stream of holy Strymon. He who erst
Recked nought of gods, now prayed with supplication,
Bowing before the powers of earth and sky.
But when the hosts from lengthy orisons
Surceased, it crossed the ice-incrusted ford.
And he among us who set forth before
The sun-god's rays were scattered, now was saved.
For blazing with sharp beams the sun's bright circle
Pierced the mid-stream, dissolving it with fire.
There were they huddled. Happy then was he
Who soonest cut the breath of life asunder.
Such as survived and had the luck of living,
Crossed Thrace with pain and peril manifold,
'Scaping mischance, a miserable remnant,
Into the dear land of their homes. Wherefore
Persia may wail, wanting in vain her darlings.
This is the truth. Much I omit to tell
Of woes by God wrought on the Persian race.

Upon this triumphal note it were well, perhaps, to pause. Yet since
the sojourner in Athens must needs depart by sea, let us advance a
little way farther beyond Salamis. The low shore of the isthmus soon
appears; and there is the hill of Corinth and the site of the city,
as desolate now as when Antipater of Sidon made the sea-waves utter
a threnos over her ruins. 'The deathless Nereids, daughters of
Oceanus,' still lament by the shore, and the Isthmian pines are as
green as when their boughs were plucked to bind a victor's forehead.
Feathering the grey rock now as then, they bear witness to the
wisdom and the moderation of the Greeks, who gave to the conquerors
in sacred games no wreath of gold, or title of nobility, or land, or
jewels, but the honour of an illustrious name, the guerdon of a
mighty deed, and branches taken from the wild pine of Corinth, or
the olive of Olympia, or the bay that flourished like a weed at
Delphi. What was indigenous and characteristic of his native soil,
not rare and costly things from foreign lands, was precious to the
Greek. This piety, after the lapse of centuries and the passing away
of mighty cities, still bears fruit. Oblivion cannot wholly efface
the memory of those great games while the fir-trees rustle to the
sea-wind as of old. Down the gulf we pass, between mountain range
and mountain. On one hand, two peaked Parnassus rears his cope of
snow aloft over Delphi; on the other, Erymanthus and Hermes' home,
Cyllene, bar the pastoral glades of Arcady. Greece is the land of
mountains, not of rivers or of plains. The titles of the hills of
Hellas smite our ears