The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd :: :: University of Virginia Library

This is the place;—the mountain bay
Is wild, and stern, and grand,
As when the Lion held the way
That barred his mother-land.
Long years and change and earthquake shock
Have wrought upon the scene,
Where once the sea waves lapped the rock
Are meadow-lands grown green;
But Oeta still looms vast and grey
To hide the setting sun,
And still the mountains bar the way,
And every way but one:
The sulphur springs still fume and flow
Along the rough hillside,
And far-off Othrys veiled in snow
Sees where the Spartan died.

There is a spirit haunts the place
Where mighty deeds were dared,

Though time and change have left no trace,
And not a grave be spared:
And climbing up the grassy hill
Where Sparta's lion stood,
The heart still answers to the thrill,
That marks the hero mood.
And as I read the page again,
That quickens from the dust
The tale of those three hundred men
Who died to keep their trust,
I knew the fire was not yet lost
That nerved my younger age;—
The shadow of an eagle crossed,
And fell along my page!