Only to those who die. Prometheus. And what art thou, O, melancholy Voice? The Earth. I am the Earth, Breathed on her child's destroyer; aye, I heard Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not, Thy mother; she within whose stony Yet my innumerable seas and streams, veins, To the last fibre of the loftiest tree Whose thin leaves trembled in the frozen air, Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, When thou didst from her bosom, like a cloud Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy! And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted Their prostrate brows from the polluting dust, And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread Grew pale, until his thunder chained thee here. Then, see those million worlds which burn and roll Around us their inhabitants beheld My sphered light wane in wide Heaven; the sea Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fire From earthquake-rifted mountains of bright snow Shook its portentous hair - beneath Heaven's frown; Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains; Blue thistles bloomed in cities; foodless toads Within voluptuous chambers panting crawled: When Plague had fallen on man, and beast, and worm, Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air, And the inarticulate people of the dead, Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate In secret joy and hope those dreadful words But dare not speak them. Prometheus. Venerable mother! All else who live and suffer take from thee Some comfort; flowers, and fruits, and happy sounds, And love, though fleeting; these may not be mine. But mine own words, I pray, deny me not. The Earth. They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust, The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child, Met his own image walking in the garden. That apparition, sole of men, he saw. For know there are two worlds of life and death: One that which thou beholdest; but the other Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit The shadows of all forms that think and live Till death unite them and they part no more; Dreams and the light imaginings of men, And all that faith creates or love desires, And Famine; and black blight on herb Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous And in the corn, and vines, and meadow- There thou art, and dost hang, a writh And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom; And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne Phantasm of Jupiter. Why have the secret powers of this strange world Of burning gold. Son, one of these Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, Have sprung, and trampled on my pros- In darkness? And, proud sufferer, who trate sons. Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge Of the Supreme may sweep thro' vacant shades, As rainy wind thro' the abandoned gate Of a fallen palace. Prometheus. Mother, let not aught Of that which may be evil, pass again My lips, or those of aught resembling me. Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear! Ione. Yet thro' their silver shade appears, A Shape, a throng of sounds; May it be no ill to thee O thou of many wounds! Speak the words which I would hear, Although no thought inform thine empty voice. The Earth. Listen! And tho' your echoes must be mute, Gray mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs, Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams, Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. Phantasm. A spirit seizes me and speaks within: It tears me as fire tears a thundercloud. Panthea. See, how he lifts his mighty looks, the Heaven Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, Darkens above. Ever thus we watch and wake. Panthea. The sound is of whirlwind underground, Ione. He speaks! O shelter me! Prometheus. I see the curse on gestures proud and cold, Earthquake, and fire, and moun- And looks of firm defiance, and calm To blast mankind, from yon etherial tower. Let thy malignant spirit move But thou, who art the God and Who fillest with thy soul this To whom all things of Earth and In fear and worship: all-prevail- I curse thee! let a sufferer's curse A robe of envenomed agony; Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Ill deeds, then be thou damned, Both infinite as is the universe, Lies fallen and vanquished! Fallen and vanquishèd! Fear not: 'tis but some passing spasm, Under plumes of purple dye, A Shape comes now, Ione. And who are those with hydra tresses Like vapours steaming up behind, These are Jove's tempest-walking Whom he gluts with groans and blood, Ione. Are they now led, from the thin dead Panthea. The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud. Third Fury. The hope of torturing him smells like a heap Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. First Fury. Darest thou delay, O Herald! take cheer, Hounds Of Hell: what if the Son of Maia soon Should make us food and sport-who can please long The Omnipotent? To execute a doom of new revenge. Returning, for a season, Heaven seems So thy worn form pursues me night and Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm and good, But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in strife Against the Omnipotent; as yon clear That measure and divide the weary years Even now thy With the strange might of unimagined The powers who scheme slow agonies in And my commission is to lead them Or what more subtle, foul, or savage fiends People the abyss, and leave them to their task. Mercury. Back to your towers of Be it not so! there is a secret known iron, And gnash, beside the streams of fire and wail, Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise! and Gorgon, To thee, and to none else of living things, Which may transfer the sceptre of wide Heaven, The fear of which perplexes the Supreme: Chimæra, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his fiends throne Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's In intercession; bend thy soul in prayer, And like a suppliant in some gorgeous poisoned wine, Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate: These shall perform your task. First Fury. Oh, mercy! mercy! We die with our desire: drive us not back! Mercury. Crouch then in silence. To thee unwilling, most unwillingly Years, ages, night and day: whether Thou knowest not the period of Jove's the Sun Split my parched skin, or in the moony night The crystal-winged snow cling round my hair: Whilst my beloved race is trampled down He who is evil can receive no good; And for a world bestowed, or a friend lost, He can feel hate, fear, shame; not Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind gratitude : He but requites me for his own misdeed. Kindness to such is keen reproach, which breaks Flags wearily in its unending flight, With bitter stings the light sleep of Which thou must spend in torture, un Pity, not punishment, on her own As light in the sun, throned: how vain is talk! Call up the fiends. Ione. O, sister, look! White fire Has cloven to the roots yon huge snowloaded cedar ; How fearfully God's thunder howls behind! Mercury. I must obey his words and thine alas ! : Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart! Panthea. See where the child of Heaven, with winged feet, And thou to suffer! Once more answer Runs down the slanted sunlight of the |
