LXXXIX. The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; Unchanged in all except its foreign lord-- Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame; The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, As on the morn to distant Glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word; Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career.
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