Page:The Tragedies of Aeschylus - tr. Potter - 1812.pdf/53

Rh Ye rivers springing from fresh founts, ye waves

That o'er th' iuterminable ocean wreath

Your crisped siniles, thou all-producing earth,

And thee, bright sun, I call, whose flaming orb

Views the wide world beneath, see what, a god,

I suffer from the gods; with what fierce pains,

Behold, what tortures for revolving ages

I here must struggle; such unseemly chains

This new-rais'd ruler of the gods devis d.

Ah me! That groan bursts from my anguish'd heart,

My present woes and future to bemoan.

When shall these suff'rings fiud their destin'd end?

But why that vain inquiry? My clear sight

Looks through the future; unforeseen no ill

Shall come on mc: behoves me then to bear-

Patient my destiu'd fate, kuowing how vain

To struggle with necessity's strong pow'r.

But to compluin, or not complain, alike

Is unavailable. For favours shown

To mortal man I bear this weight of woe;

Hid in an hollow cane the fount of fire

I privately convey'd, of ev'ry art

Productive, and the noblest gift to men.

And for this slight offence, woe, woe is me!

I bear these chaius, fix'd to this savage rock,

Uusheltered from the inclemencies of th' air.

Ah me! what sound, what softly-breathing odour