Votive Epigram

To Ares stern! To Eris strife-possessed!
Help me, I'm old, to give this pillar these:
My shield, my sword well hacked with braveries,
My broken helmet with its bloody crest.

Join there this bow. But, say, is't meet I rest
The hemp around the wood,—hard medlar tree's
No arm but mine has ever bent with ease,—
Or stretch the cord again with eager zest?

The quiver also take. Thine eye cons o'er
The sheath of leather for the archer's store—
The arrows which the wind of battle floats.

'Tis empty; and thou think'st my shafts are gone?
Then hie thee to the field of Marathon,
Where thou wilt find them in the Persians' throats.