  THE CRISIS.WHEN the Spartan heroes tried To hold the broken gate, When—roaring like the rising tide— The Persian horsemen charged and died In foaming waves of hate. When with armour hacked and torn They gripped their shields of brass, And hailed the gods that light the morn With battle-cry of hope forlorn, "We shall not let them pass." While they combed their hair for death Before the Persian line, They spoke awhile with easy breath, "What think ye the Athenian saith In Athens as they dine?" "Doth he repent that we alone Are here to hold the way, That he must reap what he hath sown— That only valour may atone The fault of yesterday? "Is he content that thou and I— Three hundred men in line— Should show him thus how man may try To stay the foemen passing by To Athens, where they dine? "Ah! now the clashing cymbal rings, The mighty host is nigh; Let Athens talk of passing things— But here, three hundred Spartan kings Shall greet the fame the Persian brings To men about to die." |
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