Though burnt and charred by thunderbolts of Zeus.
Not inexperienced art thou, nor dost need
My teaching: save thyself, as thou know'st how;
And I will drink my fortune to the dregs,
Till from his wrath the mind of Zeus shall rest."
Warned by such examples, and finding it impossible to persuade Prometheus, the Ocean-god retires. His four-footed bird is eager, he says, to be in his stall at home, and he sets forth gladly on his return through the blue path of ether.
Prometheus is alone again with the Chorus, who now express their sympathy in a beautiful ode. Tears for his lot, they say, are flowing down their tender cheeks—tears of grief and of indignation at the tyranny of Zeus. All the neighbouring regions mourn for the fall of the stately power of ancient days; the dwellers in holy Asia, and the bold Amazons upon the Colchian coasts, and the savage Scythians, and the warlike natives of the Caucasus,—all mourn in universal sympathy. Then they speak again of the like fate of Atlas, ever groaning under the burden of the world, with whom all nature laments, as with Prometheus.
"And lo! the ocean-billows murmur loud
In one accord with him;
The sea-depths groan, and Hades' swarthy pit
Re-echoeth with the sound,
And fountains of the rivers, flowing clear,
Wail the sad tale of woe."
When the soft sweet accents of this graceful song have died away, there is silence for a space, while we
