Stood nor man nor god before him; he hath scoured the Attic land, Chased the valiant sons of Athens to a barren island's strand; He hath hedged them round with triremes, lines on lines of bristling war; He hath doomed the prey for capture; he hath spread his meshes far; And he sits sublimely seated on a throne with pride elate, To behold the victim fall beneath the sudden swooping Fate. Then follows an account of the nations which formed the Persian hosts, their arrangement to entrap the Greeks, who were thought to be meditating flight, the patriotic enthusiasm of the latter, the naval battle which followed, and the disastrous defeat of the Persians, the poem closing with the following satirical address to Xerxes: Wake thee! wake thee! blinded Xerxes! God hath found thee out at last; Snaps thy pride beneath his judgment, as the tree before the blast. Haste thee! haste thee! speed thy couriers--Persian couriers travel lightly-- To declare thy stranded navy, that by cruel death unsightly Dimmed thy glory. Hie thee! hie thee! hence, even by what way thou camest, Dwarfed to whoso saw thee mightiest, and where thou wert fiercest, tamest! Frost and fire shall league together, angry heaven to earth respond, Strong Poseidon with his trident break thy impious-vaunted bond; Where thou passed, with mouths uncounted, eating up the famished land, With few men a boat shall ferry Xerxes to the Asian strand. Haste thee! haste thee! they are waiting by the palace gates for thee; By the golden gates of Susa eager mourners wait for thee. Haste thee! where the guardian elders wait, a hoary-bearded train; They shall see their king, but never see the sons they loved, again. Where thy weeping mother waits thee, Queen Atossa waits to see Dire fulfilment of her troublous, vision-haunted sleep in thee. She hath dreamt, and she shall see it, how an eagle, cowed with awe, Gave his kingly crest to pluck before a puny falcon's claw. Haste thee! where the mighty shade of great Darius through the gloom Rises dread, to teach thee wisdom, couldst thou learn it, from the tomb. There begin the sad rehearsal, and, while streaming tears are shed, To the thousand tongues that ask thee, tell the myriads of thy dead! THE BATTLE OF PLATÆ'A.