_Hermes._ Why, the words that he speaks and the thoughts that he thinks Are maniacal!--add, If the Fate who hath bound him should loose not the links, He were utterly mad. Then depart ye who groan with him, Leaving to moan with him,-- Go in haste! lest the roar of the thunder anearing Should blast you to idiocy, living and hearing. _Chorus._ Change thy speech for another, thy thought for a new, If to move me and teach me indeed be thy care! For thy words swerve so far from the loyal and true That the thunder of Zeus seems more easy to bear. How! couldst teach me to venture such vileness? behold! I _choose_, with this victim, this anguish foretold! I recoil from the traitor in hate and disdain, And I know that the curse of the treason is worse Than the pang of the chain. _Hermes._ Then remember, O nymphs, what I tell you before, Nor, when pierced by the arrows that Até will throw you, Cast blame on your fate and declare evermore That Zeus thrust you on anguish he did not foreshow you. Nay, verily, nay! for ye perish anon For your deed--by your choice. By no blindness of doubt, No abruptness of doom, but by madness alone, In the great net of Até, whence none cometh out, Ye are wound and undone. _Prometheus._ Ay! in act now, in word now no more, Earth is rocking in space. And the thunders crash up with a roar upon roar, And the eddying lightnings flash fire in my face, And the whirlwinds are whirling the dust round and round, And the blasts of the winds universal leap free And blow each upon each with a passion of sound, And æther goes mingling in storm with the sea. Such a curse on my head, in a manifest dread, From the hand of your Zeus has been hurtled along. O my mother's fair glory! O Æther, enringing All eyes with the sweet common light of thy bringing! Dost see how I suffer this wrong? A LAMENT FOR ADONIS FROM THE GREEK OF BION I. I mourn for Adonis--Adonis is dead, Fair Adonis is dead and the Loves are lamenting. Sleep, Cypris, no more on thy purple-strewed bed: Arise, wretch stoled in black; beat thy breast unrelenting, And shriek to the worlds, "Fair Adonis is dead!" II. I mourn for Adonis--the Loves are lamenting. He lies on the hills in his beauty and death; The white tusk of a boar has transpierced his white thigh. Cytherea grows mad at his thin gasping breath, While the black blood drips down on the pale ivory, And his eyeballs lie quenched with the weight of his brows, The rose fades from his lips, and upon them just parted The kiss dies the goddess consents not to lose, Though the kiss of the Dead cannot make her glad-hearted: He knows not who kisses him dead in the dews. III.