Page:Suppliant Maidens (Morshead) 1883.djvu/22

8 Was of a goddess: well I know

The bitter ire, the wrathful woe

Of Hera, queen of heaven—

A storm, a storm her breath, whereby we yet are driven!

Bethink thee, what dispraise

Of Zeus himself mankind will raise,

If now he turn his face averted from our cries!

If now, dishonoured and alone,

The ox-horned maiden's race shall be undone,

Children of Epaphus, his own begotten son—

Zeus, listen from on high—to thee our prayers arise.

Zeus, hear and save!

The searching poisonous hate, that Io vexed and drave,

Was of a goddess: well I know

The bitter ire, the wrathful woe

Of Hera, queen of heaven—

A storm, a storm her breath, whereby we yet are driven!

Children, be wary—wary he with whom

Ye come, your trusty sire and steersman old:

And that same caution hold I here on land,

And bid you hoard my words, inscribing them

On memory's tablets. Lo, I see afar

Dust, voiceless herald of a host, arise;

And hark, within their griding sockets ring

Axles of hurrying wheels! I see approach,

Borne in curved cars, by speeding horses drawn,

A speared and shielded band. The chiefs, perchance,