INTRODUCTORY REMARKS
The
piece, on the perusal of which the reader is now about to enter, stands unique among the extant remains of the ancient drama, as drawing its materials from the historical, not the mythological, age of the Greek people. We are not, from this fact, to conclude that the Greeks, or the ancients generally, drew a more strict boundary line between the provinces of history and poetry, than the moderns. Such an inference were the very reverse of the fact, as the whole style of ancient history on the one hand, and the examples of Ennius and Lucan in poetry, sufficiently show. Not even within the special domain of the Greek stage is our one extant example the only historical drama of which the records of Hellenic literature have preserved the memory; on the contrary, one of the old arguments of the present play expressly testifies that Phrynichus, a contemporary of Æschylus, had written a play on the same subject; and we know, from other sources, that the same dramatist had exhibited on the stage, with the most powerful effect, the capture of the city of Miletus, which took place only a few years before the battle of Marathon.
There was a plain reason, however, why, with all this, historical subjects should, in the general case, have been excluded from the range of the Greek dramatic poetry; and that reason was, the religious character which, as we have previously shown, belonged so essentially to the tragic exhibitions of the Hellenes. That religious character necessarily directed the eye of the tragic poet to those ages in the history of his country, when the gods held more familiar and open converse with men, and to those exploits which were performed by Jove-descended heroes in olden time, under the express sanction, and with the special inspiration, of Heaven. Had a characteristically Christian drama arisen, at an early period, out of the festal celebrations of the Church, the sacred poets of such a drama would, in the same way, have confined themselves to strictly scriptural themes, or to themes belonging to the earlier and more venerable traditions of the Church.
With regard to the subject of the present drama, there can be no doubt that, like the fall of Napoleon at Moscow, Leipzig, and Waterloo, in these latter days, so in ancient history there is no event more suited for the purposes of poetry than the expedition of Xerxes into Greece There is “a beginning, a middle, and an end,” in this story, which might satisfy the critical demands of the sternest Aristotle; a moral also, than which no sermon ever preached from Greek stage or Christian pulpit is better calculated to tame the foolish pride, and to purify the turbid passions of humanity. In ancient and modern times, accordingly, from Chœrilus to Glover, the whole, or part of this subject has been treated, as its importance seemed to demand, epically;
but of all the poetical glorifications of this high theme, that of Æschylus has alone succeeded in asserting for itself a permanent niche in the library of that select poetry which belongs to all times and all places.
Of the battle of Salamis and the expedition of Xerxes, as an historical event, it must be unnecessary for me to say a single word here, entitled, as I am, to presume that no reader of the plays of Æschylus can be ignorant of the main facts, and the tremendous moral significance of that event. I shall only mention, for the sake of those whose memory is not well exercised in chronology, that it took place in the autumn of the year 480 before Christ, ten years after the battle of Marathon, thirty years after the expulsion of the Tarquins from Rome, and eighty years after the foundation of the great Persian empire by Cyrus the great. Those who wish to read the descriptions of the poet with complete interest and satisfaction should peruse the 38th, 39th, 40th, and 41st chapters (Vol. V.), of Mr.
Grote’s
great work, and, if possible, also, the 7th and 8th books of Herodotus.
On the poetical merit of the Persians, as a work of art, a great authority, Schlegel, has pronounced that it is “undoubtedly the most imperfect of all the extant tragedies of this poet;” but, unless the historical theme be the stumbling-block, I really cannot see on what ground this judgment proceeds. As for the descriptive parts, the battle of Salamis, and the retreat of the routed monarch, are pictured with a vividness and a power to which nothing in this massive and manly author is superior; the interest to the reader being increased tenfold by the fact, that he is here dealing with a real event of the most important character, and recited by one of the best qualified of eye-witnesses. The moral of the piece, as already stated, is, in every respect, what in a great drama or epos could be desired; and, with respect to the lyrics, the Anapæstic march, and the choral chaunt in Ionic measure, with which it opens, has about it a breadth, a magnificence, and a solemnity surpassed only in the choral hymns of the Agamemnon. Not less effective, to an ancient audience, I am sure, must have been the grand antiphonal chaunt with which (as in The Seven against Thebes) the variously repeated wail of this tragedy is brought to a climax; and if the Bishop of London, and some other scholars, have thought this sad exhibition of national lamentation ridiculous, we ought to believe that these critics have forgot the difference between a modern reader and an ancient spectator, rather than that so great a master as Æschylus did not know how to distinguish between a tragedy and a farce
In common with other historical poems, the Persians of Æschylus is not altogether free from the fault of bringing our imaginative faculty into collision with our understanding, by a partial suppression or exaggeration of historical truth. In the way of suppression, the most noticable thing is, that the slave of Themistocles, who is described as having, by a false report to Xerxes, brought on the battle of Salamis, appears, according to the poet, to have cheated the Persians only; whereas, according to the real story, he cheated his countrymen also, and forced them to fight in that place against the will of the non-Athenian members of the confederation. In the way of exaggeration, again,
Grote,
in an able note,
has shown what appear to me valid reasons for disbelieving the fact of the freezing of the Strymon, and its sudden thaw, described so piteously by our poet; while the very nature of the case plainly shows that the whole circumstances of the retreat, coming to us through Greek reporters, were very liable to exaggeration. This, however, in a poetical description, is a small matter What appears to me much worse, and, indeed, the weakest point in the structure of the whole drama, is that the contrast between the character and conduct of Darius and that of his son is drawn in colours much too strong; the fact being that the son, in following the advice of Mardonius to attack Athens, was only carrying into execution the design of the father, and making use of his preparations.
All that I have to say in defence of this misrepresentation is, that the poet wrote with a glowing patriotic heat what we now contemplate with a cold historical criticism. The greatest works of the greatest masters can, as human nature is constituted, seldom be altogether free from inconsistencies of this kind
I have only further to add, that I have carefully read what
Welcker
and
Gruppe
have written on the supposed ideal connection between the four pieces of the tetralogy, among which the Persians stands second, in the extant Greek argument;
but that, while I admire exceedingly the learning and ingenuity of these writers, I doubt much the utility of attempting to restore the palaces of ancient art out of those few loose bricks which Time has spared us from the once compact mass Poetry may be benefited by such speculations; Philology, I rather fear, has been injured.
Chorus,
entering the Orchestra in procession. March time.
Chorus
- We are the Persian watchmen old,
- The guardians true of the palace of gold,
- Left to defend the Asian land,
- When the army marched to Hellas’ strand;
- Elders chosen by Xerxes the king,
- The son of Darius, to hold the reins,
- Till he the conquering host shall bring
- Back to Susa’s sunny plains.
- But the spirit within me is troubled and tossed,
- When I think of the King and the Persian host;
- And my soul, dark-stirred with the prophet’s mood,
- Bodes nothing good
- For the strength of the Asian land went forth,
- And my heart cries out for the young king’s worth
-
That marshalled them on to the war.
- Nor herald, nor horseman, nor wandering fame,
- Since then to the towers of the Persian came.
- From Susa and from Ecbatana far,
-
And from the Cissian fortress old,
- Strong in the ordered ranks of war
- Forth they went, the warriors bold;
- Horseman and footman and seaman went,
- A vast and various armament.
- Amistres, Artaphrenes, led the van,
- Megabátes, Astaspes, obeyed the ban;
- Persian leaders, kings from afar
- Followed the great King’s call to the war.
-
Forth they went with arrow and bow,
- And in clattering turms with chivalrous show;
- To the eye of the dastard a terrible sight,
- And with constancy mailed for the fight.
- Artembáres in steeds delighting,
- Imaeus the foe with the sure arrow smiting,
- Pharandáces, Masistres, Sosthánes in war
- Who lashes the steed, and drives the car.
- The mighty and many-nurturing Nile
- Sent forth many a swarthy file;
- Susiscánes and Egypt’s son
- Pegastágon lead them on.
- Arsámes the mighty, whose word commands
- The strength of the sacred Memphian bands,
- And Ariomardus brave, whose sway
-
The sons of Ogygian
Thebes obey.
- And the countless host with sturdy oar
-
That plough the lagoons of the slimy shore.
- And the Lydians march in luxurious pride,
- And the tribes of the continent far and wide
- Whom Arcteus and valiant Metragathes lead,
- Kings that serve the great King’s need,
- And the men who fight from the sharp-scythed car,
-
Whom golden Sardes
sends to the war;
- Some with two yoke, some with three,
- A terrible sight to see.
-
And the sons of sacred Tmolus appear
- On free-necked Hellas to lay the yoke,
- Mardon and Tharybis, stiff to the spear
- As the anvil is stiff to the hammer’s stroke.
- And the men of Mysia skilful to throw
-
The well-poised dart,
and they who ride
- On wide Ocean’s swelling tide,
- A mingled people with motley show
- From golden Babylon, men who know
- To point the arrow and bend the bow.
-
The Asian tribes that wear the sword
- From far and near
- The summons hear,
- And follow the hest of their mighty Lord.
- All the flower of the Persian youth hath gone,
- And the land that nursed them is left alone
- To pine with love’s delay;
- And wives and mothers from day to day,
- Fearing what birth
- The time shall bring forth,
- Fret the long-drawn hours away.
-
CHORAL HYMN.
STROPHE I.
- Proudly the kingly host,
- City-destroying, crossed
- Hence to the neighbouring
- Contrary coast;
- Paving the sea with planks,
- Marched he his serried ranks
-
Hellè’s swift-rushing stream,
- Binding with cord and chain,
- Forging a yoke
- For the neck of the main.
-
ANTISTROPHE I.
- King of a countless host,
- Asia’s warlike boast,
-
Shepherd of many sheep,
- Conquering crossed.
- Trusting to men of might,
- Footman and harnessed knight;
- Son of a golden race,
- Strong both by land and sea,
- Equal to gods,
- Though a mortal was he.
-
STROPHE II.
- His eyes like the dragon’s dire
-
Flashing with dark blue fire,
- See him appear!
- Through the long lines of war
-
Driving the Syrian car,
- Ares in arrows strong
- Leading against the strong
- Men of the spear!
-
ANTISTROPHE II.
- When wave upon wave of men
- Breaks through each Grecian glen,
- Whelming the land,
- War like wild Ocean’s tide,
- What arm shall turn aside?
- Persia’s stout-hearted race,
- Hand to hand, face to face,
- Who shall withstand?
-
MESODE.
-
But, when the gods deceive,
- Wiles which immortals weave
- Who shall beware?
- Who, when their nets surround,
- Breaks with a nimble bound
- Out of the snare?
- First they approach with smiles
- Wreathing their hidden wiles:
- Then with surprise,
- Seize they their prey; and lo!
- Writhing in toils of woe
- Tangled he lies.
-
STROPHE III.
- Fate hath decreed it so,
- Peace, peace, is not for thee!
- Persia, hear and know,
- War is the lot for thee!
- Spake the supernal powers,
- Charging of steeds shall be,
- Taking of towns and towers,
- Persia, to thee!
-
ANTISTROPHE III.
- Where the sea, hoar with wrath,
- Roars to the roaring blast,
- Daring a doubtful path,
- Persian hosts have passed;
- Where wave on wave cresting on
- Bristles with angry breath,
- Cable and plank alone
- Part them from death!
-
STROPHE IV
- Therefore is my soul within me
- Murky-mantled, pricked with fear:
- Alas! the Persian army! Never
- May such cry invade my ear!
- Susa, emptied of her children,
- Desolate and drear!
-
ANTISTROPHE IV.
- Never may the Cissian fortress
- With such echo split the air;
- Spare mine ears the shrieks of women,
- And mine eyes the sad sight spare,
- When fair hands the costly linen
- From gentle bosoms tear!
-
STROPHE V.
- For all our horse with frequent tramp,
- And our footmen from the camp,
- Even as bees on busy wing,
- Swarmed out with the king:
- And they paved their briny way,
- Where beats the many-mingling spray
- The bridge that joins the Thracian strand
-
To Asian land.
-
ANTISTROPHE V.
- Wives bedew with many a tear
- The couches where the partner dear
- Hath been, and is not; Persian wives
- Fret with desire their lives.
- Far, far, he roams from land to land,
- Her restless lord with lance in hand;
- She in unmated grief to moan
- Is left alone.
- But come, ye Persian elders all,
- Let us seat us beside this ancient hall;
- Wise counsel to-day let us honestly frame,
- Touching the fate of the kingly one,
- Race of our race, and name of our name,
- Darius’ godlike son:
- For much it concerns us to know
- Whether the winged shaft shot from the bow,
- Or the strength of the pointed spear hath won.
- But lo! where she comes, a moving light,
- Like the eyes of the god so bright,
- The mother of Xerxes, my queen.
-
Let us fall down before her with humble prostration,
- And greet her to-day with a fair salutation,
- The mother of Xerxes, my queen.
-
[
To
Atossa,
entering.
]
Mistress of the low-zoned women, queen of Persia’s daughters, hail!
- Aged mother of King Xerxes, wife of great Darius, hail!
- Spouse of him who was a god, and of a present god the mother,
- If the ancient bliss that crowned it hath not left the Persian host.
Enter
Atossa,
drawn with royal pomp in a chariot.
Atossa.
- Even this hath moved me, leaving these proud golden-garnished halls,
- And the common sleeping chamber of Darius and myself,
- Here to come. Sharp fear within me pricks my heart; I will declare
- All the thoughts that deep perplex me to my friends; the secret fear
- Lest our pride of ramping riches kick our sober weal in the dust,
- Scattering wide what wealth Darius gathered, not without a god.
- Twofold apprehension moves me, when I ponder this old truth;
- Without men much riches profit little; without wealth the state,
- Though in numbers much abounding, may not look on joyous light.
- Riches are a thing not evil; but I tremble for the eye,
-
And the eye I call the presence of the master in the house.
- Ye have heard my sorrows; make me sharer of your counsel now,
- In what matter I shall tell you, ancient, trusty Persian men;
- For with you my whole of wisdom, all my healthy counsels dwell.
Chorus.
- Mistress of this land, believe it, never shalt thou ask a kindness,
- Be it word from us or action, twice, while power shall aid the will;
- We are willing to advise thee in this matter, what we may.
Atossa.
- Since when my son departed with the army,
-
To bring destruction on Ionia,
scarcely
- One night hath been that did not bring me dreams;
- But yesternight, with figurement most clear,
- I dreamt; hear thou the theme. Methought I saw
- Two women richly dight, in Persian robes
- The one, the other in a Dorian dress,
- Both tall above the vulgar stature, both
- Of beauty blameless, and descended both
- From the same race. The one on Hellas dwelt,
- The other on fair Asia’s continent.
- Between these twain some strife there seemed to rise;
- Which when my son beheld, forthwith he seized them,
- And joined them to his car, and made their necks
- Submissive to the yoke. The one uptowered
- In pride of harness, as rejoiced to follow
- The kingly rein. The other kicked and plunged,
- And tossed the gear away, and broke the traces,
- The yoke in sunder snapt, and from the car
- Ran reinless. On the ground my son was thrown,
- And to his aid Darius pitying came,
- Whom when he saw, my Xerxes rent his robes.
- Such was my vision of the night; the morn
- Brought a new portent with it. When I rose,
-
And dipped my hands in the fair-flowing fount,
- And to the altar of the averting gods,
- To whom such right pertains, with sacred cake
- In sacrificial ministry advanced,
-
I saw an eagle flying to the altar
- Of Phœbus; there all mute with fear I stood;
- And after it in swiftest flight I saw
- A hawk that darted on the eagle’s head,
- And tore it with his claws, the royal bird
- Yielding his glory meekly to be plucked.
- These things I saw in fear, as ye in fear
- Must hear them. Ye know well, my son commands
- Supreme in Persia. Should success attend him,
- ’Tis well; but should mischance o’ertake him, he
- Will rule in Susa as he ruled before;
- No power is here to whom he owes account.
Chorus.
- We advise thee, mother, neither with the feeble words of fear,
- Nor with boastful courage. Turn thee to the gods in supplication:
- Theirs it is to ward fulfilment of all evil-omened sights,
- Bringing good to full fruition for thyself and for thy children,
- For the city and all that love thee. Then a pure libation pour
- To the Earth and to the Manes; with especial honor pray
- The dread Shade of thy Darius whom thou sawest in the night,
- To send blessings on thy Xerxes in the gladness of the day,
- Keeping back unblissful sorrows in the sightless gloom of death.
-
Thus my soul its own diviner
with a friendly kind concern
- Counsels. Doubtless time will perfect happy fates for thee and thine.
Atossa.
- Truly, with a friendly reading thou hast read my midnight dreams,
- Words of strengthening solace speaking to my son and to my house.
- May the gods all blessing perfect. I to them, as thou hast said,
- And the Shades, the well-beloved, will perform befitting rites,
- In the palace; meanwhile tell me this, for I would gladly know
-
Where, O friends, is famous Athens on the broad face of the Earth?
Chorus.
Far in the west: beside the setting of the lord of light the sun.
Atossa.
This same Athens, my son Xerxes longed with much desire to take.
Chorus.
Wisely: for all Greece submissive, when this city falls, will fall.
Atossa.
Are they many? do they number men enough to meet my son?
Chorus.
What they number was sufficient once to work the Medes much harm.
Atossa.
Other strength than numbers have they? wealth enough within themselves?
Chorus.
They can boast a fount of silver, native treasure to the land.
Atossa.
Are they bowmen good? sure-feathered do their pointed arrows fly?
Chorus.
Not so. Stable spears they carry, massy armature of shields.
Atossa.
Who is shepherd of this people? lord of the Athenian host?
Chorus.
Slaves are they to no man living, subject to no earthly name.
Atossa.
How can such repel the onset of a strong united host?
Chorus.
How
Darius knew in Hellas, when he lost vast armies there.
Atossa.
Things of deep concern thou speakest to all mothers in this land.
Chorus.
- Thou shalt know anon exactly more than I can guess, for lo!
- Here comes one—a hasty runner—he should be a Persian man
- News, I wis, this herald bringeth of deep import, good or bad.
Enter
Messenger.
Mess.
- O towns and cities of wide Asia,
- O Persian land, wide harbour of much wealth,
- How hath one stroke laid all thy grandeur low,
- One frost nipt all thy bloom! Woe’s me that I
- Should be first bearer of bad news! but strong
- Necessity commands to speak the truth.
- Persians, the whole barbaric host hath perished.
STROPHE I.
Chorus.
- O misery! misery, dark and deep!
- Dole and sorrow and woe!
- Weep, ye Persians! wail and weep,
- For wounds that freshly flow!
Mess.
- All, all is ruined: not a remnant left.
- Myself, against all hope, see Persia’s sun.
ANTISTROPHE I.
Chorus.
- O long, too long, through creeping years
- Hath the life of the old man lasted,
- To see—and nurse his griefs with tears—
- The hopes of Persia blasted!
Mess.
- I speak no hearsay: what these eyes beheld
- Of blackest evil, Persians, I declare.
STROPHE II.
Chorus.
- Ah me! all in vain against Hellas divine
- Were the twanging bow and whizzing reed,
- All vainly mustered the thickly clustered
- Armies of the Mede!
Mess.
- The shores of Salamis, and all around
- With the thick bodies of our dead are peopled.
ANTISTROPHE II.
Chorus.
- Alas! the wreck of the countless host!
-
The sundered planks, and the drifted dead,
- Rocked to and fro, with the ebb and the flow
- On a wavy-wandering bed!
Mess.
- Vain were our shafts; our mighty multitude
- Vanished before their brazen-beaked attack.
STROPHE III.
Chorus.
- Sing ye, sing ye a sorrowful song,
- Lift ye, lift ye a piercing cry!
- Our harnessed throng and armies strong
- Lost and ruined utterly!
Mess.
- O hated name to hear, sad Salamis!
- O Athens, I remember thee with groans.
ANTISTROPHE III.
Chorus.
- O Athens, Athens, thou hast reft us
- Of our all we did possess!
- Sonless mothers thou hast left us,
- Weeping wives and husbandless!
Atossa.
- Thou see’st I have kept silence. this sad stroke
- Hath struck me dumb, as powerless to give voice
- To my own sorrows, as to ask another’s.
- Yet when the gods send trouble, mortal men
- Must learn to bear it. Therefore be thou calm;
- Unfold the perfect volume of our woes,
- And, though the memory grieve thee, let us hear
- Thy tale to the end, what loss demands our tears,
-
Which of the baton-bearing chiefs
hath left
- An army to march home without a head.
Mess.
Xerxes yet lives, and looks on the light.
Atossa.
- Much light
- In this to me, and to my house thou speakest,
- A shining day from out a pitchy night.
Mess.
- Artembares, captain of ten thousand horse,
-
Upon the rough Silenian shores
lies dead,
- And Dadaces, the chiliarch, spear-struck fell
- Precipitate from his ship—an easy leap;
- And noble Tenagon, a pure Bactrian born,
- Around the sea-lashed isle of Ajax floats.
- Lilaeus, Arsames, Argestes, these
- The waves have made their battering ram, to beat
- The hard rocks of the turtle-nurturing isle.
- Pharnuchus, Pheresseues, and Adeues,
- And Arcteus from their native Nile-spring far
- Fell from one ship into one grave. Matallus,
- The Chrysian myriontarch, who led to Hellas
- Full thrice ten thousand sable cavalry,
- His thick and bushy beard’s long tawny pride
- Hath dyed in purple gore. The Magian Arabus
- The Bactrian Artames on the self-same shore
-
Have found no cushioned lodgment.
There Amestris,
- And there Amphistreus, wielder of the spear,
- And there Metragathes lies, for whom the Sardians
- Weep well-earned tears; and Sersames, the Mysian.
- With them, of five times fifty ships commander,
- Lyrnaean Tharybis, a goodly man,
- Lies hopeless stretched on the unfriendly strand.
- Syennesis, the brave Cilician chief
- Who singly wrought more trouble to the foe
- Than thousands, died with a brave man’s report.
- These names I tell thee of the chiefs that fell,
- A few selecting out of many losses.
Atossa.
- Alas! alas! more than enough I hear;
- Shame to the Persians and shrill wails. But say,
- Retracing thy discourse, what was the number
- Of the Greek ships that dared with Persia’s fleet
- To engage, and grapple beak to beak.
Mess.
- If number
- Of ships might gain the fight, believe me, queen,
- The victory had been ours. The Greeks could tell
- But ten times thirty ships, with other ten,
- Of most select equipment. Xerxes numbered
- A thousand ships, two hundred sail and seven
- Of rapid wing beside. Of this be assured,
- What might of man could do was done to save us,
- Some god hath ruined us, not weighing justly
-
An equal measure. Pallas saves her city.
Atossa.
The city? is it safe? does Athens stand?
Mess.
It stands without the fence of walls. Men wall it
Atossa.
- But say, who first commenced the fight—the Greeks
- Or, in his numbers strong, my kingly son.
Mess.
-
Some evil god, or an avenging spirit,
- Began the fray. From the Athenian fleet
-
There came a Greek,
and thus thy son bespoke.
- “Soon as the gloom of night shall fall, the Greeks
- No more will wait, but, rushing to their oars,
- Each man will seek his safety where he may,
- By secret flight.” This Xerxes heard, but knew not
- The guile of Greece, nor yet the jealous gods,
- And to his captains straightway gave command
- That, when the sun withdrew his burning beams,
-
And darkness filled the temple of the sky,
- In triple lines their ships they should dispose,
- Each wave-plashed outlet guarding, fencing round
- The isle of Ajax surely. Should the Greeks
- Deceive this guard, or with their ships escape
- In secret flight, each captain with his head
- Should pay for his remissness. These commands
- With lofty heart, thy son gave forth, nor thought
- What harm the gods were weaving. They obeyed.
- Each man prepared his supper, and the sailors
- Bound the lithe oar to its familiar block.
- Then, when the sun his shining glory paled,
- And night swooped down, each master of the oar,
- Each marshaller of arms, embarked; and then
- Line called on line to take its ordered place.
- All night they cruised, and, with a moving belt,
- Prisoned the frith, till day ’gan peep, and still
- No stealthy Greek the expected flight essayed.
- But when at length the snowy-steeded Day
- Burst o’er the main, all beautiful to see,
- First from the Greeks a tuneful shout uprose,
- Well-omened, and, with replication loud,
- Leapt the blithe echo from the rocky shore.
- Fear seized the Persian host, no longer tricked
- By vain opinion; not like wavering flight
- Billowed the solemn pæan of the Greeks,
- But like the shout of men to battle urging,
- With lusty cheer. Then the fierce trumpet’s voice
-
Blazed
o’er the main; and on the salt sea flood
- Forthwith the oars, with measured plash, descended,
- And all their lines, with dexterous speed displayed,
- Stood with opposing front. The right wing first,
- Then the whole fleet bore down, and straight uprose
-
A mighty shout. “
Sons of the Greeks, advance
!
-
Your country free, your children free, your wives
!
-
The altars of your native gods deliver,
-
And your ancestral tombs—all’s now at stake
!”
- A like salute from our whole line back-rolled
- In Persian speech. Nor more delay, but straight
- Trireme on trireme, brazen beak on beak
-
Dashed furious. A Greek ship led on the attack,
- And from the prow of a Phœnician struck
- The figure-head; and now the grapple closed
- Of each ship with his adverse desperate.
- At first the main line of the Persian fleet
- Stood the harsh shock; but soon their multitude
- Became their ruin; in the narrow frith
- They might not use their strength, and, jammed together,
- Their ships with brazen beaks did bite each other,
- And shattered their own oars. Meanwhile the Greeks
- Stroke after stroke dealt dexterous all around,
- Till our ships showed their keels, and the blue sea
- Was seen no more, with multitude of ships
- And corpses covered. All the shores were strewn,
- And the rough rocks, with dead, till, in the end,
- Each ship in the barbaric host, that yet
- Had oars, in most disordered flight rowed off.
- As men that fish for tunnies, so the Greeks,
- With broken booms, and fragments of the wreck,
- Struck our snared men, and hacked them, that the sea,
- With wail and moaning, was possessed around,
-
Till black-eyed Night shot darkness o’er the fray.
- These ills thou hearest: to rehearse the whole,
- Ten days were few; but this my queen, believe,
- No day yet shone on Earth whose brightness looked
- On such a tale of death.
Atossa.
- A sea of woes
- On Persia bursts, and all the Persian name!
Mess.
- Thou hast not heard the half: another woe
- Remains, that twice outweighs what I have told
Atossa
- What worse than this? Say what mischance so strong
- To hurt us more, being already ruined?
Mess
- The bloom of all the Persian youth, in spirit
- The bravest, and in birth the noblest, princes
- In whom thy son placed his especial trust,
- All by a most inglorious doom have perished.
Atossa.
- O wretched me, that I should live to hear it!
- But by what death did Persia’s princes die?
Mess
- There is an islet, fronting Salamis,
-
To ships unfriendly, of dance-loving Pan
- The chosen haunt, and near the Attic coast.
- Here Xerxes placed his chiefest men, that when
- The routed Greeks should seek this strand, our troops
- Might both aid friends, where friends their aid required,
- And kill the scattered Greeks, an easy prey;
- Ill-auguring what should hap! for when the gods
-
Gave to the Greeks the glory of the day,
- Straightway well-cased in mail from their triremes
- They leapt, rushed on the isle, and hedged it round,
- That neither right nor left our men might turn,
- But fell in heaps, some struck by rattling stones,
- Some pierced by arrows from the twanging bow.
- Then, in one onslaught fiercely massed, the Greeks
- Our fenceless chiefs in slashing butchery
- Mowed down, till not one breath remained to groan.
- But Xerxes groaned: for from a height that rose
-
From the sea-shore conspicuous,
with clear view
- He mustered the black fortune of the fight.
- His stole he rent, and lifting a shrill wail
- Gave the poor remnant of his host command
- To flee, and fled with them. Lament with me,
- This second sorrow heaped upon the first.
Atossa.
- O dismal god! how has thy hate deceived
- The mind of the Mede! A bitter vengeance truly
- Hath famous Athens wreaked on my poor son,
- To all the dead that fell at Marathon
- Adding this slaughter!—O my son! my son!
- Thyself hast paid the penalty that thou
- Went to inflict on others!—But let me hear
- Where hast thou left the few ships that escaped?
Mess.
- The remnant of the fleet with full sail sped
- Swift in disordered flight from Salamis
- The wreck of the army through Bœotia trailed
- Its sickly line: there some of thirst fell dead
- Even in the water’s view; some with fatigue
- Panting toiled on through Phocian land, and Doris,
- And passed the Melian gulf, where through the plain
- Spercheius rolls his fructifying flood
- Then faint and famished the Achaean land
- Received us, and fair Thessaly’s city, there
- The most of hunger died and thirst; for with
- This double plague we struggled Next Magnesia
- And Macedonian ground we traversed, then
- The stream of Axius, reedy Bolbe’s mere,
- The Edonian fields, and the Pangaean hills.
-
But here some god
stirred winter premature,
- And in the night froze Strymon’s holy stream.
- Then men who never worshipped gods before
- Called on the heavens and on the Earth to save them,
- With many prayers, in vain. A few escaped,
- What few had crossed the ice-compacted flood
- Ere the strong god of light shot forth his rays.
- For soon the lustrous orb of day shone out
- With blazing beams, unbound the stream, and oped
- Inevitable fate beneath them: then
- Man upon man in crowded ruin fell,
- And he was happiest who the soonest died.
- We who survived, a miserable wreck,
-
Struggled through Thrace slowly with much hard toil,
- And stand again on Persian ground, and see
- Our native hearths. Much cause the city has
- To weep the loss of her selectest youth.
- These words are true: much I omit to tell
- Of all the woes a god hath smote withal
- Our Persian land.
Chorus.
- O sorely-vexing god,
- How hast thou trampled ’neath no gentle foot
- The Persian race!
Atossa.
- Woe’s me! the army’s lost
- O dreamy shapes night wandering, too clearly
- Your prophecy spoke truth! But you, good Seniors,
- Sorry expounders though ye be, in one thing
- I will obey. I will go pray the gods,
- As ye advised; then gifts I will present
- To Earth and to the Manes. I will offer,
- The sacred cake to appease them For the past,
- ’Tis past beyond all change; but hope may be
- To make the gods propitious for the future.
- Meanwhile your counsel in this need I crave;
- A faithful man is mighty in mischance
- My son, if he shall come ere I return,
- Cheer him with friendly words, and see him safe,
- Lest to this ill some worser woe be added
[
Exit.
Chorus.
- O Jove, king Jove destroyed hast thou
- Our high-vaunting countless hosts!
- Our high-vaunting countless hosts
- Where be they now?
- Susa’s glory, Ecbatana’s pride,
- In murky sorrow thou didst hide,
- And with delicate hands the virgins fair
- Their white veils tear,
- And salt streams flow from bright fountains of woe,
- And rain on the bosoms of snow.
- They whose love was fresh and young,
- Where are now their husbands strong?
- The soft delights of the nuptial bed
- With purple spread,
- Where, where be they?
- They have lost the joy of their jocund years,
- And they weep with insatiate tears:
- And I will reply with my heart’s strong cry,
- And lift the doleful lay.
-
CHORAL HYMN.
STROPHE I
- Asia from each furthest corner
- Weeps her woes, a sonless mourner,
- Xerxes a wild chase pursuing,
- Xerxes led thee to thy ruin;
- Xerxes, luckless fancies wooing,
- Trimmed vain fleets for thy undoing.
- Not like him the old Darius
- Shattered thus from Hellas came;
- Rightly he is honoured by us,
- Susa’s bowman without blame.
-
ANTISTROPHE I.
- Dark-prowed ships that plough wide ocean
- With well-poised wings through waves’ commotion,
- Ships, the countless crews that carried,
- In briny death ye saw them buried,
- Where the Ionian beaks were dashing,
- Where the Persian booms were crashing!
- And our monarch scarcely scaping,
- Left with life the deathful fray,
- Through the plains of Thracia shaping
- Sad his bleak and wintry way.
-
STROPHE II.
- But the firstlings of our losses
- The Ionian billow tosses,
- And Cychréan waves are hurried,
- O’er the stranded dead unburied.
- Let the sharp grief bite thy marrow,
- With thy wailing smite the sky!
- Freely voice thy heaving sorrow,
- With a weighty burden cry!
-
ANTISTROPHE II.
- Woe’s me! by the wild waves driven,
-
By the mute sea-monsters riven,
- The untainted ocean’s creatures
- Battening on their traceless features!
- Heirless homes are lorn and lonely,
- Childless parents weep and wail,
- Old men weep, with weeping only
- They receive the woeful tale.
-
STROPHE III.
- Ah me! even now while we are mourning
- Some rebel hearts belike are spurning
- The Persian rule; some serf refuses
- The gold due to his master’s uses.
- And some are slow with reverence low
- To kiss the ground and adore,
- For the power that long was fresh and strong
- Is found no more.
-
ANTISTROPHE III.
- The tongues of men, free from wise reining,
- Will now break forth with loud complaining;
- Unmuzzled now, unyoked, the rabble
- Will blaze abroad licentious babble.
- For the blood-drenched soil of the sea-swept isle
- Its prey restoreth never.
- And the thing that hath been henceforth shall be seen
- No more for ever.
Enter
Atossa.
Atossa.
- Good friends, whoso hath knowledge of mishap,
- Knows this, that men, when swelling ills surge o’er them,
- Brood o’er the harm till all things catch the hue
- Of apprehension; but, when Fortune’s stream
- Runs smooth, the same, with confidence elate,
- Hope the boon god will blow fair breezes ever.
- Thus to my soul all things are full of fear,
- The adverse gods from all sides strike my eye,
- And in my ear, with ominous-ringing peal,
- Fate prophesies. Such terror scares my wits.
- No royal car to-day, no queenly pomp
- Is mine, the broidered stole would ill become
- My present mission, bringing as thou see’st,
- These simple offerings to appease the Shades;
- From the chaste cow, this white and healthful milk,
- This clearest juice, by the flower-working bee
- Distilled, this pure wave from the virgin spring,
- This draught of joyaunce from the unmingled grape,
- Of a wild mother born; this fragrant fruit
-
Of the pale green olive, ever leafy-fair,
- And these wreathed flowers, of all-producing Earth
- Fair children. But, my dear lov’d friends, I pray you,
- With pious supplication, now invoke,
-
The god Darius
while on the earth I pour
- These pure libations to the honour’d dead.
Chorus.
- O queen, much-revered of the Persian nation,
- To the chambers below pour thou the libation,
- While we shall uplift the holy hymn,
- That the gods who reign in the regions dim,
- May graciously hear when we pray.
- O holy powers that darkly sway
- In the subterranean night,
- O Earth, and Hermes, and thou who art king
- Of the Shades that float on bodiless wing,
- Send, O send him back to the light!
- For, if remedy be to our burden of woes,
- He surely knows.
-
CHORAL HYMN.
STROPHE I.
- And dost thou hear me, blessed Shade, imploring
- Thy aid divine, and freely pouring
- Of plaintive grief
- The various flow?
- I will cry out, till Persia’s godlike chief
- Shall hear below.
-
ANTISTROPHE I.
- O Earth, and ye that rule the shadowy homes,
- Send from your sunless domes
- The mighty god
- Of Susan birth,
- Than whom no greater yet was pressed by the sod
- Of Persian earth.
-
STROPHE II.
- O dear-loved man! dear tomb! and dearer dust
- That in thee lies!
-
O Aidóneus, thy charge release,
- O stern Aidóneus, and, in peace,
- Let king Darius rise!
-
ANTISTROPHE II.
- He was a king no myriads vast he lost
- In wars inglorious.
- Persia, a counsellor was he,
- A counsellor of god to thee,
- He with his hosts victorious.
-
STROPHE III.
-
Come, dread lord!
Appear! Appear!
- O’er the sepulchre’s topmost tier;
-
The disc of thy regal tiara showing,
- With thy sandals saffron-glowing,
- Come, good father Darius, come!
-
ANTISTROPHE III.
- Fresh and unstaunched woes to hear,
- Lord of a mighty lord appear!
- For the clouds of Stygian night o’ercome us,
- And all our youth are perished from us,
- Come, good father Darius, come!
-
EPODE.
- O woe! and woe! and yet again
- Woe, and misery, and pain!
- Why should’st thou die, and leave the land
- Thou master of the mighty hand?
- Why should thy son with foolish venture
-
Shake thy sure Empire to its centre?
- And why must we deplore
- The countless triremes on the sea-swept shore
-
Triremes no more?
The Shade of
Darius
rises from the Tomb.
Darius.
- O faithfullest of my faithful friends, compeers
- Of my fair youth, elders of Persia, say
- With what sore labour labours now the state?
- Pierced is the Earth, and rent with sounds of woe!
- And I my spouse beholding near the tomb
- Am troubled, and her offerings I receive
- Propitious. Ye with her this cry have raised
- Of shrill lament to bring the dead from Hades,
- No easy climb; the gods beneath the ground
-
Are readier to receive than to dismiss;
- But I was lord above them. I am come
- To meet your questioning. Ask, while yet the time
- Chides not my stay. What ill weighs Persia down?
STROPHE
Chorus.
- I cannot speak before thee;
- I tremble to behold thee;
- The ancient awe subdues me.
Darius.
- Not to hold a long discourse, but swift to grant a short reply,
- I have left the homes of Hades, by your wailings deeply moved.
- What thou hast to ask me, therefore ask, and throw all fear aside.
ANTISTROPHE.
Chorus.
- I tremble to obey thee.
- Such sorrows to unfold thee,
- My powerless lips refuse me.
Darius.
- Since the ancient reverence holds thee, and enchains thy mind, to thee
- I will speak, the aged partner of my bed, my high-born spouse.
- Cease thy weepings and thy wailings; tell me what mischance hath hapt
- ’Tis most human that mischances come to mortal man, not few
- Woes by seas, not few by land, if the Fates prolong his span.
Atossa.
- O all men in bliss surpassing while thine eyes beheld the day,
- Of all Persians envied, living like a god on earth, no less
- Happy wert thou in thy dying, ere thou didst behold the depth
- Of this present woe, Darius. Thou, in short phrase shalt hear all.
- Persia’s strength is gone: the army lost: all ruined. I have said.
Darius.
How? Did pestilence smite the city, or did foul sedition rise?
Atossa.
Neither. Near far Athens routed was the Persian host.
Darius.
- Who marched?
- Which of my children marched the host to Athens?
Atossa.
- Thy impetuous son
- Xerxes. Xerxes of her children drained wide Asia’s plains.
Darius.
- On foot,
- Or with triremes did he risk this foolish venture?
Atossa.
- With two fronts,
- One by sea, by land the other.
Darius.
But so vast an army how?
Atossa.
With rare bonds of wood and iron, Helle’s streaming frith they crossed.
Darius.
Wood and iron! Could these fetter billowy Bosphorus in his flow?
Atossa.
So it was. Some god had lent him wit to plan his own perdition.
Darius.
Alas! a mighty god full surely robbed him of his sober mind.
Atossa.
And the fruit of his great folly we behold in matchless woes
Darius.
I have heard your wailings: tell me more exact the dismal chance
Atossa.
First the whole sea host being ruined brought like ruin on the foot
Darius.
By the hostile spear of Hellas they have perished one and all?
Atossa.
Ay. The citadel of Susa, emptied of her children, moans.
Darius.
Alas! the faithful army!
Atossa.
All the flower of Bactria’s youth are slain.
Darius.
Woe, my hapless son! What myriads of our faithful friends he ruined!
Atossa.
Xerxes, stripped of all his glory, with a straggling few they say—
Darius.
What of him? Speak! Speak! I pray thee; is there safety, is there hope?
Atossa.
Fainly comes, with life scarce rescued, to the bridge that links the lands.
Darius.
And has crossed to Asia?
Atossa.
Even so, most surely, ran the news.
Darius.
- Ah! on wings how swift the issue of the ancient doom hath sped!
- Thee, my son, great Jove hath smitten. Long-drawn years I hoped would roll,
- Ere fulfilment of the dread prophetic burden should be known.
-
But when man to run is eager, swift is the god to add a spur.
- Opened flows a fount of sorrow to ourselves and to our friends.
- This my son knew not: he acted with green youth’s presumptuous daring,
- Weening Helle’s sacred current, Bosphorus’ flood divine to bind
- Like a slave with hammered fetters, damming its unconquered tide,
- Forcing passage against Nature for a host unwisely great.
- Being mortal with immortals, with Poseidon’s power he dared
- To contend fool-hardy. Did not strong distemper hold the soul
- Of my hapless son? The riches stored by me with mickle care
- Now, I fear, will be the booty of the swiftest-seizing hand.
Atossa.
-
Converse with the sons of folly taught thy eager son to err,
- Thou wert great they said, and mighty, winning riches with thy spear,
- He, unmanly, chamber-fighting, adding nothing to thy store.
- With these taunts the ears assailing of thy warlike son, bad men
- Planned at length the march to Hellas—planned his ruin and our woe
Darius.
- And, doing this, my son hath done a deed
- Whose heavy memory shall not die. For never
- Fell such mischance on Susa’s halls, since when
- Jove gave his honor that one sceptre sways
- Sheep-pasturing Asia. First the Mede was King
-
Of the vast host of people.
Him his son
- Succeeded, ending well things well begun;
- For wisdom still was rudder to his valour.
- Cyrus, the third from him, a prosperous man,
- Brought peace to all his friends. The Lydian people,
- The Phrygians, the Ionians, he subdued:
- With him no god was wroth; for he was wise.
- The fourth was Cyrus’ son: he was a leader
- Of mighty hosts. Him, the fifth, Mardus followed,
- A blot to Persia, and the ancestral throne;
- Whom in the palace slew Artaphrenes,
- Sworn, with a chosen band of faithful friends,
- To give him secret riddance. Maraphis next,
- And seventh Artaphrenes: myself
- Then won the lot I coveted. I marched
- My hosts to many wars, but never brought
- Mishap like this on Susa. My son, Xerxes,
- Being young hath young conceits; and takes no note
- Of my advisement. Ye, who were my friends,
- And fellows in the government, can witness,
- We suffered loss, but we preserved the state.
Chorus.
- Liege lord Darius, to what issue tend
- Thy words? With greedy ears we wait to hear
- How Persia henceforth may her strength repair.
Darius.
- Learn from your loss, and never march your armies
- Again to Hellas, were they twice as strong.
- Not man alone, the land fights for the foe.
Chorus.
How mean’st thou this? how fights the land for them?
Darius.
- Our mighty multitudes their barren coast
- Kills by sheer famine.
Chorus.
But with a moderate host?
Darius.
- A moderate host remains, but, of that few,
- Few shall see Persian land.
Chorus.
- How? Shall the army
- Not all from Europe cross by Helle’s frith?
Darius.
- Few out of many, if the prophecies,
- That are in part fulfilled by what we see,
- (And the gods lie not) speak the future true.
- It is an empty hope that bids him leave
- A select force behind him: they remain,
- Where with fat streams Asopus feeds the plain,
- Themselves to feed it fatter: in Bœotia
- Much woe awaits them justly, the fair price
- Of their own godless pride, that did not fear
- When first they entered Greece, to rob the altars
- Of the eternal gods, to fire their temples,
- Uproot the old foundations of their shrines,
- And from their basements in commingled wreck
- Dash down the images. Much harm they worked,
- And much shall suffer. From no shallow bed
- Their woes shall flow, but like a spring gush forth,
- Still fresh enforced. With such gore-streaming death
- The Dorian spear shall daub Plataea’s soil;
- And the piled dead to generations three
- Speak this mute wisdom to the thoughtful eye—
-
Proud thoughts were never made for mortal man;
-
A haughty spirit
blossoming bears a crop
- Of woe, and reaps a harvest of despair.
- Look on these things, pride’s just avengement; think
- On Athens and on Hellas; fear to slight
- The present bounty of the gods, lest they
- Rob you of much, while greed still gapes for more.
- Jove is chastiser of high-vaunting thoughts,
- And heavily falls his judgment on the proud;
- Therefore, my foolish son, when he shall come,
- With friendly warnings teach, that he may cease
- From rash imaginings that offend the gods.
- And thou, his aged mother, go within,
- And bring a seemly robe with thee, to meet
- Thy son withal: for thou shalt see him soon,
- His broidered vestments torn in many a shred,
- Grief’s blazonry. Thou only with kind words
- Canst soothe his sorrow, deaf to all beside.
- But now I go hence to the gloom below.
- Ye aged friends, farewell. Though ills surround,
- Yet give your souls to joyaunce, while ye may,
- For riches profit nothing to the dead.
[
The Shade of
Darius
descends.
Chorus.
- O many woes, both present and to come,
- On the barbaric race I weep to hear!
Atossa.
- O god, how many sorrows hast thou sent
- To weigh me down: but this doth gnaw my heart,
- That I should live to see my kingly son
- Come in grief’s tattered weeds to Susa’s halls;
- But I will go and bring a seemly robe
- To meet him, if I may. I will not leave
- My dear-loved son unsolaced in his woe.
[
Exit into the palace.
-
CHORAL HYMN.
STROPHE I.
- O glorious and great was the Persian land!
- To the cities of Susa that owned his command
- How blest was the day!
- Defeat came not nigh us when good old Darius
- With invincible, godlike, victorious hand
- Held fortunate sway.
-
ANTISTROPHE I.
- Sure-fenced were his cities with law, and no fear
- The Persian knew when his armies were near;
- They came from the fight,
- Not weary and worn, and of glory shorn,
- But trophied with spoils, and with costliest gear
- All proudly bedight.
-
STROPHE II.
- What cities of splendour
- To him did surrender,
- Though he crossed not the border that Halys prescribes
- To the Median tribes!
- From Susa far
- Thrace feared his war,
- And the islanded cities of Strymon the river
- Cowered at the clang of his sounding quiver.
-
ANTISTROPHE II.
- And cities of power,
- Girt with wall and with tower,
- Far inland away from the frith and the bay,
- Rejoiced in his sway,
- The proud roofs that gleam
- O’er Helle’s broad stream,
- That fringe Propontis’ bosomed shores,
- And where the mouth of hoarse Pontus roars.
-
STROPHE III.
- And the sea-swept isles that like sentinels stand
- Breasting the ports of the Asian land,
- Lesbos and Chios, with bright wine glowing,
- And Samos, where groves of green olive are growing
- Myconos, Paros, and Naxos together,
- Studding the main like brother with brother,
- And Andros that neighbourly lies in the sea,
- Tenos to thee
-
ANTISTROPHE III.
- And Lemnos that looks with a doubtful face
- Half to Asia, half to Thrace,
- And where Daedalean Icarus fell,
- And Rhodes and Cnidos of him can tell,
- And the cities of Cyprus great and small,
- Paphos and Soli obeyed his call,
- And the mother whose name the daughter borrows,
-
That caused our sorrows.
-
EPODE.
- And the towns of the Greeks, well peopled and wealthy,
- He swayed with counsels wise and healthy;
- And the mustered strength of the East stood by us,
- A harnessed array,
- Many-mingled were they,
- Made one at the call of the mighty Darius.
- But now the tide hath turned indeed,
- The gods have worked our woe,
- By the spear, and the glaive,
- And the fierce-lashing wave
- Low lies the might of the Mede!
Enter
Xerxes.
Xerxes.
- Ah wretched me! even so, even so;
- Suddenly, suddenly came the blow,
- And strong was the rod of the merciless god
- That struck the Persian low!
- Ah me! Ah me!
- My knees beneath me shake, to see
- These seniors reverend and grey,
- Gathered to meet me on such a day.
- O would that I had been fated to die
- With the brave where destiny found them,
- When they stained with gore the stranger’s shore,
- And the darkness of death came round them!
Chorus
- O king of the goodly army, for thee
- We weep, and the princes that went with thee,
- Of Persian nobles the glory and crown,
- Whom a god with his scythe mowed down!
- For the halls of Hades, dark and wide,
- Xerxes hath plenished with Persia’s pride,
- And the land laments her sons.
- Hundreds have trodden the path of gloom,
- Thousands of Asia’s choicest bloom;
- Tens of thousands, that wielded the bow,
- Are gone to the chambers of death below
- Ah me! ah me! these strong-limbed men,
- Where be they now that were lusty then?
- All Asia mourns, O King, with thee,
- And bends the feeble knee.
Here commences, with mournful Oriental music, and with violent gesticulations, a great National Wail over the misfortunes of the Persian people.
STROPHE I.
Xerxes.
- I am the man! I am the man!
- The father of shame! the fount of disgrace!
- Weep me! weep me! once a king,
- Now to my country an evil thing,
- A curse to my race!
Chorus
- To meet thy returning,
- A voice of deep mourning,
- A tune evil-aboding,
- A cry spirit-goading,
-
Of a Maryandine wailer,
- Thou shalt hear, thou shalt hear,
- O King, with many a tear!
ANTISTROPHE I.
Xerxes.
- Lift ye, lift ye, the piercing cry!
- Tune ye, tune ye, the doleful lay!
- For the ancient god of the Persian race,
- That bless’d our fathers, hath turned his face
- From Xerxes away!
Chorus.
- A cry spirit-piercing,
- The dark tale rehearsing,
- Of ocean red-heaving,
- The slaughtered receiving,
- The cry of a city that wails for her children
- Thou shalt hear, thou shalt hear,
- O King, with many a tear!
STROPHE II.
Xerxes.
- Ares was strong on the side of the foe,
- The Ionian foe!
- Bristling with ships he worked our woe.
- His scythe did mow,
- The sea, the land,
- And laid us low
- On the dismal strand.
Leader of Chorus.
- Lift, O lift, the earnest cry!
- Ask, and he will make reply.
Chorus.
- Where is all thy troop of friends,
- That marched with thee away, away?
- Where is the might of Pharandaces,
- Susas and Pelagon, where be they?
- Where is Datamas, where Agdabatus,
- Psammis, and Susiscánes, say?
- All that marched from Ecbatana’s halls,
- Where be they? where be they?
ANTISTROPHE II.
Xerxes.
- From a Tyrian ship they leapt on shore,
- To leap no more.
- On the shore of Salamis drenched in gore,
- The stony shore,
- They made their bed,
- To rise no more,
- The dead! the dead!
Leader of Chorus.
- Lift, O lift the earnest cry,
- Ask, and he will make reply!
Chorus.
- Ah! say, where is Pharnúchus, where?
- Cariomardus, where is he?
- Where the chief Seualces, where
- Aelæus of noble degree?
- Memphis, Tharybis, and Masistris,
- Hystæchmas, and Artembares, say?
- All the brave that journeyed to Hellas,
- Where be they? where be they?
STROPHE III.
Xerxes.
- Ah me! ah me!
-
They looked on Ogygian Athens,
and straight
- With one fell swoop down came the Fate,
- And we left them there with gasp and groan,
- On the shore of the stranger strewn.
Chorus.
- Didst thou leave him there to lie,
-
Batanóchus’ son, thy faithful eye?
- Him didst thou leave on Salamis’ shores
- Who counted thy thousands by tens and by scores?
- The strong Oebáres and Parthus, were they
- Left to be lashed by the hostile spray?
- The Persian princes—woe! woe! woe!
- Hast thou left to the flood and the foe?
ANTISTROPHE III.
Xerxes.
- Ah me! ah me!
- Balefully, balefully with sharp sorrow,
- Thou dost pierce my inmost marrow;
- My heart, my heart cries out to hear thee
- Name the lost friends I loved so dearly!
Chorus.
- One other name compels my grief,
- Xanthus, of Mardian men the chief;
- Ancháres the warlike, and lords of the steed
- Diaexis, Arsáces that ride with speed?
- Lythimnas, Kygdabatas, where be they,
- And Tolmos eager for the fray?
- Not, I wis, where they wont to be,
- Behind the tented car with thee.
STROPHE IV.
Xerxes.
They are gone, the generals, gone for ever!
Chorus.
Lost, and to be heard of never!
Xerxes.
Woe worth the day!
Chorus.
- Ye gods! on a public place of woe
- Ye set us high;
- And Até on the sorrowful show
- Doth feast her eye.
ANTISTROPHE IV.
Xerxes.
We are stricken, beyond redemption stricken!
Chorus.
Stricken of Heaven! with vengeance stricken!
Chorus.
- On an evil day we joined the fray,
- With the brave Greek name;
- From Ionian ships a sheer eclipse
- On Persia came.
STROPHE V.
Xerxes.
With such an army, struck so dire a blow!
Chorus.
So great a power, the Persian power, laid low!
Xerxes.
These rags, the rest of all my state, behold!
Xerxes.
This arrow-case thou see’st, this quiver alone—
Chorus.
What say’st thou? this alone?
Xerxes.
This arrow-case my all.
Chorus.
From store how great, remnant how small!
Xerxes.
With no friends near, abandoned sheer.
Chorus.
The Ionian people shrinks not from the spear.
ANTISTROPHE V.
Xerxes.
They face it well. I saw the deadly fight.
Chorus.
The sea-encounter saw’st thou, and the flight?
Xerxes.
Ay! and beholding it I tore my stole.
Xerxes.
More dolorous than dole! and worse than worst!
Chorus
O doubly, trebly curst!
Xerxes.
To us annoy, to Athens joy!
Chorus
Our sinews lamed, our vigour maimed!
Xerxes.
Unministered and unattended!
Chorus
Alas! thy friends on Salamis were stranded!
STROPHE VI.
Xerxes.
- Weep, and while the salt tears flow,
- To the palace let us go!
Chorus
- We weep, and, while the salt tears flow,
- To the palace with thee go.
Xerxes.
Ring the peal both loud and shrill!
Chorus.
An ill addition is ill to ill.
Xerxes.
- Swell the echo!—high and higher
- Lift the wail to my desire!
Chorus.
- With echoing sorrow, high and higher,
- We lift the wail to thy desire.
Xerxes.
Heavy came the blow, and stunning.
Chorus.
From my eyes the tears are running.
ANTISTROPHE VI.
Xerxes.
- Lift thine arms and sink them low,
-
Oaring with the oars of woe!
Chorus.
- Our arms we lift, dark woes deploring,
- With the oars of sorrow oaring.
Xerxes.
Ring the peal both loud and shrill!
Chorus.
Grief to grief, and ill to ill.
Xerxes.
- With shrill melody, high and higher,
- Lift the wail to my desire!
Chorus.
- With thrilling melody, high and higher,
- We lift the wail to thy desire.
Xerxes.
Mingle, mingle sigh with sigh!
Chorus.
Wail for wail, and cry for cry.
STROPHE VII.
Xerxes.
- Beat your breasts; let sorrow surge,
- Like a Mysian wailer’s dirge!
Chorus.
Even as a dirge; a Mysian dirge.
Xerxes.
- From thy chin the honor tear,
-
Pluck thy beard of snowy hair!
Chorus.
We tear, we tear, the snowy hair.
Xerxes.
Lift again the thrilling strain!
Chorus.
Again, again, ascends the strain.
ANTISTROPHE VII.
Xerxes.
- From thy breast the white robe tear,
- Make thy wounded bosom bare!
Chorus.
The purfled linen, lo! I tear.
Xerxes.
- Pluck the honor from thy head,
- Weep in baldness for the dead!
Chorus.
I pluck my locks, and weep the dead
Xerxes.
Weep, weep! till thine eyes be dim!
Chorus.
With streaming woe, they swim, they swim.
EPODE.
Xerxes.
Ring the peal both loud and shrill!
Chorus.
Grief to grief, and ill to ill!
Xerxes
Go to the palace: go in sadness!
Chorus.
I tread the ground sure not with gladness
Xerxes.
Let sorrow echo through the city!
Chorus.
From street to street the wailing ditty.
Xerxes.
-
Sons of Susa, with delicate feet,
- Gently, gently tread the street!
Chorus.
Gently we tread the grief-sown soil.
Xerxes.
- The ships, the ships by Ajax isle,
- The triremes worked our ruin sheer.
Chorus.
Go. Thy convoy be a tear.
[
Exeunt.