Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/110

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Nay, what disaster could be worse than this?

Say on! what woe upon the army came,

Swaying the scale to a yet further fall?

The very flower and crown of Persia's race,

Gallant of soul and glorious in descent,

And highest held in trust before the king,

Lies shamefully and miserably slain.

Alas for me and for this ruin, friends!

Dead, sayest thou? by what fate overthrown?

An islet is there, fronting Salamis—

Strait, and with evil anchorage: thereon

Pan treads the measure of the dance he loves

Along the sea-beach. Thither the king sent

His noblest, that, whene'er the Grecian foe

Should 'scape, with shattered ships, unto the isle,

We might make easy prey of fugitives

And slay them there, and from the washing tides

Rescue our friends. It fell out otherwise

Than he divined, for when, by aid of Heaven,

The Hellenes held the victory on the sea,

Their sailors then and there begirt themselves

With brazen mail and bounded from their ships,

And then enringed the islet, point by point,

So that our Persians in bewilderment

Knew not which way to turn. On every side,