Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/174

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O Earth, my sire upsend to watch the fray.

Persephone, oh grant us fair success!

Think, Father, of the bath that reaved thy life.

Think of the net in which they tangled thee.

In shackles, not of brass, wast snared, my father.

Basely enveloped in the treacherous folds.

Art thou not roused by these reproaches. Sire?

Dost to thy dear ones not uplift thine head?

Either send Justice, ally to thy friends,

Or give them in like grasp thy foes to hold,

If thou, o'erthrown, wouldst victor be in turn.

And hearken, Father, this my last appeal;

Behold thy fledglings nestled on thy tomb;