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By George Gordon, Lord Byron


		Titan! to whose immortal eyes
		  The sufferings of mortality
		  Seen in their sad reality,
		Were not as things that gods despise;
		What was thy pity's recompense?
		A silent suffering, and intense;
		The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
		All that the proud can feel of pain, 
		The agony they do not show,
		The suffocating sense of woe,				10 
		  Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
		And then is jealous lest the sky 
		Should have a listener, nor will sigh
		  Until its voice is echoless.


	 	Titan! to thee the strife was given
		  Between the suffering and the will, 		
		  Which torture where they cannot kill;
		And the inexorable Heaven,
		And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 	
		The ruling principle of Hate.				20
		Which for its pleasure doth create
 		The things it may annihilate, 		
		Refused thee even the boon to die:
		The wretched gift eternity 	
		Was thine -- and thou hast borne it well. 		
		All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 	
		Was but the menace which flung back
 		On him the torments of thy rack;
		The fate thou didst so well foresee,
		But would not to appease him tell; 			30
		And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
		And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
		And evil dread so ill dissembled 
		That in his hand the lightnings trembled.


		Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 
		  To render with thy precepts less 	
		  The sum of human wretchedness, 		
		And strengthen Man with his own mind; 
		But baffled as thou wert from high,
		Still in thy patient energy,				40
 		In the endurance, and repulse
 		  Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
		Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
 		  A mighty lesson we inherit: 
		Thou art a symbol and a sign
 		  To Mortals of their fate and force;
 		Like thee, Man is in part divine,
		  A troubled stream from a pure source;
 		And Man in portions can foresee
		His own funereal destiny; 				50
		His wretchedness, and his resistance,  
		And his sad unallied existence: 
		To which  his Spirit may oppose 
		Itself -- and equal to  all woes, 
		  And a firm will, and a deep sense,  
		Which even in torture can descry
		  Its own concenter'd recompense,
		Triumphant where it dares defy,
		And making Death a Victory.

Diodati, July, 1816