Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/16

I as the nightingale passioning for sorrow
To Ionian music tune my pipe,
And these soft cheeks feel the rain-worn furrow
That on Nilus' bank grew round and ripe:
For my heart hath learnt the meaning of tears,
And I fill my lap with blossoms pale
Gathered with grief in the wood of wail,
The better to hush these brooding fears
That are fain to know to what end I fare
From the land that lies dim in dust-veiled air,
If there be any who hearkens or hears.

Nay, but ye Gods of the bride-bed and begetting,
Hear me! Ye should be jealous for the Right!
Grudge lawless youth, with the hot blood fretting,
Lore that perfects passion's neophyte!
Set the brand of your scorn on lust that profanes,
And mingle love's rite with austerities sweet!
What is fiercer than war? Yet for war-weary feet
There standeth an altar, no sacrilege stains:
To what-so wight would from battle-carnage flee,
A refuge awe owns and a court of deity,
Where red-handed Havoc halts and refrains.

Saith the wise saw of old,
'The purpose Zeus doth hold
Next to his heart no hunter brings to bay.'
All Being in his sight
Flows in the main of light,
The mirrored glory of his perfect day,
Where man the babbler with vain lips
Sees but the secular dark of unrelieved eclipse.