Faith, whose firmness seemed to mock
War and foul sedition's shock,

Hath past away;— the cravens bow
Their necks beneath usurpers now.
Man to success still court will pay,
Still honour Fortune's fickle sway,
Exalt her to the blest abodes,

A Goddess and above the Gods."

(2) Compare with this a fragment of Eschylus : τύχα μερόπων ἀρχὰ καὶ τέρμα, τὸ καὶ σοφίας τιμὰν

βροτέοις ἐπέθηκας ἔργοις.

καὶ τὸ καλὸν πλέον ἢ κακὸν ἐκ σέθεν.
ἅ τε χάρις λάμπει

περὶ σὰν πτέρυγα χρύσεον

καὶ τὸ τεᾷ πλάστιγγι δυθὲν

μακαριστότατον τελέθει,

σὺ δ ̓ ἀμαχανίας πόρον εἶδες ἐν ἄλγεσι,
καὶ λαμπρὸν φάος ἄγαγες ἐν σκἔτῳ

προφερέστατα θεῶν.

Frag. Inc.

Ο Chance, suggesting many a plan,
Attaining many an end for man,
How oft, when Wisdom's titles shine,

And Craft claims praise, the work is thine!

Our woe's our own; from thee we borrow

More oft the taste of joy than sorrow.

Grace shines around thy golden wing,

Thy wand can bliss bestow,

Thy bounties to thy chosen fling

The brightest lot below.

And, when afflictions round us hover,

'Tis thine to point the way,

And, in that midnight gloom, discover
The opening light of day.

Well at thy shrine may mortals bow,
The mightiest of the Gods art thou.

ESCH. CHOEPH.

But Justice holds her equal scales
With ever-waking eye;

O'er some her vengeful might prevails,
When their life's sun is high;

On some her vigorous judgments light,
In that dread pause twixt day and night,
Life's closing twilight hour;

Round some, ere yet they meet their doom,
Is shed the silence of the tomb,

The eternal shadows lower;

But soon as once the genial plain

Has drunk the life-blood of the slain,

Indelible the spots remain,

And aye for vengeance call,

Till racking pangs of piercing pain
Upon the guilty fall.

What balm for him shall potent prove,
Who breaks the ties of wedded love?
And though all streams united gave
The treasures of their limpid wave,
To purify from gore;

The hand, polluted once with blood,
Though washed in every silver flood,
Is foul for evermore !

Hard Fate is mine, since that dark day,
Which girt my home with war's array,
And bore me from father's hall,

my

To pine afar, a captive thrall;

53

Hard Fate! to yield to heaven's decree,
And what I am not, seem to be;
Dissemble hatred, and control
The bitter workings of the soul;
E'en to injustice feign consent;
Detest the wrong, but not prevent :
Yet oft I veil my face, to weep
For those who unavenged sleep;

Oft for my slaughtered lord I mourn,

Chilled by the frost of grief, with secret anguish torn!

ESCH. EUMEN. 297.

ARGUMENT.

ORESTES, having been encouraged by the oracle of Apollo to slay his mother, is for the crime pursued by the Furies, who form the Chorus, and sing this Ode; in which they complain of the protection afforded to the criminal by Phoebus, and declare their own office and dignity.