ATOSSA

Ah, what a boundless sea of wo hath burst 
On Persia, and the whole barbaric race!

MESSENGER

These are not half, not half our ills; on these 
Came an assemblage of calamities, 
That sunk us with a double weight of wo.

ATOSSA

What fortune can be more unfriendly to us 
Than this? Say on, what dread calamity 
Sunk Persia’s host with greater weight of wo.

MESSENGER

Whoe’er of Persia’s warriors glow’d in prime 
Of vig’rous youth, or felt their generous souls 
Expand with courage, or for noble birth 
Shone with distinguish’d lustre, or excell’d 
In firm and duteous loyalty, all these 
Are fall’n, ignobly, miserably fall’n.

ATOSSA

Alas, their ruthless fate, unhappy friends! 
But in what manner, tell me, did they perish?

MESSENGER

Full against Salamis an isle arises, 
Of small circumference, to the anchor’d bark 
Unfaithful; on the promontory’s brow, 
That overlooks the sea, Pan loves to lead 
The dance: to this the monarch sends these chiefs, 
That when the Grecians from their shatter’d ships 
Should here seek shelter, these might hew them down 
An easy conquest, and secure the strand 
To their sea-wearied friends; ill judging what 
The event: but when the fav’ring god to Greece 
Gave the proud glory of this naval fight, 
Instant in all their glitt’ring arms they leap’d 
From their light ships, and all the island round 
Encompass’d, that our bravest stood dismay’d; 
While broken rocks, whirl’d with tempestuous force, 
And storms of arrows crush’d them; then the Greeks 
Rush to the attack at once, and furious spread 
The carnage, till each mangled Persian fell. 
Deep were the groans of Xerxes when he saw 
This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mound 
Commanding the wide sea, o’erlook’d his hosts. 
With rueful cries he rent his royal robes, 
And through his troops embattled on the shore 
Gave signal of retreat; then started wild, 
And fled disorder’d. To the former ills 
These are fresh miseries to awake thy sighs.

ATOSSA

Invidious Fortune, how thy baleful power 
Hath sunk the hopes of Persia! Bitter fruit 
My son hath tasted from his purposed vengeance 
On Athens, famed for arms; the fatal field 
Of Marathon, red with barbaric blood, 
Sufficed not; that defeat he thought to avenge, 
And pull’d this hideous ruin on his head. 
But tell me, if thou canst, where didst thou leave 
The ships that happily escaped the wreck?

MESSENGER

The poor remains of Persia’s scatter’d fleet 
Spread ev’ry sail for flight, as the wind drives, 
In wild disorder; and on land no less 
The ruin’d army; in Boeotia some, 
With thirst oppress’d, at Crene’s cheerful rills 
Were lost; forespent with breathless speed some pass 
The fields of Phocis, some the Doric plain, 
And near the gulf of Melia, the rich vale 
Through which Sperchius rolls his friendly stream. 
Achaea thence and the Thessalian state 
Received our famish’d train; the greater part 
Through thirst and hunger perish’d there, oppress’d 
At once by both: but we our painful steps 
Held onwards to Magnesia, and the land 
Of Macedonia, o’er the ford of Axius, 
And Bolbe’s sedgy marshes, and the heights 
Of steep Pangaeos, to the realms of Thrace. 
That night, ere yet the season, breathing frore, 
Rush’d winter, and with ice incrusted o’er 
The flood of sacred Strymon: such as own’d 
No god till now, awe-struck, with many a prayer 
Adored the earth and sky. When now the troops 
Had ceased their invocations to the gods, 
O’er the stream’s solid crystal they began 
Their march; and we, who took our early way, 
Ere the sun darted his warm beams, pass’d safe: 
But when this burning orb with fiery rays 
Unbound the middle current, down they sunk 
Each over other; happiest he who found 
The speediest death: the poor remains, that ‘scaped, 
With pain through Thrace dragg’d on their toilsome march, 
A feeble few, and reach’d their native soil; 
That Persia sighs through all her states, and mourns 
Her dearest youth. This is no feigned tale: 
But many of the ills, that burst upon us 
In dreadful vengeance, I refrain to utter.

The MESSENGER withdraws.
LEADER OF THE CHORUS

O Fortune, heavy with affliction’s load, 
How bath thy foot crush’d all the Persian race!

ATOSSA

Ah me, what sorrows for our ruin’d host 
Oppress my soul! Ye visions of the night 
Haunting my dreams, how plainly did you show 
These ills!-You set them in too fair a light. 
Yet, since your bidding hath in this prevail’d, 
First to the gods wish I to pour my prayers, 
Then to the mighty dead present my off ‘rings, 
Bringing libations from my house: too late, 
I know, to change the past; yet for the future, 
If haply better fortune may await it, 
Behooves you, on this sad event, to guide 
Your friends with faithful counsels. Should my son 
Return ere I have finish’d, let your voice 
Speak comfort to him; friendly to his house 
Attend him, nor let sorrow rise on sorrows.

ATOSSA and her retinue go out.
CHORUS singing

strophe

Awful sovereign of the skies, 
When now o’er Persia’s numerous host 
Thou badest the storm with ruin rise, 
All her proud vaunts of glory lost, 
Ecbatana’s imperial head 
By thee was wrapp’d in sorrow’s dark’ning shade; 
Through Susa’s palaces with loud lament, 
By their soft hands their veils all rent, 
The copious tear the virgins pour, 
That trickles their bare bosoms o’er. 
From her sweet couch up starts the widow’d bride, 
Her lord’s loved image rushing on her soul, 
Throws the rich ornaments of youth aside, 
And gives her griefs to flow without control: 
Her griefs not causeless; for the mighty slain 
Our melting tears demand, and sorrow-soften’d strain. 

antistrophe

Now her wailings wide despair 
Pours these exhausted regions o’er: 
Xerxes, ill-fated, led the war; 
Xerxes, ill-fated, leads no more; 
Xerxes sent forth the unwise command, 
The crowded ships unpeopled all the land; 
That land, o’er which Darius held his reign, 
Courting the arts of peace, in vain, 
O’er all his grateful realms adored, 
The stately Susa’s gentle lord. 
Black o’er the waves his burden’d vessels sweep, 
For Greece elate the warlike squadrons fly; 
Now crush’d, and whelm’d beneath the indignant deep 
The shatter’d wrecks and lifeless heroes lie: 
While, from the arms of Greece escaped, with toil 
The unshelter’d monarch roams o’er Thracia’s dreary soil. 

epode

The first in battle slain 
By Cychrea’s craggy shore 
Through sad constraint, ah me! forsaken lie, 
All pale and smear’d with gore:- 
Raise high the mournful strain, 
And let the voice of anguish pierce the sky:- 
Or roll beneath the roaring tide, 
By monsters rent of touch abhorr’d; 
While through the widow’d mansion echoing wide 
Sounds the deep groan, and wails its slaughter’d lord: 
Pale with his fears the helpless orphan there 
Gives the full stream of plaintive grief to flow; 
While age its hoary head in deep despair 
Bends; list’ning to the shrieks of wo. 
With sacred awe 
The Persian law 
No more shall Asia’s realms revere; 
To their lord’s hand 
At his command, 
No more the exacted tribute bear. 
Who now falls prostrate at the monarch’s throne? 
His regal greatness is no more. 
Now no restraint the wanton tongue shall own, 
Free from the golden curb of power; 
For on the rocks, wash’d by the beating flood, 
His awe commanding nobles lie in blood.

ATOSSA returns, clad in the garb of mourning; she carries offerings for the tomb of Darius.
The Persians By Aeschylus