Tranquil, foamy waves lap the beach.
No such waves can wash away this defeat.
Seven years of war, seven years of Glory, are
At an end.

Sacred Laconia, our only homeland,
We–homoioi, perioeci, mothakes–defended
You to the last.  Courageous Euclidas, unwilling
To submit to Sphacterian end, stood your ground,
Like Leonidas at Thermopylae.

Others though, not honorable enough
To withstand the storm, flee, and seek Egyptian escape
While Sparta succumbs to Macedonian rape.
No true son of Hercules can abide this fate.

What a king of no kingdom and his Borystenite priest
Can achieve from luxurious exile, I know not.
But I will die here, on this beach, as I should
Have died there, on Olympus, with those brave six thousand:
The last of our race.