IO. What land is this?--what race of mortals Owns this desert? who art thou, { 198} Rock-bound with these wintry fetters, And for what crime tortured thus? Worn and weary with far travel, Tell me where my feet have borne me! O pain! pain! pain! it stings and goads me again, The fateful brize!--save me, O Earth![n39]--Avaunt Thou horrible shadow of the Earth-born Argus! Could not the grave close up thy hundred eyes, But thou must come, Haunting my path with thy suspicious look, Unhoused from Hades? Avaunt! avaunt!--why wilt thou hound my track, The famished wanderer on the waste sea-shore?
STROPHE. Pipe not thy sounding wax-compacted reed With drowsy drone at me! Ah wretched me! Wandering, still wandering o'er wide Earth, and driven Where? where? O tell me where? O Son of Kronos, in what damned sin Being caught hast thou to misery yoked me thus, Pricked me to desperation, and my heart Pierced with thy furious goads? Blast me with lightnings! bury me in Earth! To the gape Of greedy sea-monsters give me! Hear, O hear My prayer, O King! Enough, enough, these errant toils have tried me; And yet no rest I find: nor when, nor where These woes shall cease may know.
CHORUS.[n40] Dost hear the plaint of the ox-horned maid?
PROMETHEUS. How should I not? the Inachian maid who knows not, Stung by the god-sent brize? the maid who smote Jove's lustful heart with love: and his harsh spouse Hounds her o'er Earth with chase interminable.
ANTISTROPHE. IO. My father's name thou know'st, and my descent! Who art thou? god or mortal? Speak! what charm Gives wretch like thee, the certain clue to know My lamentable fate? Aye, and the god-sent plague thou know'st; the sting That spurs me o'er the far-stretched Earth; the goad That mads me sheer, wastes, withers, and consumes, A worn and famished maid, { 199} Whipt by the scourge of jealous Hera's wrath! Ah me! ah me! Misery has many shapes, But none like mine. O thou, who named my Argive home, declare What ills await me yet; what end; what hope? If hope there be for Io.
CHORUS. I pray thee speak to the weary way-worn maid.
PROMETHEUS. I'll tell thee all thy wish, not in enigmas Tangled and dark, but in plain phrase, as friend Should speak to friend. Thou see'st Prometheus, who To mortal men gifted immortal fire.