The Persians.
257
Xerxes. Strophe VII.
Ay, beat thy breast, and raise the Mysian wail.
Chorus.
Pain, grievous pain!
Xerxes.
And from thy chin pluck out the silver hair.
Chorus.
Woe-fraught, we pluck amain!
Xerxes.
Rend with shrill cries the air.
Chorus.
Cries shall not fail.
Xerxes. Antistrophe VII.
With forceful hand tear thou thy bosom's stole. 1040
Chorus.
Pain, grievous pain!
Xerxes.
Our host lamenting rend thy tresses too.[1]
Chorus.
Woe-fraught, we rend amain!
- ↑ ψάλλε. I do not venture to give the literal translation, twang. It seems impossible to peruse the close of this drama without recognizing that the poet's aim was no longer tragedy. He evidently wishes to gratify his Athenian spectators by the grief of the Persians, which he holds up to contempt.
