And dash the enslaving yoke away
From all the Grecian land.
Their praise shall sound the world around,
Who shook the Persian throne,
When the shout of the free travelled over the sea
From famous Marathon.

From dark Cithae'ron's sacred slope
The small Plataean band
Bring hearts that swell with patriot hope,
To wield a common brand
With Theseus' sons, at danger's gates,
While spellbound Sparta stands,
And for the pale moon's changes waits
With stiff and stolid hands;
And hath no share in the glory rare,
That Athens shall make her own,
When the long-haired Mede with fearful speed
Falls back from Marathon.

"On, sons of the Greeks!" the war-cry rolls;
"The land that gave you birth,
Your wives, and all the dearest souls
That circle round each hearth;
The shrines upon a thousand hills,
The memory of your sires,
Nerve now with brass your resolute wills,
And fan your valorous fires!"
And on like a wave came the rush of the brave--
"Ye sons of the Greeks, on, on!"