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236 With stroke redoubled, whelm'd our land forlorn?

All her lost triremes we deplore,

No triremes now, alas, no, never more.

O faithful of the faithful, ye whilome

My youth's compeers, elders of Persia, say

With what sore travail travaileth the state?

The land, breast-smitten and with furrowed cheek,

Moaneth, and I, beholding near my tomb

My consort, troubled am, but graciously

Her offrings I received; ye also stand

Lifting the dirge beside my sepulchre,

And, shouting loud with shade-evoking strains,

Piteously call me: but the upward path

Lies not too open; for the gods below

More ready are to seize than to let loose.

Yet, rank among them holding, I am come;

But haste, that time rebuke not my delay.

What this new ill that weighs the Persians down?