These are the thoughts that fret and fray
The sable garment of my soul.
Shall Persia's host sing, Wellaway,
With universal shout of dole:
Shall Susa hear, of manhood shorn?
Shall this imperial city mourn?
Yea, and shall Kissia's castle-keep
With answering note of grief reply?
Shall huddled women wail and weep
Bearing the burthen to that cry,
While torn in rents their raiment falls
And tattered hang their costly shawls?
Not one is left: all they that drive
Or ride proud steeds, all footmen stout,
Like swarming bees that quit the hive,
With him that leads the dance, went out;
Shackling two shores across the sea
They thrust a floating promontory.
But beds are wet with many a tear
Where late the longed-for love lay warm;
New luxury of grief is dear
To our fair Persians: some mailed form
She kissed 'Goodbye,' her love, her own,
Each misses, left in wedlock lone.
Men of Persia, here in council, seated round this ancient roof,
Sounding deep, for sore the need is, let us put it to the proof,
How it fareth with King Xerxes, great Darius' golden heir,
