Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/435

Rh By myriad tortures rack'd in sore distress.

For thou, of Zeus unaw'd, hast still,

In pride and sheer self-will,

Mortals, Prometheus, honour'd in excess.

What boots it, friend, when grace by grace

Is unrequited? In distress

Say, from ephemera what aid?

Hast not discerned the feebleness,

Dream-like and weak, that man's blind race

Cramps and confines? No scheme by mortals laid

The harmony of Zeus shall e'er transgress.

This lesson from thy doom of pain

I learnt, Prometheus. On mine ear

Alighteth now far other strain

Than that, 'mid Hymeneal mirth,

Which erst, the bath and couch beside,

I sang, what time our sister dear,

Hesione, as thine espoused bride

Thou wast escorting, won by gifts of worth.

What country? What race? who is he,

This man, whom, rock-bound, I survey,