His stole he rent, and lifting a shrill wail
Gave the poor remnant of his host command
To flee; and fled with them. Lament with me,
This second sorrow heaped upon the first.
Atossa.
O dismal god! how has thy hate deceived
The mind of the Mede! A bitter vengeance truly
Hath famous Athens wreaked on my poor son,
To all the dead that fell at Marathon
Adding this slaughter!—O my son! my son!