Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/31

Rh O! Assume it now!

And, as 'twere, this high deck and laurelled poop

Of a most stately vessel honour duly.

Indeed, when I look round me and behold

This haunt of Gods all branched and shaded o'er,

I shudder.

Where is he who would not pause?

The wrath of Zeus the Suppliant's God is heavy.

Stop not thine ears, O son of Palaechthon,

Nor hold thy heart aloof, thou royal man,

But hearken when I cry to thee, whose throne

Is over this wide realm Pelasgian.

Behold, in me a suppliant sues for grace,

A hunted thing still forced to shift her ground,

Like to a heifer with the wolves in chase

That to the herd doth lowingly complain

Upon some rocky precipice crag-bound,

Trusting his strength and telling him her pain.

Methinks I see this gathering of the Gods

Of festival, with branches freshly plucked

All shaded o'er, nodding in grave assent.

Oh, may your cause who claim to be our kin

Work us no mischief, nor on any hand

Strife grow from what we neither could foresee

Nor have provided for. That to this realm

Were an unwanted, a superfluous care.