Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/88

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'Tis Zeus who smote them, this we may aver,

For easy 'tis to trace;

The end he shaped as he decreed.

Yet gods supernal, some declare,

To sinful mortals give no heed

Who trample under foot the grace

Of sacred things. But such are reprobate;—

Kindred they claim with those, in heaven's despite,

Who rebel war breathe forth, transgressing right.

Wealth in excess breeds mischief, and o'erturns

The balance of the constant mind;

No bulwark 'gainst destructive fate

In riches shall that mortal find

Who Justice' mighty altar rudely spurns.

Frenzy's unhappy suasion, fraught with bane

To hapless children, sways the will;

Against the mischief cure is vain;

Not hidden is the flagrant ill;—

Baleful it bursts upon the sight;

Like spurious coin, his metal base

Use and the touchstone bring to light,

Who, boy-like, to a wingèd bird gives chase,

And whelms his native soil in hopeless night.

His orisons the heavenly powers disclaim,

But sweep to doom the sinful wight

Practised in guile;—thus Paris came

To Atreus' halls;—the friendly board

He shamed, the consort luring from her lord.