_Xer._ Oh, miserable me! Who this dark hateful doom That I expected least Have met with as my lot, With what stern mood and fierce Towards the Persian race Is God's hand laid on us! What woe will come on me? Gone is my strength of limb, As I these elders see. Ah, would to Heaven, O Zeus, That with the men who fell Death's doom had covered me! 900 _Chor._ Ah, woe, O King, woe! woe! For the army brave in fight, And our goodly Persian name, And the fair array of men, Whom God hath now cut off! And the land bewails its youth Who for our Xerxes fell, For him whose deeds have filled *Hades with Persian souls; For many heroes now *Are Hades-travellers, Our country's chosen flower, Mighty with darts and bow; *For lo! the myriad mass 910 Of men has perished quite. Woe, woe for our fair fame! And Asia's land, O King, Is terribly, most terribly, o'erthrown. _Xer._ I then, oh misery! Have to my curse been proved Sore evil to my country and my race. _Chor._ Yea, and on thy return I will lift up my voice in wailing loud, Cry of sore-troubled thought, As of a mourner born In Mariandynian land,[68] 920 Lament of many tears. ANTISTROPHE I _Xer._ Yea, utter ye a wail Dreary and full of grief; For lo! the face of Fate Against me now is turned. _Chor._ Yea, I will raise a cry Dreary and full of grief, Giving this tribute due To all the people's woes, And all our loss at sea, Troubles of this our State That mourneth for her sons; Yea, I will wail full sore, With flood of bitter tears. STROPHE II _Xer._ For Ares, he whose might Was in our ships' array, Giving victory to our foes, Has in Ionians, yea, Ionians, found his match, And from the dark sea's plain, And that ill-omened shore, Has a fell harvest reaped. _Chor._ Yea, wail, search out the whole; Where are our other friends? Where thy companions true, Such as Pharandakes, Susas, Pelagon, Psammis, Dotamas, Agdabatas, Susiskanes, From Ecbatana who started? ANTISTROPHE II _Xer._ I left them low in death, Falling from Tyrian ship, On Salaminian shores, Beating now here, now there, On the hard rock-girt coast. _Chor._ Ah, where Pharnuchos then, And Ariomardos brave? And where Sevalkes king, Lilæos proud of race, Memphis and Tharybis, Masistras, and Artembares, 950 Hystæchmas? This I ask. STROPHE III _Xer._ Woe! woe is me! They have looked on at Athens' ancient towers, Her hated towers, ah me! All, as by one fell stroke, Unhappy in their fate Lie gasping on the shore.