On dim-lit Styx the boatman waits,
to bring across the shades.
The Earth awaits with bated breath,
round the cliffs of the hot gates,
Where men shall die and men shall fall,
as victims of the Fates.
Thebeans and Phocians, Corinthians and all,
Arcadia, Thesbia, Locria march to a yet unborn nation's call.
Forth they march to defend the pass
that through the cliffs is torn.
And at the front there march the best,
three hundreds, Spartan born.
Yes three hundreds from Lacedaemon, led by their lion king.
Of whom afterwards the Muses will soft songs sadly sing.
Each man with him to the death,
grim the light in every eye.
For a son or more has each man sired
thus they all march forth to die.
They reach at last Thermopylae and set upon the pass.
The sea stretches before them, a mirror of shimmering glass.
And there they wait with steely eye,
for the Fates their death to bring.
It comes at last in form of those
who know Xerxes as their king.
Across from them sits Persia's king with his unnumbered horde.
For four days waits before he stirs to tempt the Spartan lord.
He offers better earth and friendship,
but the lion would rather die.
"Lay down your arms!" With scornful tone,
"Come and get them!" his reply.
In rage the Eastern King lets sound his battle horn,
Sends forth a rush of deadly spears, each one a wicked thorn.
They rush against the burning bronze,
which gleaming shines like golden fire,
with sharpened flames and heavy shields,
all clad in bright attire.
Rushed like roaring wave on rocks at sea, fast the human tide does fall.
Like wheat before the sharpened scythe they die at the bronze-clad wall.
For the phalanx stands unmoving,
each man guards his comrade true.
With every blow, yea every thrust,
they pierce a foeman through.
Glorious now does shine the sun on bright-lit Spartan blades,
that cut down by the hundred and send souls at last to Hades.
The Spartans in battle exulting,
for this purpose they were bred.
On bright bronze spears the first wave died,
the remnants turned and fled.
But lo, what new threat is this that comes upon the field,
that seeks to break the Spartan wall, destroy the Spartan shield?
In desperate rage now Xerxes sends
ten thousand men all told.
His corps elite, his army's best,
Immortals, dark and cold.
This dark wave howling crashes towards the strong shield wall of bronze,
that stands still as graven statue as the blood before it ponds.
Little different to the Spartan men,
appear those of Persian fame.
For still the die and back they fall,
ill chosen is their name.
The sun sets a bloody fire on a bloody battle field,
and rose next morn and looked again on men who wouldn't yield.
But Xerxes in his heart held hope
that the battle line was weak.
A new assault he sends again,
for victory to seek.
And though the day was new the battle was the same.
For the weapons of the Peloponnese leapt like a deadly flame.
And Xerxes started from his seat,
saw how futile was the test.
Recalled the men, leaving still comrades,
the Spartans had laid to rest.
As Xerxes sat in night and thought dark thoughts upon his chair,
a lowly worm came crawling in, offered his service there.
For though the narrow way was blocked,
a different path he knew.
A winding path, through mountain cliffs,
around the bronze clad few.
This craven coward saw Persian gold dancing before his eye,
and led Persian Immortals by the pass before dawn broke the sky.
But as the sun was coming,
Word reached the Spartan ear.
The flank was turned, the hordes came on,
their hour of doom drew near.
The King not hesitating called his forces to his side,
allowed but a handful stay with him, to delay the flowing tide.
For some would fight another day,
and these withdrew to the West.
Some stayed to die and deadliest were
those who bore the Spartan crest.
As Immortals descended, Persians advanced, and tighter drew the noose,
The King with all his men charged forth, like a deadly arrow loosed.
They would not wait for death to take them,
the dark fates they defied.
And midst the battle, midst swords in glory,
Leonidas fighting died.
And in the fearsome battle a yet fiercer one did break.
The Spartans save the trophy that the foeman sought to take.
Bore their king's body to a hill
where they might make a final stand.
Their foes came on, the Spartans slew.
With sword and spear and hand.
Xerxes back from battle raged in his chair on high,
and ordered thousands arrows loosed, to darken day-lit sky.
The archers circled round the hill,
arrows rushed like rain from blue.
The storm stopped not, til the last was slain,
of Sparta, brave and few.
Though Persia then marched over those who riches could not entice,
Their comrades beat the foeman back, inspired by sacrifice.
They returned then to the Hot Gates,
raised an epitaph close by:
"Go tell to Sparta, stranger passing,
that here obedient to her law we lie".
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