Scene IX.—The Eastern bank of the Granicus.
The Hypaspists, Seleucus, and Cassander.
Cas.
We have left the waves behind; the worst is over!
Their shafts are straws, but these our spears have weight:
Thrust them into their faces! So—'tis well:
Spoil their fine looks, and spite their Asian brides:
Beat out Arabia's unguents from their curls:
Spare not the gem-wrought corselet!
Sel.
Alexander
Cried thus,—“My brave Hypaspists landed once,
The fight is fought, and won!” I heard him speak it!
Have at thee, silken Syrian! Next for thee,
Bactrian or Mede!
Cas.
How long it takes in crossing!
The Phalanx boasts itself a tortoise mail'd:
It moves as slowly.
[He falls, wounded by an arrow.
Sel.
Well charged, Pæonian horse! That charge has saved us!
Good friends, this blood is Persia's more than mine;
Pray gods it enter not my veins and taint them
With cowardice of Persia!
A Soldier.
Hark! it thunders!
[The Persian cavalry comes up, headed by
Mithridates, and at the same moment
Alexander from the opposite side.]
Alex.
(Striking down Mithridates with his spear.)
Give that to thy great cousin, King Darius!
Rhœ.
(Smiting Alexander on the helmet, which bursts asunder.)
Hail! Philip's son!
Alex.
Well aim'd, and nigh the mark!
From Philip this!
[Pierces his breast; Spithridates, riding up
from behind has just raised his sword above
Alexander's head when Cleitus severs
his arm with a sword-cut.]
'Twas timely; Lanicè
Shall thank her brother Cleitus for that stroke;
Else had she mourn'd her foster-child.
[The Phalanx pushes against the Persian
centre, which bends inward. The disorder
gradually reaches the extremities of the
Persian line, and the Macedonian cavalry
breaks through its weaker parts. The left
wing, under Parmenio, charges. The whole
Persian army falls into rout.]
Alex.
The field is ours! Persia to Parthian changes!
After them, Thracian horse; but not too far!
Drive them some twenty stadia; wheeling then,
Take in the rear those Grecian mercenaries:
At them in front, strong Phalanx! close them round
Northward with your Hypaspists, brave Seleucus!
These are the Greeks that sold their Greece for gold:
Grant others mercy; let no traitor live!
How now, Parmenio? Is it their strategy
That feigns this politic flight?
Par.
Sir, all the gods
Ride in the train of your triumphant fortune,
And hold the gold-cloth o'er your head ablaze;
For your sake they reverse all laws of war:
I said they might.
Eum.
Our horse has lost but sixty:
The victory's cheap.
Alex.
See that those dead be honoured
With kingly obsequies. No man of their kin
Not one, while Greece is Greece, shall stand amerced
With civil tax or toll.
Ptol.
Two thousand prisoners—
Alex.
We'll not forget them. Let them sweat, foot-chained,
In cities both of Macedon and Greece.
Eum.
The body-guard have lost but twenty-five.
Alex.
Write on thy tablets, we decree them statues
In Pella, where my tomb shall stand one day,
My task complete. Lysippus be the sculptor:
We grace the Persian dead with funeral rites:
They fought in their allegiance. Send to Athens
Three hundred suits of armour stripped from these
The stone-cold dead: upon the Acropolis
See they be ranged—in great Athenè's fane—
With this inscription 'neath them: “Alexander,
The son of Philip, when the Persian host
Fell at Granicus, sent to Greece this spoil:
The Grecians holp to take it, save alone
The men of Lacedemon.” Grave it in marble.
Eum.
It shall be so ordain'd.
Alex.
Hephestion, send
Our noblest spoils to Ilium's maiden fane:
Let Ilium bear henceforth a city's title.
Mith.
(the governor of Sardis, arriving).
Sardis submits, laying before her king
The keys of her great treasury.
Alex.
Tell me, sir,
How many factions rage there in your city?
Mith.
Two, mighty king, the nobles and the people:
The nobles rule.
Alex.
Their rule is over-ruled:
We prop the weaker; they shall need us most.
Proclaim to Sardis that all privileges
Ravished from her by Persia, we to her
Revindicate. To Ephesian Artemis,
A goddess friendly still to Macedon,
Whose temple at our birth-hour fell by fire,
We shall be helpful likewise. Ephesus
Herself by penitence shall purge that wrong
Done to my father's statue. Tell those realms
Betwixt the Euxine and Pamphylian seas,
That Grecian galaxy of Lesser Asia,
That Argive choir in eastern exile sad,
That Doric garland on base Persia's brow,
We came not here to crush them, but exalt:
This hand shall lift them to their first estate,
And lodge them 'mid the skiey heights of Greece.
Let it be noised abroad.
