PROMETHEUS BOUND.
43
Unto Cenchrea's pleasant wave I rush'd,
And Lerne's height.17 The herdsman born of earth,
Argos, invincible of ire, pursued,
Tracking my footsteps with his myriad eyes.
Him, an unlook'd-for, instantaneous fate
Deprived of life; but I, instinct with fury,
Am driv'n, by scourge divine, from land to land.
Thou hearest what is past. What is to come
Of trouble, oh, declare, if aught thou can;
Nor, pitying, flatter me with soothless words;
For I would name til' ignoblest sin—deceit.
Chorus.
I thought not such discourse would pass—
Such strange discourse—mine ear:
Nor that such sights of grief and fear,
So sad to view, and hard to bear,
