How can my soul but sink in deep despair!
Cease thy sad strain.
Is all thy glory lost?
Seest thou these poor remains of my rent robes?
I see, I see.
And this ill-furnish'd quiver?
To store my treasured arrows.
Few, very few.
And few my friendly aids.
I thought these Grecians shrunk appall'd at arms.
No: they are bold and daring: these sad eyes
Beheld their violent and deathful deeds.
The ruin, sayst thou, of thy shattered fleet?
And in the anguish of my soul I rent
My royal robes.
And more than wo.
Redoubled, threefold wo!
Disgrace to me,
But triumph to the foe.
Are all thy powers
In ruin crush'd?
No satrap guards me now.
Thy faithful friends sunk in the roaring main.
Weep, weep their loss, and lead me to my house;
Answer my grief with grief, an ill return
Of ills for ills. Yet once more raise that strain
Lamenting my misfortunes; beat thy breast,
Strike, heave the groan; awake the Mysian strain
To notes of loudest wo; rend thy rich robes,
Pluck up thy beard, tear off thy hoary locks,
And battle thine eyes in tears: thus through the streets
Solemn and slow with sorrow lead my steps;
Lead to my house, and wail the fate of Persia.
Yes, once more at thy bidding shall the strain
Pour the deep sorrows of my soul;
The suff'rings of my bleeding untry plain,
And bid the Mysian measures roll.