Page:The Tragedies of Aeschylus - tr. Potter - 1812.pdf/64

20 This will be deem'd my simple policy.

These words indeed remand me to my grotte.

Cease to bewail me, lest thou wake his wrath.

What, the new monárch's of heav'n's potent throne ?

Take care bis indignation be not rous'd.

Thy misery sliall be my monitor.

Go then, be cautious, hold thy present judgment,

Thy words add speed to my dispatch. Already

My plumed steed his levell'd wings displays

To fan ihe hquid air, thro' fond desire.

In his own lodge his wearied speed to rest.


 * My bosom inelting at thy woes;
 * For thee ury tear-distilling eye
 * In streams of tender sorrow flows:


 * For Jove's imperious ruthless soul,


 * That scorns the pow'r of nild control,


 * Chastens with horrid tort'ring pain

Not known to gods, before his iron reign.


 * E'en yet this ample region o'er


 * Hoarse strains of sullen woe resound


 * Thy state, thy brother's state deplore,


 * Age-honour'd glories ruin'd round.


 * Thy woes, beneath the sacred shade


 * Of Asia's pastur'd forests laid,


 * The chaste inhabitant bewails