_Chor._ And he, thy faithful Eye,[69] 960 Who told the Persian host, Myriads on myriads o'er,[70] Alpistos, son and heir Of Batanôchos old · · · · · And the son of brave Sesames, Son himself of Megabates? Parthos, and the great Œbares, Did'st thou leave them, did'st thou leave them? Ah, woe! ah, woe is me, For those unhappy ones! Thou to the Persians brave Tellest of ills on ills. ANTISTROPHE III _Xer._ Ah, thou dost wake in me The memory of the spell of yearning love For comrades brave and true, Telling of cursed ills, Yea, cursed, hateful doom; 970 And lo, within my frame My heart cries out, cries out. _Chor._ Yea, another too we long for, Xanthes, captain of ten thousand Mardian warriors, and Anchares Arian born, and great Arsakes And Diæxis, lords of horsemen, Kigdagatas and Lythimnas, Tolmos, longing for the battle: 980 *Much I marvel, much I marvel,[71] For they come not, as the rear-guard Of thy tent on chariot mounted.[72] STROPHE IV _Xer._ Gone those rulers of the army. _Chor._ Gone are they in death inglorious. _Xer._ Ah woe! ah woe! Alas! alas! _Chor._ Ah! the Gods have sent upon us Ill we never thought to look on, Eminent above all others; Ne'er hath Atè seen its equal. ANTISTROPHE IV Smitten we by many sorrows, 990 Such as come on men but seldom. _Chor._ Smitten we, 'tis all too certain.... _Xer._ Fresh woes! fresh woes! ah me! _Chor._ Now with adverse turn of fortune, With Ionian seamen meeting, Fails in war the race of Persians. STROPHE V _Xer._ Too true. Yea I and that vast host of mine Are smitten down. _Chor._ Too true—the Persians' majesty and might Have perished utterly. _Xer._ See'st thou this remnant of my armament? _Chor._ I see it, yea, I see. 1000 _Xer._ (_pointing to his quiver._) Dost see thou that which arrows wont to hold?... _Chor._ What speak'st thou of as saved? _Xer._ This treasure-store for darts. _Chor._ Few, few of many left! _Xer._ Thus we all helpers lack. _Chor._ Ionian soldiers flee not from the spear. ANTISTROPHE V _Xer._ Yea, very brave are they, and I have seen Unlooked-for woe. _Chor._ Wilt tell of squadron of our sea-borne ships Defeated utterly? _Xer._ I tore my robes at this calamity. _Chor._ Ah me, ah me, ah me. 1010 _Xer._ Ay, more than all 'ah me's'! _Chor._ Twofold and threefold ills! _Xer._ Grievous to us—but joy, Great joy, to all our foes! _Chor._ Lopped off is all our strength.