Page:The Tragedies of Aeschylus - tr. Potter - 1812.pdf/52

8 How impotent his craft, oppos'd to Jove.

This work he only can with justice blame.

Across his breast draw now this stubborn bar

Of adamant, fix firm its sharpen'd point.

Thy miseries, Prometheus, I bewail.

Still dost thou linger Still bewail the foes

Of Jove ? Take heed lest thou bewail thyself.

Thou seest an object horrible to sight,

I see him honour'd as his deeds deserve.

But haste thee, fix this strong habergeon on him.

Constraint lies on me; urge not thou its rigour.

Urge thee I will, and in an higher tone.

Downwards; with all thy force enring his legs.

This too is finish'd, with no ling'ring speed.

Strike hard, drive deep their penetrating points.

Severe his eye, who nicely scans thése works.

Thy voice is harsh, and rugged as thy form.

Now fair befal thy softness; yet upbraid not

My ruder and unpitying ruthlessness.

Let us be gone: the rig'rous task is done.

Now triumph in thy insolence; now steal

The glory of the gods, and bear the gift

To mortal man: will they relieve thee now?

False is the boasted prudence of thy name,

Or wanted now to free the from thy fate.

Ethereal air, and ye swift-winged winds,