WHEN, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn <br />The tidings past of servitude repealed, <br />And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field, <br />The rough Aetolians smiled with bitter scorn. <br />''Tis known,' cried they, 'that he, who would adorn <br />His envied temples with the Isthmian crown, <br />Must either win, through effort of his own, <br />The prize, or be content to see it worn <br />By more deserving brows.--Yet so ye prop, <br />Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon, <br />Your feeble spirits! Greece her head hath bowed, <br />As if the wreath of liberty thereon <br />Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud, <br />Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top.'<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/upon-the-same-event/
