Page:The Tragedies of Aeschylus - tr. Potter - 1812.pdf/65

Rh Thy groans re-echoing thro' his plaintive vales.


 * The Colchian virgin, whose bold hand
 * Undaunted grasps the warlike spear;
 * On earth's last verge the Seythian band,
 * The torpid lake Mæætis near;
 * Arabia's martial race, that wield
 * The sharp lance in th' embattled field,
 * Thro' all their rock-built cities groan,

The crags of Caucasus return the groan.
 * One other, e'er thy galling chain,
 * Of heaven's high sous with tortures quell'd,
 * That rack each joint, each sinew strain,
 * Titanian Atlas I beheld;
 * His giant strength condemn'd to bear
 * The solid, vast and pond'rous sphere.
 * The springs whose fresh streams swell around,
 * The hoarse waves from their depths profound,
 * And all the gloomy realms below,

Sigh to his sighs, and murmur to his woe.

It is not pride; deem nobler' of me, virgins;

It is not pride, that held me silent thus;

The thought of these harsh chains, that hang me here,

Cuts to my heart. Yet who, like me, advanc'd

To their high dignity our new-rais'd gods?

But let me spare the tale, to you well known.

The ills of man you've heard. I form'd his mind,

And through the cloud of barb'rous ignorance

Diffus'd the beams of knowledge. I will speak,

Not taxing them with blame, but my own gifts

Displaying, and benevolence to them.

They saw indeed, they heard; but what avail'd