CHORUS. Far in the west: beside the setting of the lord of light the sun. ATOSSA. This same Athens, my son Xerxes longed with much desire to take. CHORUS. Wisely: for all Greece submissive, when this city falls, will fall. ATOSSA. Are they many? do they number men enough to meet my son? CHORUS. What they number was sufficient once to work the Medes much harm. ATOSSA. Other strength than numbers have they? wealth enough within themselves? CHORUS. They can boast a fount of silver, native treasure to the land.[f20] {309} ATOSSA. Are they bowmen good? sure-feathered do their pointed arrows fly? CHORUS. Not so. Stable spears they carry, massy armature of shields. ATOSSA. Who is shepherd of this people? lord of the Athenian host? CHORUS. Slaves are they to no man living, subject to no earthly name.[n11] ATOSSA. How can such repel the onset of a strong united host? CHORUS. _How_ Darius knew in Hellas, when he lost vast armies there. ATOSSA. Things of deep concern thou speakest to all mothers in this land. CHORUS. Thou shalt know anon exactly more than I can guess, for lo! Here comes one--a hasty runner--he should be a Persian man. News, I wis, this herald bringeth of deep import, good or bad. [_Enter_ MESSENGER. MESSENGER. O towns and cities of wide Asia, O Persian land, wide harbour of much wealth, How hath one stroke laid all thy grandeur low, One frost nipt all thy bloom! Woe's me that I Should be first bearer of bad news! but strong Necessity commands to speak the truth. Persians, the whole barbaric host hath perished. STROPHE I. CHORUS. O misery! misery, dark and deep! Dole and sorrow and woe! Weep, ye Persians! wail and weep, For wounds that freshly flow! MESSENGER. All, all is ruined: not a remnant left. Myself, against all hope, see Persia's sun. ANTISTROPHE I. CHORUS. O long, too long, through creeping years Hath the life of the old man lasted, To see--and nurse his griefs with tears-- The hopes of Persia blasted! MESSENGER. I speak no hearsay: what these eyes beheld Of blackest evil, Persians, I declare. {310} STROPHE II. CHORUS. Ah me! all in vain against Hellas divine Were the twanging bow and whizzing reed, All vainly mustered the thickly clustered Armies of the Mede! MESSENGER. The shores of Salamis, and all around With the thick bodies of our dead are peopled. ANTISTROPHE II. CHORUS. Alas! the wreck of the countless host! The sundered planks, and the drifted dead,[n12] Rocked to and fro, with the ebb and the flow On a wavy-wandering bed! MESSENGER. Vain were our shafts; our mighty multitude Vanished before their brazen-beaked attack. STROPHE III. CHORUS. Sing ye, sing ye a sorrowful song, Lift ye, lift ye a piercing cry! Our harnessed throng and armies strong Lost and ruined utterly!