Page:Aeschylus.djvu/72

60 "Prom. To me who knew it all

He hath this message borne;

And that a foe from foes

Should suffer is not strange.

Therefore on me be hurled

The sharp-edged wreath of fire;

And let heaven's vault be stirred

With thunder and the blasts

Of fiercest winds; and earth

From its foundations strong,

E'en to its deepest roots,

Let storm-winds make to rock;

And let them heap the waves

Of ocean's rugged surge

Up to the regions high,

Where move the stars of heaven;

And to dark Tartaros

Let him my carcass hurl,

With mighty blasts of force;

Yet me he shall not slay.

Merc. Such words and thoughts from one

Brain-stricken we may hear.

What space divides his state

From frenzy? what repose

Hath he from maddened rage?

But ye who pitying stand

And share his bitter griefs,

Quickly from hence depart,

Lest the relentless roar

Of thunder stun your soul.

Chorus. With other words attempt

To counsel and persuade,

And I will hear; for now

Thou hast this word thrust in

That we may never hear.