Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/45

Rh She shed—warm tears of bitter memory;

But, with that heavenly burthen in her womb,

Became the mother of a perfect child.

A happy, long-lived man was he;

Wherefore a voice went through that fertile earth,

'Behold in verity

This is the son of Zeus: this is the seed

He sowed: who else among the Gods had stayed

The crafty plots that Hera laid?

If thou should'st say, "Here is Zeus' very deed,

This is a child of heavenly birth,"

Clean to the centre shall thine arrow speed.'

What God to thee should I prefer

And by a title holier

Ask Justice? Thou, O King,

Our Father art; and thy right hand

Hath planted us in a strange land;

We are thine own offspring.

Thou great unmatched artificer,

In thy calm heart let memory stir

The pulse of vanished days,

O Zeus that art in all things blest,

And whatso'er thou purposest

None hinders nor gainsays.

Thou art no vassal on a throne;

No power that doth transcend thine own

To thee dictates the law;

Nor is there one in higher place

To whom thou turn'st a humble face,

Holding his seat in awe.