PERSONS

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.^f1 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 Choerilus to Glover, the whole, or part of this subject has been treated, as its importance seemed to demand, epically;^f2 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.^f3

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 noticeable 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,^f4 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.^f5 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^f6 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;^f7 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.

THE PERSIANS

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:^f8

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,^f9

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,ⁿ¹

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^f10 Thebes obey.

And the countless host with sturdy oar

That plough the lagoons of the slimy shore,^f11

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 Sardesⁿ² sends to the war;

Some with two yoke, some with three,

A terrible sight to see.

And the sons of sacred Tmolus appear^f12

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,ⁿ³ 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 swordⁿ⁴

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,^f13

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,ⁿ⁵

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,^f14

See him appear!

Through the long lines of war

Driving the Syrian car,^f15

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,ⁿ⁶

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.^f16

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,ⁿ⁷

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.^f17

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,^f18 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,^f8

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 altarⁿ⁹

Of Phoebus; 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^f19 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?ⁿ¹⁰

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.^f20

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.ⁿ¹¹

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.

Messenger.

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!

Messenger.

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!

Messenger.

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!

Messenger.

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,ⁿ¹²

Rocked to and fro, with the ebb and the flow

On a wavy-wandering bed!

Messenger.

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!

Messenger.

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^f21 hath left

An army to march home without a head.

Messenger.

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.

Messenger.

Artembares, captain of ten thousand horse,

Upon the rough Silenian shores^f22 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.^f23 There Amestris,ⁿ¹³

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.

Messenger.

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.ⁿ¹⁴

Atossa.

The city? is it safe? does Athens stand?

Messenger.

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.

Messenger.

Some evil god, or an avenging spirit,^f24

Began the fray. From the Athenian fleet

There came a Greek,ⁿ¹⁵ 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,ⁿ¹⁶

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^f25 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,^f26

And from the prow of a Phoenician 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.^f27

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!

Messenger.

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?

Messenger.

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?

Messenger.

There is an islet, fronting Salamis,

To ships unfriendly, of dance-loving Panⁿ¹⁷

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,^f28

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,^f29 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?

Messenger.

The remnant of the fleet with full sail sped

Swift in disordered flight from Salamis.

The wreck of the army through Boeotia 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^f30 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,