PROMETHEUS BOUND.

[ÆSCHYLUS, a famous tragic poet of Greece, was born in Attica, B. c. 525, and died in Sicily, at the age of 68. At the age of 25, he was a competitor for the prize of tragedy, which he did not gain, however, until fifteen years later. Eschylus fought at the battles of Marathon, Salamis, and Platea. In 468 B. c., Sophocles defeated him in a contest for the honors of tragedy, when he quitted Athens, and took up his residence at Syraeuse. The dramas of Eschylus which have survived, are only seven, out of seventy said to have been written by him. He was a great and original genius, and did much to perfect dramatic art, limiting the choral parts, introducing the'dialogue, and improving the costumes and scenery of the stage.]

Chor. I grieve, Prometheus, for thy dreary fate,
Shedding from tender eyes
The dew of plenteous tears;

With streams, as when the watery south wind blows,
My cheek is wet;

For lo! these things are all unenviable,
And Zeus, by his own laws his sway maintaining,
Shows to the elder gods
A mood of haughtiness.

ANTISTROPH.

And all the country echoeth with the moan,
And poureth many a tear
For that magnific power

Of ancient days far-seen that thou didst share
With those of one blood sprung:

And all the mortal men who hold the plain
Of holy Asia as their land of sojourn,

They grieve in sympathy

For thy woes lamentable.

STROPH II.

And they, the maiden band who find their home
On distant Colchian coasts,
Fearless of fight,

Or Scythian horde in earth's remotest clime,
By far Mæotic lake.

ANTISTROPII II.

And warlike glory of Arabia's tribes,

Who nigh to Caucasos

In rock fort dwell,

An army fearful with sharp pointed spear Raging in war's array.

STROPH III.

One other Titan only have I seen,

One other of the gods,

Thus bound in woes of adamantine strength—

Atlas, who ever groans

Beneath the burden of a crushing might, The out-spread vault of heaven.

ANTISTROPH III.

And lo! the ocean billows murmur loud
In one accord with him;

The sea-depths groan, and Hades' swarthy pit
Re-echoeth the sound,

And fountains of clear rivers as they flow,
Bewail his bitter griefs.

Prom. Think not it is through pride or stiff self-will
That I am silent. But my heart is worn,
Self-contemplating, as I see myself
Thus outraged. Yet what other hand than mine
Gave these young gods in fulness all their gifts?
But these I speak not of; for I should tell
To you that know them. But those woes of men,
List ye to them,-how they before as babes,
By me were roused to reason, taught to think;
And this I say, not finding fault with men,
But showing my good will in all I gave.
For first, though seeing, all in vain they saw,
And hearing, heard not rightly. But, like forms of
Phantom-dreams, throughout their life's whole length
They muddled all at random; did not know
Houses of brick that catch the sunlight's warmth,
Nor yet the work of carpentry. They dwelt
In hollowed holes, like swarms of tiny ants,
In sunless depths of caverns; and they had
No certain signs of winter, nor of spring
Flower laden, nor of summer with her fruits;
But without counsel fared their whole life long,
Until I showed the risings of the stars,
And settings hard to recognize. And I
Found number for them, chief device of all,
Groupings of letters, Memory's handmaid that,
And mother of the Muses. And I first
Bound in the yoke wild steeds, submissive made
Or to the collar or men's limbs, that so
They might in man's place bear his greatest toils;
And horses trained to love the rein I yoked
To chariots, glory of wealth's pride of state.
Nor was it any one but I that found
Sea-crossing, canvas-winged cars of ships:
Such rare designs inventing (wretched nie!)
For mortal men, I yet have no device

By which to free myself from this my woe.

Chor. Foul shame thou sufferest: of thy sense be

reaved,

Thou errest greatly: and like leech unskilled,
Thou losest heart when smitten with disease,
And know'st not how to find the remedies
Wherewith to heal thine own soul's sicknesses.

Prom. Hearing what yet remains thou'lt wonder more, What arts and what resources I devised:

And this the chief: if any one fell ill,

There was no help for him, nor healing food,

Nor unguent, nor yet potion; but for want

Of drugs they wasted, till I showed to them

The blendings of all mild medicaments,
Wherewith they ward the attacks of sickness sore.

I gave them many modes of prophecy;

And I first taught them what dreams needs must prove