Prometheus Bound, translated from the Greek of Æschylus, and Miscellaneous Poems by the Translator

Front matter

PROMETHEUS BOUND.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK

OF

Preface

PREFACE.

Although, among the various versions which have appeared of various ancient writers, we may recognise the dead, together with much of the living letter; a literal version, together with a transfusion of poetical spirit;—why should we, on that account, consider ourselves charmed away from attempting another translation? A mirror may be held in different lights by different hands; and, according to the position of those hands, will the light fall. A picture may be imitated in different ways,—by steel engraving, or stone engraving; and, according to the vocation of the artist, will the copy be. According to Dr. Bentley, Pope's translation of Homer is not Homer; it is Spondanus: he might have said, it is not even Spondanus—it is Pope. Cowper's translation is a different Homer altogether; not Spondanus, nor Pope, nor the right Homer either. We do not blame Pope and Cowper for not having faithfully represented Homer: we do not blame Pope and Cowper for being Pope and Cowper. It is the nature of the human mind to communicate its own character to whatever substance it conveys, whether it convey metaphysical impressions from itself to another mind, or literary compositions from one to another language. It is therefore desirable that the same composition should be conveyed by different minds, that the character of the medium may not be necessarily associated with the thing conveyed. All men, since Æsop's time and before it, have worn various-coloured spectacles. They cannot part with their colour, which is their individuality; but they may correct the effects of that individuality by itself. If Potter show us Æschylus through green spectacles, and another translator, though in a very inferior manner, show us Æschylus through yellow ones, it will become clear to the English reader, that green and yellow are not inherent properties of the Greek poet: and in this respect, both the English reader and the Greek poet are benefited.

But the present age says, it has no need of translations from classic authors. It is, or it would be, an original age: it will not borrow thoughts with long genealogies, nor walk upon a pavé, nor wear a costume, like Queen Anne's authors and the French dramatists. Its poetry shall not be cold and polished and imitative poetry; but shall dream undreamt of dreams, and glow with an unearthly frenzy. If its dreams be noble dreams, may they be dreamt on; if its frenzy be the evidence of inspiration, "may I," as Prometheus says, "be mad." But let the age take heed.—There is one step from dreaming nobly to sleeping inertly; and one, from frenzy to imbecility.

I do not ask, I would not obtain, that our age should be servilely imitative of any former age. Surely it may think its own thoughts and speak its own words, yet turn not away from those who have thought and spoken well. The contemplation of excellence produces excellence, if not similar, yet parallel. We do not turn from green hills and waving forests, because we build and inhabit palaces; nor do we turn towards them, that we may model them in painted wax. We make them subjects of contem , in order to abstract from them those ideas of beauty, afterwards embodied in our own productions; and, above all, in order to consider their and our Creator under every manifestation of his goodness and his power. All beauties, whether in nature or art, whether in physics or morals, whether in composition or abstract reasoning, are multiplied reflections, visible in different distances and under different positions, of one archetypal beauty. If we owe gratitude to Him, who created and unveiled its form, should we refuse to gaze upon those reflections? Because they rest even upon heathen scrolls, should we turn away from those scrolls? Because thorns and briers are the product of the earth, should we avert our eyes from that earth? The mind of man and the earth of man are cursed alike.

But the age would not be "classical." "O, that profaned name!" What does it mean, and what is it made to mean? It does not mean what it is made to mean: it does not mean what is necessarily regular, and polished, and unimpassioned. The ancients, especially the ancient Greeks, felt, and thought, and wrote antecedently to rules: they felt passionately, and thought daringly; and wrote because they felt and thought. Shakspeare is a more classical writer than Racine.

Perhaps, of all the authors of antiquity, no one stands so forward to support this hypothesis, as Æschylus; and of all the works of Æschylus, no one stands more forward to support it, than his work of the Prometheus Bound. He is a fearless and impetuous, not a cautious and accomplished poet. His excellences could not be acquired by art, nor could his defects exist separately from genius. It would be nearly equally impossible for the mere imitator to compass either; for if we would stand in the mist, we must stand also on the mountain. His excellences consist chiefly in a vehement imaginativeness, a strong but repressed sensibility, a high tone of morality, a fervency of devotion, and a rolling energetic diction: and as sometimes his fancy rushes in, where his judgment fears to tread, and language, even the most copious and powerful of languages, writhes beneath its impetuosity; an occasional mixing of metaphor, and frequent obscurity of style, are named among his chief defects. He is pompous too, sometimes; but his pomposity has not any modern, any rigid, frigid effect. When he walks, like his actors, on cothurni, we do not say "how stiff he is!" but "how majestic!"

Whether the Prometheus be, or be not, the finest production of its author, it will not, I think, be con , that Prometheus himself is the character, in the conception and development of which, its author has concentrated his powers in the most full and efficient manner. There is more gorgeousness of imagery in the Seven Chiefs; and more power in the Eumenides; and I should tremble to oppose any one scene in Prometheus, to the Cassandra scene in Agamemnon. The learned Mr. Boyd, who, in addition to many valuable and well-known translations, has furnished the public with an able version of that obscure tragedy, considers the scene in question to be "unapproached and unapproachable by any rival." But I would rest the claims of the Prometheus upon one fulcrum, the conception of character. It is not in the usual manner of Æschylus to produce upon his canvass any very prominent figure, to which every other is made subordinate, and to which the interest of the spectator is very strongly and almost exclusively attached. Agamemnon's πληγὴν ἒχω we do not feel within our hearts. In the Seven Chiefs, there is a clear division of interest; and the reader willingly agrees with Antigone, that Polynices should be as honorably buried as Eteocles. In the Supplices, we are called upon to exercise universal charity towards fifty heroines. In the Persæ, we cannot weep with Atossa over the misfortunes of Xerxes; not even over what she most femininely considers to be his greatest misfortune—μάλιστα δ᾽ ἢδε συμφορὰ δάκνει-—his wearing a tattered garment. Perhaps we know more of Orestes than of any personage, always excepting Prometheus, introduced by Æschylus: and yet both in the Choëphorce and Eumenides, we are interested in his calamities, rather from their being calamities than from their being his. But Prometheus stands eminent and alone; one of the most original, and grand, and attaching characters ever conceived by the mind of man. That conception sank deeply into the soul of Milton, and, as has been observed, rose from thence in the likeness of his Satan. But the Satan of Milton and the Prometheus of Æschylus stand upon ground as unequal, as do the sublime of sin and the sublime of virtue. Satan suffered from his ambition; Prometheus from his humanity: Satan for himself; Prometheus for mankind: Satan dared perils which he had not weighed; Prometheus devoted himself to sorrows which he had foreknown. "Better to rule in hell," said Satan; "Better to serve this rock," said Prometheus. But in his hell, Satan yearned to associate man; while Prometheus preferred a solitary agony: nay, he even permitted his zeal and tenderness for the peace of others, to abstract him from that agony's intenseness.

Æschylus felt the force of his own portraiture: he never removes his Prometheus from the spectator's sight. The readers of Æschylus feel it: they are impatient at Io's long narrations; not because those narrations are otherwise than beautiful, but because they would hear Prometheus speak again: they are impatient even at Prometheus's prophetic replies to Io, because they would hear him speak only of Prometheus. From the moment of the first dawning of his character upon their minds, its effect is electrifying. He is silent: he disdains as much to answer the impotent and selfish compassion of Vulcan, as to murmur beneath the brutal cruelty of Strength. It was not thus that he pitied in his days of joy: it was not thus that he acted in his days of power: and his spirit is above them, and recks not of them; and when their pity and their scoffs pollute his ears no more, he pours out his impassioned sorrows to the air, and winds, and waters, and earth, and sun, whom he had never visited with benefits, and "taxed not with unkindness." The striking nature of these, our first ideas of Prometheus, is not enfeebled by any subsequent ones. We see him daring and unflinching beneath the torturing and dishonoring hand, yet keenly alive to the torture and dishonor; for himself fearless and rash, yet for others considerate and wary; himself unpitied, yet to others pitiful. And when, at the last, he calls no longer upon the sun, and earth, and waters, from whom the Avenger is secluding him; but demands of Æther, who is rolling light to all eyes excepting his, whether he beholds how he suffers by injustice;—our hearts rise up within us, and bear witness that the suffering is indeed unjust.

It is apparent with what bitter feeling the conceiver of this character must have regarded the transferred praise and love of Athens—of his country. "Are you not ashamed," said Menander to Philemon, "to conquer me in comedy?" Such a reproach might Æschylus have used to his dramatic rival, and extracted as deep a blush as ever stained Philemon's cheek. But he did not. Silent as his own Prometheus, he left for ever the Athens on whom he had conferred the immortality of his name and works; and went to Sicily, to die. In that place of exile he wrote his epitaph instead of tragedies, calling with his dying voice on the grove of Marathon and the conquered Persians, as the only witnesses of his glory. "If thorns be in thy path," saith Marcus Antoninus, "turn aside." But where should he turn, who would avoid the ingratitude and changefulness of man?

Among those who have passed judgment upon Æschylus, it is remarkable how many have passed a similar one to that of the Athenians, when, according to Suidas, they "broke down the benches" previous to his departure for Sicily;—a phrase interpreted by Scaliger to signify a final condemnation of his work. He is "damn'd by faint praise;" by an alternate acknow of his genius, and censure of his taste; and by an invidious opposition to Sophocles and Euripides. Of the three great critics of antiquity,—Longinus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Quintilian,—Dionysius alone does not measure his criticism to twice the length of his commendation. Quintilian calls him "rudis in plerisque et incompositus," which my sense of justice almost gives me courage to call a false criticism. Longinus—Longinus!! uses similar language: —ἐνίοτε μέντοι ἀκατεργάστους καὶ οἱονεὶ ποκοειδεῖς τας ἐννοίας καὶ ἁμαλάκτους φέροντος. Now there are, undeniably, some things in Æschylus, which, like the expressions of Callisthenes, would properly fall under the censure of Longinus, as being οὐχ ὑψηλὰ, ὰλλὰ μετέωρα. But according to every principle by which he himself could urge his immortal claim upon posterity, the Homer of criticism should have named with less of coldness and more of rapture, the Homer of dramatic poetry.

With regard to the execution of this attempt, it is not necessary for me to say many words. 1 have rendered the iambics into blank verse, their nearest parallel; and the choral odes and other lyric intermixtures, into English lyrics, irregular and rhymed. Irregularity I imagined to be indispensable to the conveyance of any part of the effect of the original measure, of which little seems to be understood by modern critics, than that it is irregular. To the literal sense I have endeavoured to bend myself as closely as was poetically possible: but if, after all,—and it is too surely the case,—"quantum mutatus!" must be applied; may the reader say so rather sorrowfully than severely, and forgive my English for not being Greek, and myself for not being Æschylus.

And will Æschylus forgive, among my many other offences against him, the grave offence of profaning his Prometheus, by attaching to it some miscellaneous poems by its translator? Will he not rather retort upon me, his chorus's strongly expressed disapprobation of unequal unions? And how can I defend myself? ἀπόλεμος ὄδε γ᾽ ὁ πόλεμος.

Prometheus Bound

PROMETHEUS BOUND.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

Prometheus.

Vulcan.

Strength.

Force.

Oceanus.

Hermes.

Io.

Chorus of sea-nymphs.

PROMETHEUS BOUND.

Scene in European Scythia. Rocks facing the Euxine Sea.

Prometheus,1 Vulcan, Strength2 and Force.

Strength. We have attain'd the utmost bound of earth, The Scythian way, th' unpeopled wilderness; And now it fits thee, Vulcan, to perform The father's will; and this audacious god Fix to the lofty-browëd rocks, by links Infrangible of adamantine chains. Thy crown, the glory of constructive fire, Stole he, and gave to men; for which offence

'Tis just he pay to gods exacted vengeance; So may he learn t' admit Saturnius' sway, And make cessation from his love of man. Vul. O Strength and Force! for you, doth Jove's command Look to its end unhinder'd. But for me, To bind with forceful hands a kindred god Against this tempest-riven precipice, Is what I dare not: yet, necessity Maketh me dare—neglect of Jove were awful. Oh! of sagacious Themis, sagest son, Thee loath, I loath, with chains insoluble Shall fix against this desolated rock,— Where never voice nor form of mortal man Shall meet thee friend of man—where, 'stablished 'Neath the fierce sun, thy brow's white flower shall fade— Star-broider'd night enshadow thee well pleased, And day disperse the morning dews again!

But ever shall the present sense of woe Gnaw at thy heart; for no deliv'rer comes! Such fruit thou cullest from thy love of man! For thou a god, denying fear to gods, Gavest to mortals honor unbefit. For which things thou shalt guard this joyless rock, Erect, unslumb'ring, bending not the knee, And many wailings and unfruitful groans Shalt utter. For Jove's mind is obdurate, And ever cruel is a new-made king. Strength. Amen!—Why laggest thou with vain compassion? Why hat'st thou not a god who hateth gods— Who yielded up thy glory unto men? Vul. Strong is the tie of kindred and of friendship!3 Strength. I grant it. But how canst thou disobey The father? Doth not this affright thee more? Vul. Aye wert thou stern and full of hardihood. Strength. Because it booteth not, bewailing him;

Nor labour thou for what can profit nought. Vul. Oh hateful hateful art, learn'd by mine hands! Strength. Why hate it? For in simple sooth, thine art Is not the cause of any present ill. Vul. Would that another used it! Strength. Every thing Is full of sorrow, save to rule the gods:—4 For none is free, save Jove. Vul. I have known that; And can in nothing contradict thy words. Strength. Why then not hasten to encompass round This god with chains, lest Jove behold thee lagging? Vul. The manacles are here. Strength. Then, seizing him, On either side his hands, with nervous might Strike with the hammer,—fix him to the rocks. Vul. The work is done, and not imperfectly.

Strength. Strike with a stronger stroke, compress, relax not:— He can find ways where others find no ways. Vul. This arm is fix'd indissolubly. Strength. Now Bind fast the other—let the sophist learn He is less wise than Jove. Vul. Except Prometheus, None can upbraid me justly! Strength. Firmly fix Athwart his breast the pertinacious jaw Of adamantine wedge. Vul. Alas! alas! Prometheus, I am mourning o'er thy fate! Strength. Art thou a dastard? For the foes of Jove Mourn'st thou? Take heed, lest thou bewail thyself. Vul. A spectacle thou seest, sad to see. Strength. I see this god endure just punishment.

But fetter now his sides. Vul. Necessity Compelleth this; but urge not thou too much. Strength. Yea, I will urge, and iterate mine urging— Go down, and forcibly enchain his limbs. Vul. 'Tis done, and by no lengthen'd toil. Strength. And now Strongly the perforating shackles, strike— Strike thou—for he, whose work thou dost, is stern. Vul. Thy tongue speaks words as rugged as thy form. Strength. Be soft and tender thou, but me reproach not For the firm will and anger resolute. Vul. Depart we. Iron nets enfold his limbs. Strength. Here now insult! And having spoil'd the gods Of glories, bless man with them. Tell me how

Thy well-loved mortals can deliver thee From all these woes. The gods have named thee falsely Prometheus the Provider, who thyself Need'st a provider for escaping hence.

Prometheus alone.

O holy æther, and swift-wingëd winds,

And river founts, and dimples numberless Of oceanic waves—all-fost'ring earth, And, all-beholding sun, on thee I call, Behold me, what I bear—a god, from gods. Behold me, by what anguish worn, These eyes of mine shall weary turn Unto time's myriad years. So harsh a chain of suffering, Hath form'd for me heav'n's new-made king! Alas! alas! my tears Alike for present and for future flow!— Where lies the bound'ry of my mighty woe?

What do I say? all things, all future things, I view unclouded; nor can sorrow come Strange to my soul. It doth behove to bear Calmly what Fate ordaineth, knowing that Necessity hath force impugnable. Yet can I not be silent, or unsilent, Of these my woes. To these necessities, Because I gave to man a glorious gift, I have been yoked—because I stole away The ferule-treasured secret fount of fire,5 Teacher of every art, high help to mortals— For such sin I endure such punishment; Rock-fixed, in the desert air, in chains. Ah me! ah me! ah me! what sound. What viewless odour hovers round? From god or man, or half divine Being, who nears this rock of mine, This limit of the earth, to see My woes, or seek—whate'er it be?

View me a bound and sorrowing god, The foe of Jove, the hate of such As Jove's imperial courts have trod; Because I loved man too much. Ah me! ah me! what sound I hear Of coming birds! Air murm'ring sings, Beneath the soft light stroke of wings— And all society is fear.

Prometheus and Chorus.

Chorus.

Fear nothing. Lo! This friendly train On the fast-flashing oar of pinions, Draws nigh; but scarce such boon could gain From him who holdeth sea dominions. Me too the rapid winds have borne afar. Deep thro' our caves the clank of iron came— Forth from my cheek was struck the blush of shame And rush'd I shoonless on my wingëd car.6

Prometheus.

Ah me! ah me! ah me!

Children of Tethys, who hath given birth To many, and involveth all the earth With an unsleeping sea! Daughters of old Oceanus, Behold, look on me, how constrained thus, By chains to this exalted rocky steep, Sad vigil I must keep.

Chorus.

Prometheus, I do look on thee!—but now

A cloud is o'er mine eyes, A trembling cloud surcharged with many tears; When I would gaze where rock-constrained thou Hangest consumed by iron miseries— Because new gods th' Olympian hill obtaineth, And by new laws the son of Saturn reigneth— And past the mighty things of former years.

Prometheus.

Would that under earth, beneath

Haïdes, the host of death, Into baseless Tartarus, He had hurl'd me shackled thus Cruelly, infrangibly! Then, neither god nor man could be Rejoicer o'er Prometheus' woes: Now, motion'd by each wind that blows, I gladden—wretched me!—my foes.

Chorus.

Who of the gods so stern as to be gladden'd?

Who by thy fate unsadden'd? Who of the gods, save Jove? He, ever lending To wrath his soul unbending, Ruleth the heav'ns, nor e'er shall cease from ill, Until his heart be satiate, or until By fraud the sceptre's strength be wrested from his will.

Prometheus.

Yea! even me, albeit indeed

By fetter strong consumed I lie, The ruler of the blest shall need— To show that counsel new whereby He loseth honor, sov'reignty. And honey'd, suasive words shall be, Though charm'd, no spell to soften me; Nor iron threats shall move me e'er By fear this counsel to declare, Before he break my cruel chain. And pay the price of all this pain.

Chorus.

Daring thou art, nor aught to bitter woe

Dost yield, but speakest words too free— And fear doth vex and pierce my spirit thro'!

I fear the fate attending thee, Where thou shalt voyage ere thou see The shore of grief: for none can move The will, or melt the heart of Jove.

Prometheus.

I know that Jove is cruel; that he hath

For his sole justice, his own will. Yet shall he soft and tender be, Moved by this threaten'd ill; And calming his unconquerable wrath, He shall not hasten less than I, To concord and to amity. Cho. Remove the veil from all things, and narrate In what offences, Jove detecting thee, Imposed such cruel and dishon'ring woe. Instruct us, if th' instruction grieve thee not. Pro. Grievous to me to speak of what is past: Grievous, to speak not—each way miserable!—

What time the gods their primal wrath began, And 'mid their ranks arose the mutual strife, Some eager to thrust Saturn from his throne, That Jove forsooth should fill it; some averse, Resolved that Jove should never rule the gods— Did I by wisest counsel seek to move The Titans, children of the heav'ns and earth; But fail'd in power. For all my courteous guile, Contemning with inexorable mind, They thought to lord it, without toil, by force. Oft had my mother Themis, yea, and Gaia, (Albeit one, she beareth many names) Foretold to me what future was to come; That not by fortitude or force but fraud, The victors were to vanquish. Such decree When I unfolded in mine arguments, They deignëd not to view the whole; what time Meseem'd it best of every present ill, That having won my mother to my side,

I willing should assist the willing Jove— And by my counsel the Tartarean pit, Based in darkness, covers ancient Saturn, And with him his allies. The King of gods, Being by me so benefited, now Hath paid me back with this ill recompense; Because there lies inbred in royalty, A rank disease—distrustfulness of friends. But that which ye demand, the cause wherefrom He doth afflict me, I will render clear. What time he sate upon his father's throne, First, unto various deities he gave Gifts various, and arranged his government; But reck'd he nothing of unhappy man, Eager to rase his universal kind, And generate another; which desire None dared resist, save I: but I, with daring Interposition, rescued mortal man From sinking into hell, exterminate.

Wherefrom beneath this anguish am I bent. Grievous to suffer, piteous to behold; And I who pitied man, am deem'd myself Unmeet for pity; but am harp'd on thus By Jove's fell hand, dishonor'd spectacle! Cho. Oh, iron-hearted, formed from the rock, Is he, Prometheus, who lamenteth not Thy woes. I yearned, not to look on them, And, having look'd, mine heart was anguish'd. Pro. Yea; To friends I am a piteous spectacle. Cho. But didst thou not offend in more than this? Pro. I smote with blindness man's prophetic sight, Cho. What drug devising for their malady? Pro. Blind hopes I sent among them. Cho. Mighty help Thereby thou didst afford to men. Pro. Besides, I yielded them the gift of fire—

Cho. And now Th' ephemerals possess the red-eyed fire— Pro. By which they shall be learn'd in many arts. Cho. For such crimes doth the hand of Jove afflict, And loosen not the chain of chastisement? Is there prescribed no limit to thy woe? Pro. No limit—none; save what seems good to him. Cho. And how will it seem good? What hope remains? Seest thou not, thou hast sinn'd? To say, thou hast, Gives me no joy, and may increase thy grief: So let that pass, and seek out thy deliv'rance. Pro. Easy for him, whose foot is free from toils Of grief, to counsel and reproach the grieved! But all these things I knew. By mine own will— By mine own will, I sinn'd—and will confess— And, aiding mortals, met with woe myself. Indeed I thought not, by such chastisement,

Attenuate, against the lofty rocks, To guard this tenantless and lonely hill— Nathless bewail not o'er my present woes, But on the plain descending, what shall come, Attend, that ye may learn the perfect whole, Obey me, nymphs, obey me; labour with Him who is toiling now; for wand'ring Woe Sits at the feet of every one by turns.

Chorus.

Not on the loath thou dost enforce thy words,

Prometheus; and with lightsome feet, Leaving my quickly-motion'd seat, Leaving the holy air, the way of birds, Anon I reach this promontory. And yearn to hear thy woful story.

Prometheus, Chorus, and Oceanus.

Oceanus.

I come, my weary travel ending,

Prometheus, unto thee; My steed's wing'd course by counsel bending; Of bridle he is free. Behold, I sorrow in thy woe! I ween that mutual kindred so Impels me; but, without our line, The fate of none would I combine With blessing, more than thine. My faithfulness thy soul will know; No flatteries false my lips attend; Then, can I serve thee, troubled thus? Thou shalt not say thou hast a friend Firmer than Oceanus. Pro. Ha! what is this? Thou, too, of my distress

Comest spectator? Wherefore hast thou dared, Leaving the tides that bear thy name, the caves Rock-roof'd and self-create, to visit earth, The mother of this iron? Didst thou come To look upon my griefs, and grieve withal? Behold a spectacle!—me, friend of Jove— Me, the creator of his royalty— Beneath what torture from his hand I bow! Ocea. Prometheus, I behold, and fain would lend Thine ear my chiefest counselling, albeit Thou hast a subtle mind. Know thine own self, And change thy ways, since heav'n hath changed her king; For if thou thus eject stern arrowy words, Though far above thee the Saturnian throne, Jove may attend, and all his present wrath Beseem a very sport at chastisement. Unhappy god! what ire thou hast, expel, And seek an egress from these circling pangs.

For tho' perchance my words, an olden saw May seem, Prometheus, such the recompense Attending lofty speech! But thou, in nought Abased, to sorrow yieldest not, and fain Wouldst add unto thy present, future ill! Therefore bv me instruct, thou never more Wilt kick against the goad,7 seeing that Jove, Is cruel, and to none accountable. And now depart I from thee, and will strive, If aught I can, to work thy liberty. Calm thy roused soul, nor passion in thy speech! Hast thou not learned, who art learn'd in much, That ruin presses on the idle tongue? Pro. I honor thee, who uncompell'd, partak'st My present curse, and darest that to come. Now, rest—forget me!—thou wilt move not him: He is unmoving; rather heed thyself, Lest visiting my grief should stir his vengeance. Ocea. More subtle far thou art for others' weal,

Than thine: I witness it by deeds, not words. Me moved to act, thou shalt not backward draw— Because I glory—glory, that to me The hand of Jove shall grant thy freedom's boon. Pro. Truly I praise thee, and shall ever praise; For thou hast shrunk from nought of kindness. Yet, Toil not for me; since vainly thou wilt toil, Whate'er thou toilest, profiting me nought. Be calm, and save thyself: for not because I needs must sorrow thus, my spirit wills That others should be sorrowful like me. No, in good truth; upon my heart, the fate8 Of Atlas—of my brother, weighs,—who stands Westward, upon his shoulder balancing The column of the heav'n and earth; a burden For strength gigantic. I have also seen. And pitied, by superior force subdued, The earth-born tenant of Cilician caves, Th' embattled monster, him o' the hundred heads,9

Vehement Typhon, who opposed the gods, Out-hissing slaughter from his horrid jaws. Forth from his eyes the fearful splendour glared, As to annihilate the throne of Jove; But him did Jove's unsleeping arrow find, The headlong thunderbolt out-breathing fire, And smote him from his boast majestical: For stricken to the very soul, his strength Was scorch'd and thunder-blasted from him. Now A useless and immeasurable form, Fie lies beside the oceanic strait, Compressed underneath Mount Ætna's roots; Upon whose highest summit Vulcan sits, Beating his iron; and from whence erupt Rivers of fire, that gnaw with savage jaws, The fair wide plains of fruitful Sicily. Such wrath doth Typhon bubble forth, with darts Hot, unapproachable, of fiery storm, Though turn'd to cinder by the bolt of Jove.

But thou possessest wisdom, nor dost need My teaching: by thy knowledge save thyself. For me, I quaff this cup of present fate, Until the soul of Jove take breath from vengeance. Ocea. Therefore, Prometheus, art thou ignorant That words do med'cine the disease of wrath? Pro. Yea; if the heart they opportunely soothe, And do not sear the tumours of the soul. Ocea. For him who wisely thinks and nobly acts, Seest thou inherent punishment? Instruct me. Pro. Labour superfluous—foolishness inane! Ocea. Yet, suffer me to faint 'neath this disease Of folly, since it profits that the wise Appear unwise. Pro. This will appear my sin. Ocea. In sooth, thy counsel drives me to mine home. Pro. Lest my bewailing drive thee into wrath. Ocea. His wrath, who newly sitteth on the seat Omnipotent?