Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/221

Rh And ah, the ghostly sound—

The wax-stopped reed-flute's weird and drowsy drone!

Alack my wandering woes, that round and round

Lead me in many mazes, lost, foredone!

O child of Cronos! for what deed of wrong

Am I enthralled by thee in penance long?

Why by the stinging brize, the thing of fear,

Dost thou torment me, heart and brain?

Nay, give me rather to the flames that sear,

Or to some hidden grave,

Or to the rending jaws, the monsters of the main!

Nor grudge the boon for which I crave, O king!

Enough, enough of weary wandering,

Pangs from which none can save!

Hearken! in pity hold

Io, the ox-horned maid, thy love of old!

Hear Zeus or not, I hear and know thee well,

Daughter of Inachus; I know thee driven,

Stung by the gadfly, mazed with agony.

Ay, thou art she whose beauty fired the breast

Of Zeus with passion; she whom Hera's hate

Now harasses o'er leagues and leagues of land.

Alack, thou namest Inachus my sire!

Wottest thou of him? how, from lips of pain,

Comes to my woeful ears truth's very strain?

How knowest thou the curse, the burning fire

The god-sent, piercing pest that stings and clings?

Ah me! in frenzied, foodless wanderings

Hither I come, and on me from on high

Lies Hera's angry craft! Ah, men unblest!