Chorus monologue — Four Plays of Aeschylus

O never may my weak and faint desire Strive against God most high— Never be slack in service, never tire Of sacred loyalty; Nor fail to wend unto the altar-side, Where with the blood of kine Steams up the offering, by the quenchless tide Of Ocean, Sire divine! Be this within my heart, indelible— _Offend not with thy tongue!_ Sweet, sweet it is, in cheering hopes to dwell, Immortal, ever young, In maiden gladness fostering evermore A soft content of soul! But ah, I shudder at thine anguish sore— Thy doom thro’ years that roll! Thou could’st not cower to Zeus: a love too great Thou unto man hast given— Too high of heart thou wert—ah, thankless fate! What aid, ’gainst wrath of Heaven, Could mortal man afford? in vain thy gift To things so powerless! Could’st thou not see? they are as dreams that drift; Their strength is feebleness A purblind race, in hopeless fetters bound, They have no craft or skill, That could o’erreach the ordinance profound of the eternal will. Alas, Prometheus! on thy woe condign I looked, and learned this lore; And a new strain floats to these lips of mine— Not the glad song of yore, When by the lustral wave I sang to see My sister made thy bride, Decked with thy gifts, thy loved Hesione, And clasped unto thy side.