Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/198

186 Prometheus. Ah, not thus on me was shed

The rapture of sweet music, when I hymned

The marriage-song round bath and bridal bed

At thine espousals, and of thy blood-kin,

A bride thou chosest, wooing her to thee

With all good gifts that may a Goddess win,

Thy father's child, divine Hesione.

What land is this? What people here abide?

And who is he,

The prisoner of this windswept mountain-side?

Speak, speak to me;

Tell me, poor caitiff, how did'st thou transgress,

Thus buffeted?

Whither am I, half-dead with weariness,

For-wanderèd?

Ha! Ha!

Again the prick, the stab of gadfly-sting!

O earth, earth, hide,

The hollow shape—Argus—that evil thing—

The hundred-eyed-

Earth-born-herdsman! I see him yet; he stalks

With stealthy pace,

And crafty watch not all my poor wit baulks!

From the deep place

Of earth that hath his bones he breaketh bound,

And from the pale

Of Death, the Underworld, a hell-sent hound

On the blood-trail,