ER thy spacious heavens,
Zeus,
With clouds of mist,
And, like the boy who
The thistles' heads,
Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks,
Yet thou must
My earth still standing;
My cottage too, which was not raised by thee;
Leave me my hearth,
Whose kindly
By thee is envied.
I know nought
Under the sun, than ye gods!
Ye nourish painfully,
With
And votive prayers,
Your majesty:
Ye would e'en starve,
If children and
Were not trusting fools.
While yet a
And ignorant of life,
I turned my wandering
Up tow'rd the sun, as if with
There were an ear to hear my wailings,
A heart, like mine,
To feel compassion for distress.
Who help'd
Against the Titans' insolence?
Who rescued me from certain death,
From slavery?
Didst thou not do all this thyself,
My sacred glowing heart?
And glowedst, young and good,
Deceived with grateful
To yonder slumbering one?
I honour thee! and why?
Hast thou e'er lighten'd the
Of the heavy laden?
Hast thou e'er dried up the
Of the anguish-stricken?
Was I not fashion'd to be a
By omnipotent Time,
And by eternal Fate,
Masters of me and thee?
Didst thou e'er
That life I should learn to hate,
And fly to deserts,
Because not
My blossoming dreams grew ripe?
Here sit I, forming
After my image;
A race resembling me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy, to be glad,
And thee to scorn,
As I!
