Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/300

274 Are yet made desperate by "too quick a sense

Of constant infelicity"—cut off

From peace like Exiles on some barren rock,

Their life's appointed prison; not more free

Than Centinels, between two armies, set,

With nothing better, in the chill night air,

Than their own thoughts to comfort them.—Say why

That ancient story of Prometheus chained?

The Vulture—the inexhaustible repast

Drawn from his vitals! Say what meant the woes

By Tantalus entailed upon his race,

And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes?

Fictions in form, but in their substance truths,

Tremendous truths! familiar to the men

Of long-past times; nor obsolete in ours.

—Exchange the Shepherd's frock of native grey

For robes with regal purple tinged; convert

The crook into a sceptre;—give the pomp

Of circumstance, and here the tragic Muse

Shall find apt subjects for her highest art.

—Amid the groves, beneath the shadowy hills

The generations are prepared; the pangs,