From her shall rise the hero, strong to wing
The dreaded shaft; he from these tort'ring pains
Shall set me free: this my age-honour'd mother,
Titanian Themis, with oracular voice
Foretold; but when, or how, requires a length
Of narrative, which known wou'd nought avail thee.
Ah me! Ah wretched me! That pang again !
Again that fiery pang, whose madd'ning smart
Corrodes and rankles in my breast! With fear
My heart pants thick; wildly my eyeballs roll;
Distraction drives my hurried steps a length
Of weary wand'rings; my ungovern'd tongue
Utters tumultuous ravings, that roll high
The floods of passion swoln with horrid woes.
PROMETHEUS, CHORUS.
CHORUS.
Was it not wisdom's sovereign pow'r
That beam'd her brightest, purest flame,
T' illume her sage's soul the thought to frame[1],
And clothe with words his heav'n-taught lore?
" Whoe'er thou art, whom young desire
Shall lead to Hymen's holy fire,
Choose, from thy equals choose thy humble love:
Let not the pomp of wealth allure thine eye,
Nor high-trac'd lineage thy ambition move;
Ill suits with low degree t' aspire so high."
Never, O never may my fate
See me a splendid victim led
To grace the mighty Jove's imperial bed,
Or share a god's magnific state.
- ↑ This sage was Pittacus of Mitylene, one of the seven celebrated wise men of Greece.
