Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/60

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Thou seest truth, for I have cleared thine eyes.

Yea, and woes manifold, invincible,

A crowd of ills, sweep on me torrent-like.

My bark goes forth upon a sea of troubles

Unfathomed, ill to traverse, harbourless.

For if my deed shall match not your demand,

Dire, beyond shot of speech, shall be the bane

Your death's pollution leaves unto this land.

Yet if against your kin, Aegyptus' race,

Before our gates I front the doom of war,

Will not the city's loss be sore? Shall men

For women's sake incarnadine the ground?

But yet the wrath of Zeus, the suppliants' lord,

I needs must fear: most awful unto man

The terror of his anger. Thou, old man,

The father of these maidens, gather up

Within your arms these wands of suppliance,

And lay them at the altars manifold

Of all our country's gods, that all the town

Know, by this sign, that ye come here to sue.

Nor, in thy haste, do thou say aught of me.

Swift is this folk to censure those who rule;

But, if they see these signs of suppliance,

It well may chance that each will pity you,

And loathe the young men's violent pursuit;

And thus a fairer favour you may find:

For, to the helpless, each man's heart is kind.

To us, beyond gifts manifold it is

To find a champion thus compassionate;