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Prometheus Unbound:
A Lyrical Drama in Four Acts

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Dramatis Personæ

      	PROMETHEUS.   		ASIA      \
      	DEMOGORGON.   		PANTHEA    }--  Oceanides.
      	JUPITER.      		IONE  	 /       	

Act I

SCENE, a Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian Caucasus. PROMETHEUS is discovered bound to the Precipice. PANTHEA and IONE are seated at his feet. Time, Night. During the Scene morning slowly breaks.
      MONARCH of Gods and Dæmons, and all Spirits
      But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds
      Which Thou and I alone of living things
      Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this Earth
      Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou
      Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise,
      And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts,
      With fear and self-contempt and barren hope;
      Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate,
      Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn,                 10
      O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge.
      Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours,
      And moments aye divided by keen pangs
      Till they seemed years, torture and solitude,
      Scorn and despair--these are mine empire:
      More glorious far than that which thou surveyest
      From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God!
      Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame
      Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here
      Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain,                 20
      Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb,
      Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life.
      Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, forever!

      No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure.
      I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt?
      I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun,
      Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm,
      Heaven's ever-changing shadow, spread below,
      Have its deaf waves not heard my agony?
      Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, forever!                          30

      The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears
      Of their moon-freezing crystals; the bright chains
      Eat with their burning cold into my bones.
      Heaven's winged hound, polluting from thy lips
      His beak in poison not his own, tears up
      My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
      The ghastly people of the realm of dream,
      Mocking me; and the Earthquake-fiends are charged
      To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds
      When the rocks split and close again behind;                    40
      While from their loud abysses howling throng
      The genii of the storm, urging the rage
      Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.
      And yet to me welcome is day and night,
      Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the morn,
      Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
      The leaden-colored east; for then they lead
      The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom--
      As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim--
      Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood                  50
      From these pale feet, which then might trample thee
      If they disdained not such a prostrate slave.
      Disdain! Ah, no! I pity thee. What ruin
      Will hunt thee undefended through the wide Heaven!
      How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror,
      Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,
      Not exultation, for I hate no more,
      As then ere misery made me wise. The curse
      Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains,
      Whose many-voiced Echoes, through the mist                      60
      Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell!
      Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost,
      Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept
      Shuddering through India! Thou serenest Air
      Through which the Sun walks burning without beams!
      And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on pois'd wings
      Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss,
      As thunder, louder than your own, made rock
      The orb'd world! If then my words had power,
      Though I am changed so that aught evil wish                     70
      Is dead within; although no memory be
      Of what is hate, let them not lose it now!
      What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak.

FIRST VOICE: from the Mountains 
      Thrice three hundred thousand years
        O'er the earthquake's couch we stood;
      Oft, as men convulsed with fears,
        We trembled in our multitude.

SECOND VOICE: from the Springs 
      Thunderbolts had parched our water,
        We had been stained with bitter blood,
      And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of slaughter                     80
        Through a city and a solitude.

THIRD VOICE: from the Air 
      I had clothed, since Earth uprose,
        Its wastes in colors not their own,
      And oft had my serene repose
        Been cloven by many a rending groan.

FOURTH VOICE: from the Whirlwinds 
      We had soared beneath these mountains
        Unresting ages; nor had thunder,
      Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains,
        Nor any power above or under
        Ever made us mute with wonder.                                90

      But never bowed our snowy crest
      As at the voice of thine unrest.

      Never such a sound before
      To the Indian waves we bore.
      A pilot asleep on the howling sea
      Leaped up from the deck in agony,
      And heard, and cried, 'Ah, woe is me!'
      And died as mad as the wild waves be.

      By such dread words from Earth to Heaven
      My still realm was never riven;                                100
      When its wound was closed, there stood
      Darkness o'er the day like blood.

      And we shrank back: for dreams of ruin
      To frozen caves our flight pursuing
      Made us keep silence--thus--and thus--
      Though silence is a hell to us.

      The tongueless caverns of the craggy hills
      Cried, 'Misery!' then; the hollow Heaven replied,
      'Misery!' And the Ocean's purple waves,
      Climbing the land, howled to the lashing winds,                110
      And the pale nations heard it, 'Misery!'

      I hear a sound of voices; not the voice
      Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons and thou
      Scorn him, without whose all-enduring will
      Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove,
      Both they and thou had vanished, like thin mist
      Unrolled on the morning wind. Know ye not me,
      The Titan? He who made his agony
      The barrier to your else all-conquering foe?
      O rock-embosomed lawns and snow-fed streams,                   120
      Now seen athwart frore vapors, deep below,
      Through whose o'ershadowing woods I wandered once
      With Asia, drinking life from her loved eyes;
      Why scorns the spirit, which informs ye, now
      To commune with me? me alone who checked,
      As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteer,
      The falsehood and the force of him who reigns
      Supreme, and with the groans of pining slaves
      Fills your dim glens and liquid wildernesses:
      Why answer ye not, still? Brethren!

                                           They dare not.            130

      Who dares? for I would hear that curse again.
      Ha, what an awful whisper rises up!
      'Tis scarce like sound; it tingles through the frame
      As lightning tingles, hovering ere it strike.
      Speak, Spirit! from thine inorganic voice
      I only know that thou art moving near
      And love. How cursed I him?

                                   How canst thou hear
      Who knowest not the language of the dead?

      Thou art a living spirit; speak as they.

      I dare not speak like life, lest Heaven's fell King            140
      Should hear, and link me to some wheel of pain
      More torturing than the one whereon I roll.
      Subtle thou art and good; and though the Gods
      Hear not this voice, yet thou art more than God,
      Being wise and kind: earnestly hearken now.

      Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim,
      Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel
      Faint, like one mingled in entwining love;
      Yet 't is not pleasure.

                               No, thou canst not hear;
      Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known                    150
      Only to those who die.

                              And what art thou,
      O melancholy Voice?

                           I am the Earth,
      Thy mother; she within whose stony 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,                 160
      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 spher'd 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                170
      Within voluptuous chambers panting crawled.
      When Plague had fallen on man and beast and worm,
      And Famine; and black blight on herb and tree;
      And in the corn, and vines, and meadow-grass,
      Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds
      Draining their growth, for my wan breast was dry
      With grief, and the thin air, my breath, was stained
      With the contagion of a mother's hate
      Breathed on her child's destroyer; ay, I heard
      Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not,                 180
      Yet my innumerable seas and streams,
      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.

                                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.                       190

      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,                        200
      And all that faith creates or love desires,
      Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous shapes.
      There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing shade,
      'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains; all the gods
      Are there, and all the powers of nameless worlds,
      Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, and beasts;
      And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom;
      And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne
      Of burning gold. Son, one of these shall utter
      The curse which all remember. Call at will                     210
      Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter,
      Hades or Typhon, or what mightier Gods
      From all-prolific Evil, since thy ruin,
      Have sprung, and trampled on my prostrate sons.
      Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge
      Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades,
      As rainy wind through the abandoned gate
      Of a fallen palace.

                           Mother, let not aught
      Of that which may be evil pass again
      My lips, or those of aught resembling me.                      220
      Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear!

        My wings are folded o'er mine ears;
          My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes;
        Yet through their silver shade appears,
          And through their lulling plumes arise,
        A Shape, a throng of sounds.
          May it be no ill to thee
        O thou of many wounds!
      Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake,
      Ever thus we watch and wake.                                   230

        The sound is of whirlwind underground,
          Earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven;
        The shape is awful, like the sound,
          Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven.
        A sceptre of pale gold,
          To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud,
        His vein'd hand doth hold.
      Cruel he looks, but calm and strong,
      Like one who does, not suffers wrong.

      Why have the secret powers of this strange world               240
      Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, hither
      On direst storms? What unaccustomed sounds
      Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voice
      With which our pallid race hold ghastly talk
      In darkness? And, proud sufferer, who art thou?

      Tremendous Image! as thou art must be
      He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his foe,
      The Titan. Speak the words which I would hear,
      Although no thought inform thine empty voice.

      Listen! And though your echoes must be mute,                   250
      Gray mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs,
      Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams,
      Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak.

      A spirit seizes me and speaks within;
      It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud.

      See how he lifts his mighty looks! the Heaven
      Darkens above.

                      He speaks! Oh, shelter me!

      I see the curse on gestures proud and cold,
      And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate,
      And such despair as mocks itself with smiles,                  260
      Written as on a scroll: yet speak! Oh, speak!

        Fiend, I defy thee! with a calm, fixed mind,
          All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do;
        Foul tyrant both of Gods and humankind,
          One only being shalt thou not subdue.
            Rain then thy plagues upon me here,
            Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear;
            And let alternate frost and fire
            Eat into me, and be thine ire
        Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned forms              270
      Of furies, driving by upon the wounding storms.

        Ay, do thy worst! Thou art omnipotent.
          O'er all things but thyself I gave thee power,
        And my own will. Be thy swift mischiefs sent
          To blast mankind, from yon ethereal tower.
            Let thy malignant spirit move
            In darkness over those I love;
            On me and mine I imprecate
            The utmost torture of thy hate;
        And thus devote to sleepless agony,                          280
      This undeclining head while thou must reign on high.

        But thou, who art the God and Lord: O thou
          Who fillest with thy soul this world of woe,
        To whom all things of Earth and Heaven do bow
          In fear and worship--all-prevailing foe!
            I curse thee! let a sufferer's curse
            Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse;
            Till thine Infinity shall be
            A robe of envenomed agony;
        And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain,                       290
      To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving brain!

        Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse,
          Ill deeds; then be thou damned, beholding good;
        Both infinite as is the universe,
          And thou, and thy self-torturing solitude.
            An awful image of calm power
            Though now thou sittest, let the hour
            Come, when thou must appear to be
            That which thou art internally;
        And after many a false and fruitless crime,                  300
      Scorn track thy lagging fall through boundless space and time!

      Were these my words, O Parent?

                                      They were thine.

      It doth repent me; words are quick and vain;
      Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine.
      I wish no living thing to suffer pain.

        Misery, oh, misery to me,
        That Jove at length should vanquish thee!
        Wail, howl aloud, Land and Sea,
        The Earth's rent heart shall answer ye!
        Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead,                    310
      Your refuge, your defence, lies fallen and vanquishèd!

      Lies fallen and vanquishèd!

                                   Fallen and vanquisèd!

      Fear not: 't is but some passing spasm,
        The Titan is unvanquished still.
      But see, where through the azure chasm
        Of yon forked and snowy hill,
      Trampling the slant winds on high
        With golden-sandalled feet, that glow
            Under plumes of purple dye,                              320
            Like rose-ensanguined ivory,
              A Shape comes now,
      Stretching on high from his right hand
              A serpent-cinctured wand.

      'T is Jove's world-wandering herald, Mercury.

      And who are those with hydra tresses
          And iron wings, that climb the wind,
      Whom the frowning God represses,--
          Like vapors steaming up behind,
      Clanging loud, an endless crowd?                               330

          These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds,
        Whom he gluts with groans and blood,
        When charioted on sulphurous cloud
          He bursts Heaven's bounds.

        Are they now led from the thin dead
          On new pangs to be fed?

      The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud.

      Ha! I scent life!

                         Let me but look into his eyes!

      The hope of torturing him smells like a heap
      Of corpses to a death-bird after battle.                       340

      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?

                       Back to your towers of iron,
      And gnash, beside the streams of fire and wail,
      Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise! and Gorgon,
      Chimæra, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of fiends,
      Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's poisoned wine,
      Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate:
      These shall perform your task.

                                     Oh, mercy! mercy!               350
      We die with our desire! drive us not back!

      Crouch then in silence.
                               Awful Sufferer!
      To thee unwilling, most unwillingly
      I come, by the great Father's will driven down,
      To execute a doom of new revenge.
      Alas! I pity thee, and hate myself
      That I can do no more; aye from thy sight
      Returning, for a season, Heaven seems Hell,
      So thy worn form pursues me night and day,
      Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm and good,                360
      But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in strife
      Against the Omnipotent; as yon clear lamps,
      That measure and divide the weary years
      From which there is no refuge, long have taught
      And long must teach. Even now thy Torturer arms
      With the strange might of unimagined pains
      The powers who scheme slow agonies in Hell,
      And my commission is to lead them here,
      Or what more subtle, foul, or savage fiends
      People the abyss, and leave them to their task.                370
      Be it not so! there is a secret known
      To thee, and to none else of living things,
      Which may transfer the sceptre of wide Heaven,
      The fear of which perplexes the Supreme.
      Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his throne
      In intercession; bend thy soul in prayer,
      And like a suppliant in some gorgeous fane,
      Let the will kneel within thy haughty heart,
      For benefits and meek submission tame
      The fiercest and the mightiest.

                                       Evil minds                    380
      Change good to their own nature. I gave all
      He has; and in return he chains me here
      Years, ages, night and day; whether the Sun
      Split my parched skin, or in the moony night
      The crystal-wingèd snow cling round my hair;
      Whilst my belovèd race is trampled down
      By his thought-executing ministers.
      Such is the tyrant's recompense. 'T is just.
      He who is evil can receive no good;
      And for a world bestowed, or a friend lost,                    390
      He can feel hate, fear, shame; not gratitude.
      He but requites me for his own misdeed.
      Kindness to such is keen reproach, which breaks
      With bitter stings the light sleep of Revenge.
      Submission thou dost know I cannot try.
      For what submission but that fatal word,
      The death-seal of mankind's captivity,
      Like the Sicilian's hair-suspended sword,
      Which trembles o'er his crown, would he accept,
      Or could I yield? Which yet I will not yield.                  400
      Let others flatter Crime where it sits throned
      In brief Omnipotence; secure are they;
      For Justice, when triumphant, will weep down
      Pity, not punishment, on her own wrongs,
      Too much avenged by those who err. I wait,
      Enduring thus, the retributive hour
      Which since we spake is even nearer now.
      But hark, the hell-hounds clamor: fear delay:
      Behold! Heaven lowers under thy Father's frown.

      Oh, that we might be spared; I to inflict,                     410
      And thou to suffer! Once more answer me.
      Thou knowest not the period of Jove's power?

      I know but this, that it must come.

      Thou canst not count thy years to come of pain!

      They last while Jove must reign; nor more, nor less
      Do I desire or fear.

                            Yet pause, and plunge
      Into Eternity, where recorded time,
      Even all that we imagine, age on age,
      Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind
      Flags wearily in its unending flight,                          420
      Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lot, shelterless;
      Perchance it has not numbered the slow years
      Which thou must spend in torture, unreprieved?

      Perchance no thought can count them, yet they pass.

      If thou mightst dwell among the Gods the while,
      Lapped in voluptuous joy?

                                 I would not quit
      This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains.

      Alas! I wonder at, yet pity thee.

      Pity the self-despising slaves of Heaven,
      Not me, within whose mind sits peace serene,                   430
      As light in the sun, throned. How vain is talk!
      Call up the fiends.

                           Oh, sister, look! White fire
      Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow-loaded cedar;
      How fearfully God's thunder howls behind!

      I must obey his words and thine. Alas!
      Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart!

      See where the child of Heaven, with wingèd feet,
      Runs down the slanted sunlight of the dawn.

      Dear sister, close thy plumes over thine eyes
      Lest thou behold and die; they come--they come--               440
      Blackening the birth of day with countless wings,
      And hollow underneath, like death.


      Immortal Titan!

                       Champion of Heaven's slaves!

      He whom some dreadful voice invokes is here,
      Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible forms,
      What and who are ye? Never yet there came
      Phantasms so foul through monster-teeming Hell
      From the all-miscreative brain of Jove.
      Whilst I behold such execrable shapes,
      Methinks I grow like what I contemplate,                       450
      And laugh and stare in loathsome sympathy.

      We are the ministers of pain, and fear,
      And disappointment, and mistrust, and hate,
      And clinging crime; and as lean dogs pursue
      Through wood and lake some struck and sobbing fawn,
      We track all things that weep, and bleed, and live,
      When the great King betrays them to our will.

      O many fearful natures in one name,
      I know ye; and these lakes and echoes know
      The darkness and the clangor of your wings!                    460
      But why more hideous than your loathed selves
      Gather ye up in legions from the deep?

      We knew not that. Sisters, rejoice, rejoice!

      Can aught exult in its deformity?

      The beauty of delight makes lovers glad,
      Gazing on one another: so are we.
      As from the rose which the pale priestess kneels
      To gather for her festal crown of flowers
      The aerial crimson falls, flushing her cheek,
      So from our victim's destined agony                            470
      The shade which is our form invests us round;
      Else we are shapeless as our mother Night.

      I laugh your power, and his who sent you here,
      To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain.

      Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone
      And nerve from nerve, working like fire within?

      Pain is my element, as hate is thine;
      Ye rend me now; I care not.

                                   Dost imagine
      We will but laugh into thy lidless eyes?

      I weigh not what ye do, but what ye suffer,                    480
      Being evil. Cruel was the power which called
      You, or aught else so wretched, into light.

      Thou think'st we will live through thee, one by one,
      Like animal life, and though we can obscure not
      The soul which burns within, that we will dwell
      Beside it, like a vain loud multitude,
      Vexing the self-content of wisest men;
      That we will be dread thought beneath thy brain,
      And foul desire round thine astonished heart,
      And blood within thy labyrinthine veins                        490
      Crawling like agony?

                            Why, ye are thus now;
      Yet am I king over myself, and rule
      The torturing and conflicting throngs within,
      As Jove rules you when Hell grows mutinous.

      From the ends of the earth, from the ends of the earth,
      Where the night has its grave and the morning its birth,
              Come, come, come!
      O ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth
      When cities sink howling in ruin; and ye
      Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea,                   500
      And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track
      Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck;
              Come, come, come!
        Leave the bed, low, cold, and red,
        Strewed beneath a nation dead;
        Leave the hatred, as in ashes
          Fire is left for future burning;
        It will burst in bloodier flashes
          When ye stir it, soon returning;
        Leave the self-contempt implanted                            510
        In young spirits, sense-enchanted,
          Misery's yet unkindled fuel;
        Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted
          To the maniac dreamer; cruel
        More than ye can be with hate
            Is he with fear.
              Come, come, come!
      We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate
        And we burden the blasts of the atmosphere,
        But vainly we toil till ye come here.                        520

      Sister, I hear the thunder of new wings.

      These solid mountains quiver with the sound
      Even as the tremulous air; their shadows make
      The space within my plumes more black than night.

        Your call was as a wing'd car,
        Driven on whirlwinds fast and far;
        It rapt us from red gulfs of war.

        From wide cities, famine-wasted;

        Groans half heard, and blood untasted;

        Kingly conclaves stern and cold,                             530
        Where blood with gold is bought and sold;

        From the furnace, white and hot,
        In which--

      Speak not; whisper not;
      I know all that ye would tell,
        But to speak might break the spell
        Which must bend the Invincible,
          The stern of thought;
      He yet defies the deepest power of Hell.

      Tear the veil!

                      It is torn.

                                    The pale stars of the morn
      Shine on a misery, dire to be borne.                           540
      Dost thou faint, mighty Titan? We laugh thee to scorn.
      Dost thou boast the clear knowledge thou waken'dst for man?
      Then was kindled within him a thirst which outran
      Those perishing waters; a thirst of fierce fever,
      Hope, love, doubt, desire, which consume him forever.
        One came forth of gentle worth,
        Smiling on the sanguine earth;
        His words outlived him, like swift poison
          Withering up truth, peace, and pity.
        Look! where round the wide horizon                           550
          Many a million-peopled city
        Vomits smoke in the bright air!
        Mark that outcry of despair!
        'T is his mild and gentle ghost
          Wailing for the faith he kindled.
        Look again! the flames almost
          To a glow-worm's lamp have dwindled;
        The survivors round the embers
            Gather in dread.
              Joy, joy, joy!                                         560
      Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers,
      And the future is dark, and the present is spread
      Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head.

        Drops of bloody agony flow
        From his white and quivering brow.
        Grant a little respite now.
        See! a disenchanted nation
        Spring like day from desolation;
        To Truth its state is dedicate,
        And Freedom leads it forth, her mate;                        570
        A legioned band of link'd brothers,
        Whom Love calls children--

                                    'T is another's.
        See how kindred murder kin!
        'T is the vintage-time for Death and Sin;
        Blood, like new wine, bubbles within;
              Till Despair smothers
      The struggling world, which slaves and tyrants win.
                                  [All the  FURIES vanish, except one. 

      Hark, sister! what a low yet dreadful groan
      Quite unsuppressed is tearing up the heart
      Of the good Titan, as storms tear the deep,                    580
      And beasts hear the sea moan in inland caves.
      Darest thou observe how the fiends torture him?

      Alas! I looked forth twice, but will no more.

      What didst thou see?

      A woful sight: a youth
      With patient looks nailed to a crucifix.

      What next?

                  The heaven around, the earth below,
      Was peopled with thick shapes of human death,
      All horrible, and wrought by human hands;
      And some appeared the work of human hearts,
      For men were slowly killed by frowns and smiles;               590
      And other sights too foul to speak and live
      Were wandering by. Let us not tempt worse fear
      By looking forth; those groans are grief enough.

      Behold an emblem: those who do endure
      Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and chains, but heap
      Thousand-fold torment on themselves and him.

      Remit the anguish of that lighted stare;
      Close those wan lips; let that thorn-wounded brow
      Stream not with blood; it mingles with thy tears!
      Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and death,               600
      So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix,
      So those pale fingers play not with thy gore.
      Oh, horrible! Thy name I will not speak--
      It hath become a curse. I see, I see
      The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the just,
      Whom thy slaves hate for being like to thee,
      Some hunted by foul lies from their heart's home,
      An early-chosen, late-lamented home,
      As hooded ounces cling to the driven hind;
      Some linked to corpses in unwholesome cells;                   610
      Some--hear I not the multitude laugh loud?--
      Impaled in lingering fire; and mighty realms
      Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles,
      Whose sons are kneaded down in common blood
      By the red light of their own burning homes.

      Blood thou canst see, and fire; and canst hear groans:
      Worse things unheard, unseen, remain behind.


              In each human heart terror survives
      The ruin it has gorged: the loftiest fear
      All that they would disdain to think were true.                620
      Hypocrisy and custom make their minds
      The fanes of many a worship, now outworn.
      They dare not devise good for man's estate,
      And yet they know not that they do not dare.
      The good want power, but to weep barren tears.
      The powerful goodness want; worse need for them.
      The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom;
      And all best things are thus confused to ill.
      Many are strong and rich, and would be just,
      But live among their suffering fellow-men                      630
      As if none felt; they know not what they do.

      Thy words are like a cloud of wing'd snakes;
      And yet I pity those they torture not.

      Thou pitiest them? I speak no more!

                                           Ah woe!
      Ah woe! Alas! pain, pain ever, forever!
      I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear
      Thy works within my woe-illum'd mind,
      Thou subtle tyrant! Peace is in the grave.
      The grave hides all things beautiful and good.
      I am a God and cannot find it there,                           640
      Nor would I seek it; for, though dread revenge,
      This is defeat, fierce king, not victory.
      The sights with which thou torturest gird my soul
      With new endurance, till the hour arrives
      When they shall be no types of things which are.

      Alas! what sawest thou?

                               There are two woes--
      To speak and to behold; thou spare me one.
      Names are there, Nature's sacred watchwords, they
      Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry;
      The nations thronged around, and cried aloud,                  650
      As with one voice, Truth, Liberty, and Love!
      Suddenly fierce confusion fell from heaven
      Among them; there was strife, deceit, and fear;
      Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the spoil.
      This was the shadow of the truth I saw.

      I felt thy torture, son, with such mixed joy
      As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy state
      I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits,
      Whose homes are the dim caves of human thought,
      And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind,                       660
      Its world-surrounding ether; they behold
      Beyond that twilight realm, as in a glass,
      The future; may they speak comfort to thee!

      Look, sister, where a troop of spirits gather,
      Like flocks of clouds in spring's delightful weather,
      Thronging in the blue air!

                                  And see! more come,
      Like fountain-vapors when the winds are dumb,
      That climb up the ravine in scattered lines.
      And hark! is it the music of the pines?
      Is it the lake? Is it the waterfall?                           670

      'T is something sadder, sweeter far than all.

          From unremembered ages we
          Gentle guides and guardians be
          Of heaven-oppressed mortality;
          And we breathe, and sicken not,
          The atmosphere of human thought:
          Be it dim, and dank, and gray,
          Like a storm-extinguished day,
          Travelled o'er by dying gleams;
            Be it bright as all between                              680
          Cloudless skies and windless streams,
            Silent, liquid, and serene;
          As the birds within the wind,
            As the fish within the wave,
          As the thoughts of man's own mind
            Float through all above the grave;
          We make there our liquid lair,
          Voyaging cloudlike and unpent
          Through the boundless element:
          Thence we bear the prophecy                                690
          Which begins and ends in thee!

      More yet come, one by one; the air around them
      Looks radiant as the air around a star.

        On a battle-trumpet's blast
        I fled hither, fast, fast, fast,
        'Mid the darkness upward cast.
        From the dust of creeds outworn,
        From the tyrant's banner torn,
        Gathering round me, onward borne,
        There was mingled many a cry--                               700
        Freedom! Hope! Death! Victory!
        Till they faded through the sky;
        And one sound above, around,
        One sound beneath, around, above,
        Was moving; 't was the soul of love;
        'T was the hope, the prophecy,
        Which begins and ends in thee.

        A rainbow's arch stood on the sea,
        Which rocked beneath, immovably;
        And the triumphant storm did flee,
        Like a conqueror, swift and proud,
        Begirt with many a captive cloud,
        A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd,
        Each by lightning riven in half.
        I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh.
        Mighty fleets were strewn like chaff
        And spread beneath a hell of death
        O'er the white waters. I alit
        On a great ship lightning-split,
        And speeded hither on the sigh                               720
        Of one who gave an enemy
        His plank, then plunged aside to die.

      I sat beside a sage's bed,
      And the lamp was burning red
      Near the book where he had fed,
      When a Dream with plumes of flame
      To his pillow hovering came,
      And I knew it was the same
      Which had kindled long ago
      Pity, eloquence, and woe;                                      730
      And the world awhile below
      Wore the shade its lustre made.
      It has borne me here as fleet
      As Desire's lightning feet;
      I must ride it back ere morrow,
      Or the sage will wake in sorrow.

      On a poet's lips I slept
      Dreaming like a love-adept
      In the sound his breathing kept;
      Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,                         740
      But feeds on the aerial kisses
      Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.
      He will watch from dawn to gloom
      The lake-reflected sun illume
      The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
      Nor heed nor see what things they be;
      But from these create he can
      Forms more real than living man,
      Nurslings of immortality!
      One of these awakened me,                                      750
      And I sped to succor thee.

      Behold'st thou not two shapes from the east and west
      Come, as two doves to one belov'd nest,
      Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air,
      On swift still wings glide down the atmosphere?
      And, hark! their sweet sad voices! 't is despair
      Mingled with love and then dissolved in sound.

      Canst thou speak, sister? all my words are drowned.

      Their beauty gives me voice. See how they float
      On their sustaining wings of skyey grain,                      760
      Orange and azure deepening into gold!
      Their soft smiles light the air like a star's fire.

      Hast thou beheld the form of Love?

                                          As over wide dominions
      I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the wide air's 
      That planet-crested Shape swept by on lightning-braided pinions,
      Scattering the liquid joy of life from his ambrosial tresses.
      His footsteps paved the world with light; but as I passed 't was 
      And hollow Ruin yawned behind; great sages bound in madness,
      And headless patriots, and pale youths who perished, unupbraiding,
      Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, O King of 
            sadness,                                                 770
      Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected gladness.

      Ah, sister! Desolation is a delicate thing:
      It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air,
      But treads with killing footstep, and fans with silent wing
      The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear;
      Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes above
      And the music-stirring motion of its soft and busy feet,
      Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the monster, Love,
      And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as he whom now we greet.

        Though Ruin now Love's shadow be,                            780
        Following him, destroyingly,
          On Death's white and wing'd steed,
        Which the fleetest cannot flee,
          Trampling down both flower and weed,
        Man and beast, and foul and fair,
        Like a tempest through the air;
        Thou shalt quell this horseman grim,
        Woundless though in heart or limb.

        Spirits! how know ye this shall be?

          In the atmosphere we breathe,                              790
        As buds grow red, when the snow-storms flee,
          From spring gathering up beneath,
        Whose mild winds shake the elder-brake,
        And the wandering herdsmen know
        That the white-thorn soon will blow:
        Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace,
        When they struggle to increase,
        Are to us as soft winds be
        To shepherd boys, the prophecy
        Which begins and ends in thee.                               800

      Where are the Spirits fled?

                                   Only a sense
      Remains of them, like the omnipotence
      Of music, when the inspired voice and lute
      Languish, ere yet the responses are mute,
      Which through the deep and labyrinthine soul,
      Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll.

      How fair these air-born shapes! and yet I feel
      Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far,
      Asia! who, when my being overflowed,
      Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine                      810
      Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust.
      All things are still. Alas! how heavily
      This quiet morning weighs upon my heart;
      Though I should dream I could even sleep with grief,
      If slumber were denied not. I would fain
      Be what it is my destiny to be,
      The saviour and the strength of suffering man,
      Or sink into the original gulf of things.
      There is no agony, and no solace left;
      Earth can console, Heaven can torment no more.                 820

      Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee
      The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when
      The shadow of thy spirit falls on her?

      I said all hope was vain but love; thou lovest.

      Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks white,
      And Asia waits in that far Indian vale,
      The scene of her sad exile; rugged once
      And desolate and frozen, like this ravine;
      But now invested with fair flowers and herbs,
      And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow               830
      Among the woods and waters, from the ether
      Of her transforming presence, which would fade
      If it were mingled not with thine. Farewell!