Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/190

178 While lightning from his eyes with Gorgon-glare

Flashed for the ravage of the realm of Zeus.

But on him came the bolt that never sleeps,

Down-crashing thunder, with emitted fire,

Which shattered him and all his towering hopes

Dashed into ruin; smitten through the breast,

His strength as smoking cinder, lightning-charred.

And now a heap, a helpless, sprawling hulk,

He lies stretched out beside the narrow seas,

Pounded and crushed deep under Etna's roots.

But on the mountain-top Hephaestus sits

Forging the molten iron, whence shall burst

Rivers of fire, with red and ravening jaws

To waste fair-fruited, smooth, Sicilian fields.

Such bilious up-boiling of his ire

Shall Typho vent, with slingstone-showers red-hot,

And unapproachable surge of fiery spray,

Although combusted by the bolt of Zeus.

But thou art not unlearned, nor needest me

To be thy teacher: save thyself the way

Thou knowest and I will fortify my heart

Until the wrathfulness of Zeus abate.

Nay then, Prometheus, art thou ignorant

Words are physicians to a wrath-sick soul?

Yes, if with skill one soften the ripe core,

Not by rough measures make it obdurate.

Seest thou in warm affection detriment

Or aught untoward in adventuring?