Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/197

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With offerings of sweet savour

And feasts of slaughtered kine;

The holy to the holy,

With frequent feet and lowly

At altar, fane and shrine,

Over the Ocean marches,

The deep that no drought parches,

Draw near to the divine.

My tongue the Gods estrange not;

My firm set purpose change not,

As wax melts in fire-shine.

Sweet is the life that lengthens,

While joyous hope still strengthens,

And glad, bright thoughts sustain;

But shuddering I behold thee,

The sorrows that enfold thee

And all thine endless pain.

For Zeus thou hast despisèd;

Thy fearless heart misprizèd

All that his vengeance can,

Thy wayward will obeying,

Excess of honour paying,

Prometheus, unto man.

And, oh, belovèd, for this graceless grace

What thanks? What prowess for thy bold essay

Shall champion thee from men of mortal race,

The petty insects of a passing day?

Saw'st not how puny is the strength they spend?

With few, faint steps walking as dreams and blind,

Nor can the utmost of their lore transcend

The harmony of the Eternal Mind.

These things I learned seeing thy glory dimmed,