Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/462

392

Of every wind rude blasts that sweep

In strife of rancour-breathing hate.

The sky is mingled with the deep.

Such turmoil to arouse my fear

Comes visibly from Zeus. Oh thou,

Mother revered! Oh upper air,

Who sheddest from thy circling sphere

The common light! Behold ye now

What pangs unjust I bear.

 

550. After a word is lost. I suggest—

.

869. . Every one feels that the poet cannot have written thus. I suggest, as close to the letters of the text.

914. A word is lost,  will satisfy metre and sense. The old text in the strophe is,, |

920–27 appear to me to be antistrophic. Perhaps thus:

(.)

(.)

Author:Francis William Newman 