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he doom, Prometheus I utter my sighs; O'er my cheek flows the fountain of tears from tender, compassionate eyes. For stern and abhorred is the sway of Zeus on his self-sought throne, And ruthless the spear of his scorn, to the gods of the days that are done. And over the limitless earth goes up a disconsolate cry: Ye were all so fair, and have fallen; so great and your might has gone by! So wails with a mighty lament the voice of the mortals, who dwell In the Eastland, the home of the holy, for thee and the fate that befel; And they of the Colchian land, the maidens whose arm is for war; And the Scythian bowmen, who roam by the lake of Maeotis afar; And the blossom of battling hordes, that flowers upon Caucasus' height, With clashing of lances that pierce, and with clamour of swords that smite. Strange is thy sorrow! one only I know who has suffered thy pain-- Atlas the Titan, the god, in a ruthless, invincible chain! He beareth for ever and ever the burden and poise of the sky, The vault of the rolling heaven, and earth re-echoes his cry. The depths of the sea are troubled; they mourn from their caverns profound, And the darkest and innermost hell moans deep with a sorrowful sound; And the rivers of waters, that flow from the fountains that spring without stain, Are as one in the great lamentation, and moan for thy piteous pain.
PROMETHEUS
Deem not that I in pride or wilful scorn Restrain my speech; 'tis wistful memory That rends my heart, when I behold myself Abased to wretchedness. To these new gods I and none other gave their lots of power In full attainment; no more words hereof I speak--the tale ye know. But listen now Unto the rede of mortals and their woes, And how their childish and unreasoning state Was changed by me to consciousness and thought. Yet not in blame of mortals will I speak, But as in proof of service wrought to them. For, in the outset, eyes they had and saw not; And ears they had but heard not; age on age, Like unsubstantial shapes in vision seen, They groped at ran