Chorus.
Nay,
Darius' armament this kingless folk
For all its splendour and its numbers broke
And utterly destroyed.
Queen.
There's matter here
For anxious questionings, not without fear,
For all whose sons went up 'gainst Athens.
Chorus.
Thou,
O Queen, if that I err not, shalt even now
Hear the authentic story. Here is a man
Able to tell us how the Persians ran
In this momentous race; and, whether good
Or ill his tidings, he brings certitude.
Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
Ye habitations of broad Asia,
And thou, O land of Persia, receipt
Of affluent wealth, how much and how great glory
Hath perished at a blow! Of Persian men
The flower is fall'n and vaded! Woe is me!
Ill is it to be the bearer of bad tidings,
And yet, for hard necessity constrains,
I am to cloak up nothing, Persians—tell
The woeful tale to the end! All's lost; the power
Of Barbary is utterly destroyed.
Chorus.
O unimagined ruin, dark and drear
And fathomlessly deep!
