Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/45

She shed—warm tears of bitter memory;
But, with that heavenly burthen in her womb,
Became the mother of a perfect child.

A happy, long-lived man was he;
Wherefore a voice went through that fertile earth,
'Behold in verity
This is the son of Zeus: this is the seed
He sowed: who else among the Gods had stayed
The crafty plots that Hera laid?
If thou should'st say, "Here is Zeus' very deed,
This is a child of heavenly birth,"
Clean to the centre shall thine arrow speed.'

What God to thee should I prefer
And by a title holier
Ask Justice? Thou, O King,
Our Father art; and thy right hand
Hath planted us in a strange land;
We are thine own offspring.

Thou great unmatched artificer,
In thy calm heart let memory stir
The pulse of vanished days,
O Zeus that art in all things blest,
And whatso'er thou purposest
None hinders nor gainsays.

Thou art no vassal on a throne;
No power that doth transcend thine own
To thee dictates the law;
Nor is there one in higher place
To whom thou turn'st a humble face,
Holding his seat in awe.