Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/118

48

I boast not to be skilled in auguries,

Yet mischief here I cannot but surmise.

Through spells, say, if ye know,

To mortals here below,

What grateful cheer is sent?

Their wordy arts from human woe

Breed dark presentiment.

Woe! woe! my wretched ill-starred lot!

Wailing another's fate mine own I mourn;

Why hast thou led me hither, all forlorn,

Unless with thee to perish? Wherefore not?

Thou'rt frenzied, by some god possest,

And tuneless quirest forth thy doom,

Like nightingale, with dusky plume

Sateless of song. From heart opprest,

Ceaseless her Itys, Itys, flows,

Her life bewailing, rich alone in woes.

Woe! woe! Clear-voicèd bird, arrayed

In plumèd shape, by powers divine;