/192

158 LXXXIX.

The Sun, the soil—but not the slave, the same;—

Unchanged in all except its foreign Lord,

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame

The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde

First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,

As on the morn to distant Glory dear,

When Marathon became a magic word;N39

Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear

The camp, the host, the fight, the Conqueror's career,

XC.

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow—

The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;

Mountains above—Earth's, Ocean's plain below—

Death in the front, Destruction in the rear!