Before the shrine: on such a day, that falls
Propitious thus, the answer of the god
Would I receive: meanwhile these laurel boughs
Bear round the altars, lady, breathe thy pray'rs
To every god that from Apollo's shrine
I may bring back the promise of a son.
CREUSA, ION, CHORUS.
CREU. It shall, it shall be so. Should Phoebus now
At least be willing to redress the fault
Of former times, he would not through the whole
Be friendly to us: yet will I accept
What he vouchsafes us, for he is a god.
Why does this stranger always thus revile
With obscure speech the god? Is it through love
Of her, for whom she asks? or to conceal
Some secret of importance? But to me
What is the daughter of Erectheus? Nought
Concerns it me. Then let me to my task,
And sprinkle from the golden vase the dew.
Yet must I blame the god; if thus perforce
He mounts the bed of virgins, and by stealth
Becomes a father, leaving then his children.
To die, regardless of them. Do not thou
Act thus; but, as thy pow'r is great, respect
The Virtues; for whoe'er of mortal men
Dares impious deeds, him the gods punish: how
Is it then just that you, who gave the laws
To mortals, should yourselves transgress those laws;
If, though it is not thus, yet will I urge
The subject, if to mortals you shall pay
The penalty of forc'd embraces, thou
Neptune, and Jove that reigns supreme in heav'n,
Will leave your temples treasureless by paying
The mulcts of your injustice; for unjust
You are, your pleasures to grave temperance
Preferring and to men these deeds no more
Can it be just to charge as crimes, these deeds
If from the gods they imitate: on those,
Who give the ill examples, falls the charge.
Thee, prompt to yield thy lenient aid,
And soothe a mother's pain;
And thee, my Pallas, martial maid,
I call; O hear the strain!
Thou, whom the Titan from the head of Jove,
Prometheus, drew, bright Victory come,
Descending from thy golden throne above,
Haste, Goddess, to the Pythian dome,
Where Phoebus from his central shrine
Gives the oracle divine,
By the raving maid repeated,
On the hallow'd tripod seated,
O haste thee, Goddess, and with thee
The daughter of Latona bring,
A virgin thou, a virgin she,
Sisters to the Delphian king;
Him, Virgins, let your vows implore,
That now his pure oracular pow'r
Will to Erectheus' ancient line declare
The blessing of a long-expected heir!
To mortal man this promis'd grace
Sublimest pleasure brings,
When round the father's hearth a race
In blooming lustre springs.
The wealth, the honours, from their high-drawn line
From sire to son transmitted down,
Shall with fresh glory through their offspring shine,
And brighten with increas'd renown:
A guard, when ills begin to low'r,
Dear in fortune's happier hour;
For their country's safety waking,
Firm in fight the strong spear shaking.
459. Prometheus. Against the interpretation of Barnes, see Dr. Musgrave, and note to the Furies of Eschylus, p. 408. l. t.
More than proud wealth's exhaustless store,
More than a monarch's bride to reign,
The dear delight to Virtue's lore
Careful the infant mind to train.
Doth any praise the childless state?
The joyless, loveless life I hate :
No: my desires to moderate wealth I bound,
But let me see my children smile around.
Ye rustic seats, Pan's dear delight,
Ye caves of Macrai's rocky height,
Where oft the social virgins meet,
And weave the dance with nimble feet,
Descendants from Aglauros they
In the third line, with festive play
Minerva's hallow'd fane before
The verdant plain light-tripping o'er,
When thy pipe's quick-varying sound
Rings, O Pan, these caves around;
Where, by Apollo's love betray'd,
Her child some hapless mother laid,
Expos'd to each night-prowling beast,
Or to the ravenous birds a feast:
For never have I heard it told,
Nor wrought it in historic gold,
That happiness attends the race,
When gods with mortals mix th' embrace.
Ye female train, that place yourselves around
This incense-breathing temple's base, your lord
Awaiting, hath he left the sacred tripod
And oracle, or stays he in the shrine
Making enquiries of his childless state?
CHOR. Yet in the temple, stranger, he remains.
But he comes forth, the sounding doors announce
His near approach; behold our lord is here.
XUTHUS, ION, CHORUS.
XUTH. Health to my son! This first address is proper,
I have my health: be in thy senses thou,
And both are well.
O let me kiss thy hand,
And throw mine arms around thee.
Well in thy wits; or hath the god's displeasure
Bereft thee of thy reason?
That which is dearest being found, to wish
A fond embrace.
Off, touch me not, thy hands
Will mar the garlands of the god.
Asserts no pledge: my own, and that most dear,
I find.
Wilt thou not keep thee distant, e'er
Thou hast my arrow in thy heart?
When thou shou'dst own what is most fond of thee?
I am not fond of curing wayward strangers,
And mad men.
Kill me, raise my funeral pyre,
But, if thou kill me, thou wilt kill thy father.
My father thou! how so? it makes me laugh
To hear thee.
This my words may soon explain.
ION. What wilt thou say to me?
Hast thou e'er mounted an unlawful bed?
XUTH. In foolishness of youth.
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