Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/417

Rh How incontestable the strength of Fate.

Yet in such strait silence to keep is hard,—

Hard not to keep;—for, bringing gifts to mortals,

Myself in these constraints hapless am yoked.

Stored within hollow wand fire's stealthy fount

I track, which to mankind in every art

Hath teacher proved, and mightiest resource.

Such forfeits I for such offences pay,—

Beneath the welkin nailed in manacles.

Hist! Hist! what sound,

What odour floats invisibly around,

Of God, or man, or intermediate kind?

Comes to this rocky bound,

One to behold my woes or seeking aught?

A god ye see in fetters, anguish-fraught;

The foe of Zeus, in hatred held of all

The deities who throng Zeus' palace-hall;

For that to men I bore too fond a mind.

Woe, woe! what rustling sound

Hard by, as if of birds, doth take mine ear?

Whistles the ether round

With the light whirr of pinions hovering near.

Whate'er approaches filleth me with fear.

Fear not! a friendly troop we reach

On rival-speeding wing this cliff forlorn;

Our sire's consent wringing by suasive speech,

Me swift-escorting gales have hither borne.