No tramp of armed foe is heard,
Nor bowstrings' twang, nor arrows' hiss,
Nor sound to scare the nesting bird
On rocky Salamis.
Yet runs the Royal Road to-day,
From Sardis up to Suza town,
And still above the Rhamnian Way
The heights of Marathon look down:
Still from the blue, Ægean wave
The sea-wind sweeps with keen salt breath