Nicholas Michell

When summer breezes wave the untrodden grass,
In lone Thermopylae's immortal pass,
Swell not the shouts of Sparta's dauntless band,
Who stood to die, but stood with sword in hand?
Saw without shrinking Xerxes' vast array,
Like stormy billows, rolling on their way —
Called on their country, pealed their signal horn,
Whose farewell echoes through that dell were borne —
Glowed to the last with patriot fire and pride,
And sank, earth-lauded martyrs, side by side!