ANTISTROPHE I.

Dark-prowed ships that plough wide ocean

With well-poised wings through waves’ commotion,

Ships, the countless crews that carried,

In briny death ye saw them buried,

Where the Ionian beaks were dashing,

Where the Persian booms were crashing!

And our monarch scarcely scaping,

Left with life the deathful fray,

Through the plains of Thracia shaping