O’er Marathon grey I walked in my pride,
And smiled o’er the plain where the brave had died.
On the field of Platæa I laid me down,
’Neath the shadows deep of old Cithæron’s frown.
Full soundly I ween doth the Persian sleep,
When the fir trees mourn, and the wild flowers creep;
His requiem soft I sang as I lay,
And dreamed of the glory won on that day.
O’er Italia’s hills soft sunlight I poured,
And her olive groves bloomed wherever I trod;