Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/14

Tarrying not, with the fleeting ocean billow
To fly till our keel touched the Argive strand,
Whence we boast ourselves sprung, from the breath of Zeus' nostrils,
And the touch of his procreant finger laid,
For a dynasty's founding, on a king's daughter,
Even the gnat-tormented heifer-maid.
What land but this would offer us a haven,
Where else the world o'er should we welcome find,
Having no arms but the suppliant's feeble weapons,
Boughs from the woodland plucked with white wool twined?
Realm, broad realm, brown land and sparkling water,
Gods of the sky and holy ones of earth,
Denizens of darkness that visit men with vengeance,
And in that Triad last named but chief in worth,
Zeus, the Protector of travel-weary pilgrims,
Keeper of the threshold never crossed by crime,
Send soft airs to greet our maiden meinie,
Winds of welcome blowing from a sweet, calm clime.
But the ungodly sons of King Ægyptus,
Bulls of the herd, ere they trample this fair ground,—
Loamy levels, tilth and fallow land and pasture,—
Far over ocean with their swift ship hound!
There let them meet with thunder-blast and lightning,
Wrath of leaping seas and spite of storm-swept rain;
There let destruction find them when rough winter
Looses the lash of the loud hurricane;
Ere they climb loth beds to make of us their minions,
Minions of their pleasure and playthings of their pride;
So kindred blood shall not serve to cool brute passion
Not by sweet exchange of hearts sanctified.