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The mountains look on Marathon –
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream’d that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persian’s grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush? – Our fathers bled.
Earth! Render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade –
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush? – Our fathers bled.
Earth! Render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine –
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush? – Our fathers bled.
Earth! Render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!

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