Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/91

Rh Now o'er my spirit anxious fear

Broodeth, lest tidings I should hear

That night still shrouds in gloom;

For blind to deeds of blood the gods are not.

In Time the swarthy brood of Night

With slow eclipse reverse his lot,

Who Fortune reareth in despite

Of Justice. Reft of succour lies

The wretch once prone. Excessive praise

Is bodeful ever; 'gainst men's eyes

Zeus hurls his blinding rays.

But may ungrudged success be mine!

No city-spoiler let me be!

Nor, subject to another, pine

Myself in slavery.

Borne by the joy-announcing flame

Swift through the town the tidings fly;

But whether true who may proclaim,

Or not a heavenly lie?

For who so childish, so distraught,

To warm his spirit at the beacon's glow,

When other news, with evil fraught,

His joy may change to woe?

'Tis woman's way the boon, ere seen, to prize;

Too credulous, her fancy open lies

To rumour's rapid inroad, but the fame

Published by women quickly dies.