Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/95

Rh Old eyes are wet whose tears Time long since dried;

The sire weeps his lost son,

The home its goodman gone,

And all the woeful tale is bruited far and wide.

They pay no more tribute; they bow them no more!

The word of power is not spoken

By the princes of Persia; their day is o'er,

And the laws of the Medes are broken

Through Asia's myriad-peopled land;

For the staff is snapped in the King's right hand.

And a watch is not set on the free, frank tongue,

Yea, liberty's voice speaks loud;

And the yoke is loosed from the neck that was wrung

And the back to dominion bowed:

For the earth of Ajax isle is red

With the blood of Persia's noble dead!

Good friends, the heart that hath found trouble knows

That when calamity is at the flood

We shake at shadows; but, if once the tide

Flow fair, and fortune send a prospering wind,

We cannot think that it will change. To me

All prayers I offer now are full of dread,

And voices loud, but not with victory,

Sound in mine ears; so fell a stroke of fortune

Dismays my soul. Therefore am I returned,

Not as of late with chariots and with pomp;

I bring libations due from son to sire,

Meet for propitiation; gifts that please