For ages hath been empty of all joy, I could but guess; and then toward me came It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move, Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt : And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged Into the rising surges of the pines, Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins Sent up a murmur in the morning wind, Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove! They are wrung from me but by the agonies Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall From clouds in travail of the lightning, when Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold What kind of doom it is whose omen flits Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves The fearful shadow of the kite. What need When thine is finished, thou art known no more : There is a higher purity than thou, And higher purity is greater strength; Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart More capable of ruin than the gold And ivory that image thee on earth. He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned, Is weaker than a simple human thought. My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole : For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow In my wise heart the end and doom of all. Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown By years of solitude, - that holds apart The past and future, giving the soul room To search into itself,- and long commune With this eternal silence; more a god, In my long-suffering and strength to meet Had'st to thyself usurped, his by sole right, For Man hath right to all save Tyranny, And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, Begotten by the slaves they trample on, Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right To the firm centre lays its moveless base. The tyrant trembles, if the air but stirs |