Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/419

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Who of the gods a heart doth own

So hard, to mock at thy despair?

Who at thy woes, save Zeus alone,

Doth not thine anguish share?

But ruthless still, with soul unbent,

The heavenly race he tames, nor will refrain

Till sated to his heart's content;

Or till another, by some cunning snare,

Wrest from his grasp the firmly guarded reign.

Yet e'en of me although now wrung

In stubborn chains shall he have need,

This ruler of the blest—to read

The counsel new by which his sway

And honours shall be stript away.

But not persuasion's honied tongue

My stedfast soul shall charm;

Nor will I, crouching in alarm,

Divulge the secret, till these savage chains

He loose, and yield requital for my pains.

Daring thou art and yieldest nought

For bitter agony; with tongue

Unbridled thou art all too free.

But by keen fear my heart is stung;

I tremble for thy doom—ah, me!

Thy barque into what haven may'st thou steer,