that he had died with them. The rest of the play is but one long wail. "I have no voice," the Chorus says,—
"No swelling harmony,
No descant, save these notes of woe,
Harsh and repulsive to the sullen sigh,
Rude strains that unmelodious flow,
To welcome thy return."
They ask after all the chiefs,—after Pharnaces and Dotamas,—
"Psammis in mailèd cuirass dressed,
And Susiscanes' glitt'ring crest."
And in every gloomy pause Xerxes replies that they are dead—drowned, or killed in the shock of battle.
The climax of disaster and disgrace is reached in the condition of the king himself.
"Cho. Is all thy glory lost?
Xer. Seest thou these poor remains of my rent robes?
Cho. I see, I see.
Xer. And this ill-furnished quiver?
Cho. Wherefore preserved?
Xer. To store my treasured arrows.
Cho. Few, very few.
Xer. And few my friendly aids."
And the irony of the whole, and its bearing on Athenian prowess, is summed up:—
"Cho. I thought these Grecians shrank appalled at arms.
Xer. No; they are bold and daring."
