Then spoke Miltiades. deg.  “And thee, best runner of Greece, deg.89
Whose limbs did duty indeed,—­what gift is promised thyself? 90
Tell it us straightway,—­Athens the mother demands of her son!”
Rosily blushed the youth:  he paused:  but, lifting at length
His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength
Into the utterance—­“Pan spoke thus:  ’For what thou hast done
Count on a worthy reward!  Henceforth be allowed thee release
From the racer’s toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!’

“I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! 
Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,—­
Pound—­Pan helping us—­Persia to dust, and, under the deep,
Whelm her away forever; and then,—­no Athens to save,—­ 100
Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,—­
Hie to my house and home:  and, when my children shall creep
Close to my knees,—­recount how the God was awful yet kind,
Promised their sire reward to the full—­rewarding him—­so!”

* * * * *

Unforeseeing one!  Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: 
So, when Persia was dust, all cried “To Akropolis deg.! deg.106
Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 
‘Athens is saved, thank Pan,’ go shout!” He flung down his shield,
Ran like fire once more:  and the space ’twixt the Fennel-field deg. deg.109
And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, 110
Till in he broke:  “Rejoice, we conquer!” Like wine thro’ clay,
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—­the bliss!

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute
Is still “Rejoice!”—­his word which brought rejoicing indeed. 
So is Pheidippides happy forever,—­the noble strong man
Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well,
He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell
Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,
So to end gloriously—­once to shout, thereafter be mute: 
“Athens is saved!”—­Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. 120

* * * * *

MY STAR

All that I know
  Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
  (Like the angled spar deg.) deg.4
Now a dart of red,
  Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
  They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:  10
They must solace themselves with the Saturn deg. above it. deg.11
What matter to me if their star is a world? 
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.