Prometheus

ER thy spacious heavens,

Zeus,

With clouds of mist,

And, like the boy who

The thistles' heads,

Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks,

Yet thou must

My earth still standing;

My cottage too, which was not raised by thee;

Leave me my hearth,

Whose kindly

By thee is envied.

I know nought

Under the sun, than ye gods!

Ye nourish painfully,

With

And votive prayers,

Your majesty:

Ye would e'en starve,

If children and

Were not trusting fools.

While yet a

And ignorant of life,

I turned my wandering

Up tow'rd the sun, as if with

There were an ear to hear my wailings,

A heart, like mine,

To feel compassion for distress.

Who help'd

Against the Titans' insolence?

Who rescued me from certain death,

From slavery?

Didst thou not do all this thyself,

My sacred glowing heart?

And glowedst, young and good,

Deceived with grateful

To yonder slumbering one?

I honour thee! and why?

Hast thou e'er lighten'd the

Of the heavy laden?

Hast thou e'er dried up the

Of the anguish-stricken?

Was I not fashion'd to be a

By omnipotent Time,

And by eternal Fate,

Masters of me and thee?

Didst thou e'er

That life I should learn to hate,

And fly to deserts,

Because not

My blossoming dreams grew ripe?

Here sit I, forming

After my image;

A race resembling me,

To suffer, to weep,

To enjoy, to be glad,

And thee to scorn,

As I!