ATOSSA. Friends, whosoe’er is versed in human ills, Knoweth right well that when a wave of woe Comes on a man, he sees in all things fear; While, in flood-tide of fortune, ’tis his mood To take that fortune as unchangeable, Wafting him ever forward. Mark me now— The gods’ thwart purpose doth confront mine eyes, And all is terror to me; in mine ears There sounds a cry, but not of triumph now— So am I scared at heart by woe so great. Therefore I wend forth from the house anew, Borne in no car of state, nor robed in pride As heretofore, but bringing, for the sire Who did beget my son, libations meet For holy rites that shall appease the dead— The sweet white milk, drawn from a spotless cow, The oozing drop of golden honey, culled By the flower-haunting bee, and therewithal Pure draughts of water from a virgin spring; And lo! besides, the stainless effluence, Born of the wild vine’s bosom, shining store Treasured to age, this bright and luscious wine. And eke the fragrant fruit upon the bough Of the grey olive-tree, which lives its life In sprouting leafage, and the twining flowers, Bright children of the earth’s fertility. But you, O friends! above these offerings poured To reconcile the dead, ring out your dirge To summon up Darius from the shades, Himself a shade; and I will pour these draughts, Which earth shall drink, unto the gods of hell. CHORUS. Queen, by the Persian land adored, By thee be this libation poured, Passing to those who hold command Of dead men in the spirit-land! And we will sue, in solemn chant, That gods who do escort the dead In nether realms, our prayer may grant— Back to us be Darius led! O Earth, and Hermes, and the king Of Hades, our Darius bring! For if, beyond the prayers we prayed, He knoweth aught of help or aid, He, he alone, in realms below, Can speak the limit of our woe! Doth he hear me, the king we adored, who is god among gods of the dead? Doth he hear me send out in my sorrow the pitiful, manifold cry, The sobbing lament and appeal? is the voice of my suffering sped To the realm of the shades? doth he hear me and pity my sorrowful sigh? O Earth, and ye Lords of the dead! release ye that spirit of might, Who in Susa the palace was born! let him rise up once more to the light! There is none like him, none of all That e’er were laid in Persian sepulchres! Borne forth he was to honoured burial, A royal heart! and followed by our tears. God of the dead, O give him back to us, Darius, ruler glorious! He never wasted us with reckless war— God, counsellor, and king, beneath a happy star! Ancient of days and king, awake and come— Rise o’er the mounded tomb! Rise, plant thy foot, with saffron sandal shod Father to us, and god! Rise with thy diadem, O sire benign, Upon thy brow! List to the strange new sorrows of thy line, Sire of a woeful son!