Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/33

Rh Murmurs stir the profound,—

And black Hades roars up through the chasm of the ground,—

And the founts of the pure-running rivers moan low

In the pathos of woe.

Prometheus. Beseech you, think not I am silent thus

Through pride or scorn! I only gnaw my heart

With meditation, seeing myself so wronged!

For so—their honors to these new-made gods,

What other gave but I,—and shared them out

With distribution? Ay—but here I am dumb;

For here, I should repeat your knowledge to you,

If I spake aught. List rather to the works

I did for mortals, and how, fools before,

I made them wise and true in aim of soul!—

And I will tell you—not as taunting them,

But teaching you the intention of my gifts;

How, first beholding, they beheld in vain,

And hearing, heard not, but, like shapes in dreams,

Mixed all things wildly down the tedious time;

Nor knew to build a house against the sun,

With wicketed sides; nor any woodwork knew;

But lived, like silly ants, beneath the ground

In hollow caves unsunned. There, came to them

No steadfast sign of winter, nor of spring

Flower-perfumed, nor of autumn full of fruit,—

But all things they did blindly and lawlessly,

Until I taught them how the stars do rise

And set in mystery; and devised for them

Number, the inducer of philosophies,

The synthesis of Letters, and beside

The artificer of all things, Memory,