Now,—the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, 40 While the patching houseleek’s head of blossom winks Through the chinks— Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all around, the chariots traced 45 As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve Smiles to leave 50 To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away— That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair 55 Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. 60
But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades’ Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then, 65 All the men! When I do come she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, 70 Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high 75 As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force— Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth’s returns 80 For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,— Where Delos rose and Phœbus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, 5 But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute 10 To sounds which echo further west Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.”
The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, 15 I dream’d that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians’ grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; 20 And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;—all were his! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they?