ATOSSA. O dismal god! how has thy hate deceived The mind of the Mede! A bitter vengeance truly Hath famous Athens wreaked on my poor son, {315} To all the dead that fell at Marathon Adding this slaughter!--O my son! my son! Thyself hast paid the penalty that thou Went to inflict on others!--But let me hear Where hast thou left the few ships that escaped? MESSENGER. The remnant of the fleet with full sail sped Swift in disordered flight from Salamis. The wreck of the army through Bœotia trailed Its sickly line: there some of thirst fell dead Even in the water's view; some with fatigue Panting toiled on through Phocian land, and Doris, And passed the Melian gulf, where through the plain Spercheius rolls his fructifying flood. Then faint and famished the Achaean land Received us, and fair Thessaly's city; there The most of hunger died and thirst; for with This double plague we struggled. Next Magnesia And Macedonian ground we traversed; then The stream of Axius, reedy Bolbe's mere, The Edonian fields, and the Pangaean hills. But here some god[f30] stirred winter premature, And in the night froze Strymon's holy stream. Then men who never worshipped gods before Called on the heavens and on the Earth to save them, With many prayers, in vain. A few escaped, What few had crossed the ice-compacted flood Ere the strong god of light shot forth his rays. For soon the lustrous orb of day shone out With blazing beams, unbound the stream, and oped Inevitable fate beneath them: then Man upon man in crowded ruin fell, And he was happiest who the soonest died. We who survived, a miserable wreck, Struggled through Thrace slowly with much hard toil,[n18] And stand again on Persian ground, and see Our native hearths. Much cause the city has To weep the loss of her selectest youth. These words are true: much I omit to tell Of all the woes a god hath smote withal Our Persian land. CHORUS. O sorely-vexing god, How hast thou trampled 'neath no gentle foot The Persian race! {316} ATOSSA. Woe's me! the army's lost. O dreamy shapes night wandering, too clearly Your prophecy spoke truth! But you, good Seniors, Sorry expounders though ye be, in one thing I will obey. I will go pray the gods, As ye advised; then gifts I will present To Earth and to the Manes. I will offer, The sacred cake to appease them. For the past, 'Tis past beyond all change; but hope may be To make the gods propitious for the future. Meanwhile your counsel in this need I crave; A faithful man is mighty in mischance. My son, if he shall come ere I return, Cheer him with friendly words, and see him safe, Lest to this ill some worser woe be added. [_Exit._