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MESSENGER





These are not half, not half our ills; on these



Came an assemblage of calamities,





That sunk us with a double weight of wo.



ATOSSA





What fortune can be more unfriendly to us



Than this? Say on, what dread calamity





Sunk Persia's host with greater weight of wo.



MESSENGER





Whoe'er of Persia's warriors glow'd in prime



Of vig'rous youth, or felt their generous souls





Expand with courage, or for noble birth



Shone with distinguish'd lustre, or excell'd





In firm and duteous loyalty, all these



Are fall'n, ignobly, miserably fall'n.





ATOSSA



Alas, their ruthless fate, unhappy friends!





But in what manner, tell me, did they perish?



MESSENGER





Full against Salamis an isle arises,



Of small circumference, to the anchor'd bark





Unfaithful; on the promontory's brow,



That overlooks the sea, Pan loves to lead





The dance: to this the monarch sends these chiefs,



That when the Grecians from their shatter'd ships





Should here seek shelter, these might hew them down



An easy conquest, and secure the strand





To their sea-wearied friends; ill judging what



The event: but when the fav'ring god to Greece





Gave the proud glory of this naval fight,



Instant in all their glitt'ring arms they leap'd





From their light ships, and all the island round



Encompass'd, that our bravest stood dismay'd;





While broken rocks, whirl'd with tempestuous force,



And storms of arrows crush'd them; then the Greeks





Rush to the attack at once, and furious spread



The carnage, till each mangled Persian fell.





Deep were the groans of Xerxes when he saw



This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mound





Commanding the wide sea, o'erlook'd his hosts.



With rueful cries he rent his royal robes,





And through his troops embattled on the shore



Gave signal of retreat; then started wild,





And fled disorder'd. To the former ills



These are fresh miseries to awake thy sighs.





ATOSSA



Invidious Fortune, how thy baleful power





Hath sunk the hopes of Persia! Bitter fruit



My son hath tasted from his purposed vengeance





On Athens, famed for arms; the fatal field



Of Marathon, red with barbaric blood,





Sufficed not; that defeat he thought to avenge,



And pull'd this hideous ruin on his head.





But tell me, if thou canst, where didst thou leave



The ships that happily escaped the wreck?





MESSENGER



The poor remains of Persia's scatter'd fleet





Spread ev'ry sail for flight, as the wind drives,



In wild disorder; and on land no less





The ruin'd army; in Boeotia some,



With thirst oppress'd, at Crene's cheerful rills





Were lost; forespent with breathless speed some pass



The fields of Phocis, some the Doric plain,





And near the gulf of Melia, the rich vale



Through which Sperchius rolls his friendly stream.





Achaea thence and the Thessalian state



Received our famish'd train; the greater part





Through thirst and hunger perish'd there, oppress'd



At once by both: but we our painful steps





Held onwards to Magnesia, and the land



Of Macedonia, o'er the ford of Axius,





And Bolbe's sedgy marshes, and the heights



Of steep Pangaeos, to the realms of Thrace.





That night, ere yet the season, breathing frore,



Rush'd winter, and with ice incrusted o'er





The flood of sacred Strymon: such as own'd



No god till now, awe-struck, with many a prayer





Adored the earth and sky. When now the troops



Had ceased their invocations to the gods,





O'er the stream's solid crystal they began



Their march; and we, who took our early way,





Ere the sun darted his warm beams, pass'd safe:



But when this burning orb with fiery rays








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