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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.