I ask the Earth, have not the
mountains
felt?
Shelley
.
it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; _540
For the wild language of his grief was high,
Such as in measure were called poetry;
And I remember one remark which then
Maddalo made. He said: 'Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong, _545
They learn in suffering what they teach in song. '
If I had been an unconnected man,
I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice,--for to me
It was delight to ride by the lone sea; _550
And then, the town is silent--one may write
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair _555
Which were twin-born with poetry, and all
We seek in towns, with little to recall
Regrets for the green country. I might sit
In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night _560
And make me know myself, and the firelight
Would flash upon our faces, till the day
Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay:
But I had friends in London too: the chief
Attraction here, was that I sought relief _565
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought
Within me--'twas perhaps an idle thought--
But I imagined that if day by day
I watched him, and but seldom went away,
And studied all the beatings of his heart _570
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from this dark estate:
In friendships I had been most fortunate-- _575
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend; and this was all
Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go in crowds or solitude
And leave no trace--but what I now designed _580
Made for long years impression on my mind.
The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.
After many years
And many changes I returned; the name
Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; _585
But Maddalo was travelling far away
Among the mountains of Armenia.
His dog was dead. His child had now become
A woman; such as it has been my doom
To meet with few,--a wonder of this earth, _590
Where there is little of transcendent worth,
Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she,
And, with a manner beyond courtesy,
Received her father's friend; and when I asked
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, _595
And told as she had heard the mournful tale:
'That the poor sufferer's health began to fail
Two years from my departure, but that then
The lady who had left him, came again.
Her mien had been imperious, but she now _600
Looked meek--perhaps remorse had brought her low.
Her coming made him better, and they stayed
Together at my father's--for I played,
As I remember, with the lady's shawl--
I might be six years old--but after all _605
She left him. '. . . 'Why, her heart must have been tough:
How did it end? ' 'And was not this enough?
They met--they parted. '--'Child, is there no more? '
'Something within that interval which bore
The stamp of WHY they parted, HOW they met: _610
Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears,
Ask me no more, but let the silent years
Be closed and cered over their memory
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie. ' _615
I urged and questioned still, she told me how
All happened--but the cold world shall not know.
CANCELLED FRAGMENTS OF JULIAN AND MADDALO.
'What think you the dead are? ' 'Why, dust and clay,
What should they be? ' ''Tis the last hour of day.
Look on the west, how beautiful it is _620
Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud . . . fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought, _625
Till it dies . . . and . . . between
The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,
And infinite tranquillity of heaven.
Ay, beautiful! but when not. . . '
. . .
'Perhaps the only comfort which remains _630
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody. '
NOTES:
_45 may Hunt manuscript; can 1824.
_99 a one Hunt manuscript; an one 1824.
_105 sunk Hunt manuscript; sank 1824.
_108 ever Hunt manuscript; even 1824.
_119 in Hunt manuscript; from 1824.
_124 a Hunt manuscript; an 1824.
_171 That Hunt manuscript; Which 1824.
_175 mind Hunt manuscript; minds 1824.
_179 know 1824; see Hunt manuscript.
_188 those Hunt manuscript; the 1824.
_191 their Hunt manuscript; this 1824.
_218 Moons, etc. , Hunt manuscript;
The line is wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.
_237 far Hunt manuscript; but 1824.
_270 nor Hunt manuscript; and 1824.
_292 cold Hunt manuscript; and 1824.
_318 least Hunt manuscript; last 1824.
_323 sweet Hunt manuscript; fresh 1824.
_356 have Hunt manuscript; hath 1824.
_361 in this keen Hunt manuscript; under this 1824.
_362 cry Hunt manuscript; eye 1824.
_372 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.
_388 greet Hunt manuscript; meet 1824.
_390 your Hunt manuscript; thy 1824.
_417 his Hunt manuscript; its 1824.
_446 glance Hunt manuscript; glass 1824.
_447 with Hunt manuscript; near 1824.
_467 lip Hunt manuscript; life 1824.
_483 this Hunt manuscript; that 1824.
_493 I would Hunt manuscript; I'd 1824.
_510 despair Hunt manuscript; my care 1839.
_511 leant] See Editor's Note.
_518 were Hunt manuscript; was 1839.
_525 his Hunt manuscript; it 1824.
_530 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.
_537 were now Hunt manuscript; now were 1824.
_588 regrets Hunt manuscript; regret 1824.
_569 but Hunt manuscript;
wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.
_574 his 1824; this [? ] Hunt manuscript.
NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY.
From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and,
circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks
in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord
Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he
sent for his family from Lucca to join him.
I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent,
demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was
situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a
range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a
vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from
the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which
Shelley made his study, and in which he began the "Prometheus"; and
here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote "Julian and Maddalo".
A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the
hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose
dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices
owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind
the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the
wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines,
while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the
picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut-wood,
at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to
the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode.
Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even
more severely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose
small features I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her
father, showed symptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate.
Teething increased her illness and danger. We were at Este, and when
we became alarmed, hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we
arrived at Fusina, we found that we had forgotten our passport, and
the soldiers on duty attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but
they could not resist Shelley's impetuosity at such a moment. We had
scarcely arrived at Venice before life fled from the little sufferer,
and we returned to Este to weep her loss.
After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which was interspersed by
visits to Venice, we proceeded southward.
***
PROMETHEUS UNBOUND.
A LYRICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS.
AUDISNE HAEC AMPHIARAE, SUB TERRAM ABDITE?
[Composed at Este, September, October, 1818 (Act 1); at Rome,
March-April 6, 1819 (Acts 2, 3); at Florence, close of 1819 (Act 4).
Published by C. and J. Ollier, London, summer of 1820. Sources of the
text are (1) edition of 1820; (2) text in "Poetical Works", 1839,
prepared with the aid of a list of errata in (1) written out by
Shelley; (3) a fair draft in Shelley's autograph, now in the Bodleian.
This has been carefully collated by Mr. C. D. Locock, who prints the
result in his "Examination of the Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian
Library", Oxford (Clarendon Press), 1903. Our text is that of 1820,
modified by edition 1839, and by the Bodleian fair copy. In the
following notes B = the Bodleian manuscript; 1820 = the editio
princeps, printed by Marchant for C. and J. Ollier, London; and 1839 =
the text as edited by Mrs. Shelley in the "Poetical Works", 1st and
2nd editions, 1839. The reader should consult the notes on the Play at
the end of the volume. ]
PREFACE.
The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their subject any portion of
their national history or mythology, employed in their treatment of it
a certain arbitrary discretion. They by no means conceived themselves
bound to adhere to the common interpretation or to imitate in story as
in title their rivals and predecessors. Such a system would have
amounted to a resignation of those claims to preference over their
competitors which incited the composition. The Agamemnonian story was
exhibited on the Athenian theatre with as many variations as dramas.
I have presumed to employ a similar license. The "Prometheus Unbound"
of Aeschylus supposed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim as
the price of the disclosure of the danger threatened to his empire by
the consummation of his marriage with Thetis. Thetis, according to
this view of the subject, was given in marriage to Peleus, and
Prometheus, by the permission of Jupiter, delivered from his captivity
by Hercules. Had I framed my story on this model, I should have done
no more than have attempted to restore the lost drama of Aeschylus; an
ambition which, if my preference to this mode of treating the subject
had incited me to cherish, the recollection of the high comparison
such an attempt would challenge might well abate. But, in truth, I was
averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that of reconciling the
Champion with the Oppressor of mankind. The moral interest of the
fable, which is so powerfully sustained by the sufferings and
endurance of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could conceive of
him as unsaying his high language and quailing before his successful
and perfidious adversary. The only imaginary being resembling in any
degree Prometheus, is Satan; and Prometheus is, in my judgement, a
more poetical character than Satan, because, in addition to courage,
and majesty, and firm and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he
is susceptible of being described as exempt from the taints of
ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggrandisement,
which, in the Hero of "Paradise Lost", interfere with the interest.
The character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry
which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and to excuse the
former because the latter exceed all measure. In the minds of those
who consider that magnificent fiction with a religious feeling it
engenders something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, the type of
the highest perfection of moral and intellectual nature, impelled by
the purest and the truest motives to the best and noblest ends.
This Poem was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths
of Caracalla, among the flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous
blossoming trees, which are extended in ever winding labyrinths upon
its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air. The
bright blue sky of Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awakening
spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it
drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the inspiration of
this drama.
The imagery which I have employed will be found, in many instances, to
have been drawn from the operations of the human mind, or from those
external actions by which they are expressed. This is unusual in
modern poetry, although Dante and Shakespeare are full of instances of
the same kind: Dante indeed more than any other poet, and with greater
success. But the Greek poets, as writers to whom no resource of
awakening the sympathy of their contemporaries was unknown, were in
the habitual use of this power; and it is the study of their works
(since a higher merit would probably be denied me) to which I am
willing that my readers should impute this singularity.
One word is due in candour to the degree in which the study of
contemporary writings may have tinged my composition, for such has
been a topic of censure with regard to poems far more popular, and
indeed more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible that any
one who inhabits the same age with such writers as those who stand in
the foremost ranks of our own, can conscientiously assure himself that
his language and tone of thought may not have been modified by the
study of the productions of those extraordinary intellects. It is
true, that, not the spirit of their genius, but the forms in which it
has manifested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their own
minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and intellectual condition
of the minds among which they have been produced. Thus a number of
writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom,
it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of
the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated
lightning of their own mind.
The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive imagery which
distinguishes the modern literature of England has not been, as a
general power, the product of the imitation of any particular writer.
The mass of capabilities remains at every period materially the same;
the circumstances which awaken it to action perpetually change. If
England were divided into forty republics, each equal in population
and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose but that, under
institutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce
philosophers and poets equal to those who (if we except Shakespeare)
have never been surpassed. We owe the great writers of the golden age
of our literature to that fervid awakening of the public mind which
shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of the Christian
religion. We owe Milton to the progress and development of the same
spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a
republican, and a bold inquirer into morals and religion. The great
writers of our own age are, we have reason to suppose, the companions
and forerunners of some unimagined change in our social condition or
the opinions which cement it. The cloud of mind is discharging its
collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and
opinions is now restoring, or is about to be restored.
As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, but it creates
by combination and representation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful
and new, not because the portions of which they are composed had no
previous existence in the mind of man or in nature, but because the
whole produced by their combination has some intelligible and
beautiful analogy with those sources of emotion and thought, and with
the contemporary condition of them: one great poet is a masterpiece of
nature which another not only ought to study but must study. He might
as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be
the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude
from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a
great contemporary. The pretence of doing it would be a presumption in
any but the greatest; the effect, even in him, would be strained,
unnatural and ineffectual. A poet is the combined product of such
internal powers as modify the nature of others; and of such external
influences as excite and sustain these powers; he is not one, but
both. Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the
objects of nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he
ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon
which all forms are reflected, and in which they compose one form.
Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors and
musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the
creations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest do not
escape. There is a similarity between Homer and Hesiod, between
Aeschylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Horace, between Dante and
Petrarch, between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden and Pope;
each has a generic resemblance under which their specific distinctions
are arranged. If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am
willing to confess that I have imitated.
Let this opportunity be conceded to me of acknowledging that I have,
what a Scotch philosopher characteristically terms, 'a passion for
reforming the world:' what passion incited him to write and publish
his book, he omits to explain. For my part I had rather be damned with
Plato and Lord Bacon, than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus. But it
is a mistake to suppose that I dedicate my poetical compositions
solely to the direct enforcement of reform, or that I consider them in
any degree as containing a reasoned system on the theory of human
life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence; nothing can be equally well
expressed in prose that is not tedious and supererogatory in verse. My
purpose has hitherto been simply to familiarise the highly refined
imagination of the more select classes of poetical readers with
beautiful idealisms of moral excellence; aware that until the mind can
love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles
of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the
unconscious passenger tramples into dust, although they would bear the
harvest of his happiness. Should I live to accomplish what I purpose,
that is, produce a systematical history of what appear to me to be the
genuine elements of human society, let not the advocates of injustice
and superstition flatter themselves that I should take Aeschylus
rather than Plato as my model.
The having spoken of myself with unaffected freedom will need little
apology with the candid; and let the uncandid consider that they
injure me less than their own hearts and minds by misrepresentation.
Whatever talents a person may possess to amuse and instruct others, be
they ever so inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if his
attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccomplished
purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble themselves to heap the
dust of oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will betray his
grave which might otherwise have been unknown.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
PROMETHEUS.
DEMOGORGON.
JUPITER.
THE EARTH.
OCEAN.
APOLLO.
MERCURY.
OCEANIDES: ASIA, PANTHEA, IONE.
HERCULES.
THE PHANTASM OF JUPITER.
THE SPIRIT OF THE EARTH.
THE SPIRIT OF THE MOON.
SPIRITS OF THE HOURS.
SPIRITS. ECHOES. FAUNS. FURIES.
ACT 1.
SCENE:
A RAVINE OF ICY ROCKS IN THE INDIAN CAUCASUS.
PROMETHEUS IS DISCOVERED BOUND TO THE PRECIPICE.
PANTEA AND IONE ARE SEATED AT HIS FEET.
TIME, NIGHT.
DURING, THE SCENE MORNING SLOWLY BREAKS.
PROMETHEUS:
Monarch of Gods and DAEmons, 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 _5
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:-- _15
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, for ever!
No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure.
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? _25
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, for ever! _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 _35
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, _45
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
The leaden-coloured 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 wide Heaven!
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, _55
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! _65
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised wings
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss,
As thunder, louder than your own, made rock
The orbed 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.
NOTE:
_54 thro' wide B; thro' the wide 1820.
FIRST VOICE (FROM THE MOUNTAINS):
Thrice three hundred thousand years
O'er the Earthquake's couch we stood: _75
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
Thro' a city and a solitude.
THIRD VOICE (FROM THE AIR):
I had clothed, since Earth uprose,
Its wastes in colours not their own,
And oft had my serene repose
Been cloven by many a rending groan. _85
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
FIRST VOICE:
But never bowed our snowy crest
As at the voice of thine unrest.
SECOND VOICE:
Never such a sound before
To the Indian waves we bore.
A pilot asleep on the howling sea _95
Leaped up from the deck in agony,
And heard, and cried, 'Ah, woe is me! '
And died as mad as the wild waves be.
THIRD VOICE:
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.
FOURTH VOICE:
And we shrank back: for dreams of ruin
To frozen caves our flight pursuing
Made us keep silence--thus--and thus-- _105
Though silence is a hell to us.
THE EARTH:
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! '
NOTE:
_106 as hell 1839, B; a hell 1820.
PROMETHEUS:
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, _115
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?
Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow-fed streams, _120
Now seen athwart frore vapours, 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, _125
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!
THE EARTH:
They dare not. _130
PROMETHEUS:
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 _135
I only know that thou art moving near
And love. How cursed I him?
THE EARTH:
How canst thou hear
Who knowest not the language of the dead?
PROMETHEUS:
Thou art a living spirit; speak as they.
THE EARTH:
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. _145
PROMETHEUS:
Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim,
Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel
Faint, like one mingled in entwining love;
Yet 'tis not pleasure.
THE EARTH:
No, thou canst not hear:
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known _150
Only to those who die.
PROMETHEUS:
And what art thou,
O, melancholy Voice?
THE EARTH:
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, _155
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 sphered light wane in wide Heaven; the sea _165
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 _175
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, _185
But dare not speak them.
NOTE:
_137 And love 1820; And lovest cj. Swinburne.
PROMETHEUS:
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
THE EARTH:
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: _195
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, _205
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 _215
Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades,
As rainy wind through the abandoned gate
Of a fallen palace.
PROMETHEUS:
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!
IONE:
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, _225
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
PANTHEA:
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 _235
To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud
His veined hand doth hold.
Cruel he looks, but calm and strong,
Like one who does, not suffers wrong.
PHANTASM OF JUPITER:
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? _245
PROMETHEUS:
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.
THE EARTH:
Listen! And though your echoes must be mute, _250
Grey mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs,
Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams,
Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak.
PHANTASM:
A spirit seizes me and speaks within:
It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. _255
PANTHEA:
See, how he lifts his mighty looks, the Heaven
Darkens above.
IONE:
He speaks! O shelter me!
PROMETHEUS:
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!
PHANTASM:
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. _265
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. _275
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! _285
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. _295
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.
PROMETHEUS:
Were these my words, O Parent?
THE EARTH:
They were thine.
PROMETHEUS:
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. _305
THE EARTH:
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 vanquished.
FIRST ECHO:
Lies fallen and vanquished!
SECOND ECHO:
Fallen and vanquished!
IONE:
Fear not: 'tis but some passing spasm,
The Titan is unvanquished still. _315
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.
PANTHEA:
'Tis Jove's world-wandering herald, Mercury. _325
IONE:
And who are those with hydra tresses
And iron wings that climb the wind,
Whom the frowning God represses
Like vapours steaming up behind,
Clanging loud, an endless crowd-- _330
PANTHEA:
These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds,
Whom he gluts with groans and blood,
When charioted on sulphurous cloud
He bursts Heaven's bounds.
IONE:
Are they now led, from the thin dead _335
On new pangs to be fed?
PANTHEA:
The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud.
FIRST FURY:
Ha! I scent life!
SECOND FURY:
Let me but look into his eyes!
THIRD FURY:
The hope of torturing him smells like a heap
Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. _340
FIRST FURY:
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?
MERCURY:
Back to your towers of iron,
And gnash, beside the streams of fire and wail, _345
Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise! and Gorgon,
Chimaera, 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.
FIRST FURY:
Oh, mercy! mercy! _350
We die with our desire: drive us not back!
MERCURY:
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. _355
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 _365
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 _375
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.
PROMETHEUS:
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-winged snow cling round my hair: _385
Whilst my beloved race is trampled down
By his thought-executing ministers.
Such is the tyrant's recompense: 'tis 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: _395
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, _405
Enduring thus, the retributive hour
Which since we spake is even nearer now.
But hark, the hell-hounds clamour: fear delay:
Behold! Heaven lowers under thy Father's frown.
MERCURY:
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?
PROMETHEUS:
I know but this, that it must come.
MERCURY:
Alas!
Thou canst not count thy years to come of pain?
PROMETHEUS:
They last while Jove must reign: nor more, nor less _415
Do I desire or fear.
MERCURY:
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, lost, shelterless;
Perchance it has not numbered the slow years
Which thou must spend in torture, unreprieved?
PROMETHEUS:
Perchance no thought can count them, yet they pass.
MERCURY:
If thou might'st dwell among the Gods the while
Lapped in voluptuous joy? _425
PROMETHEUS:
I would not quit
This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains.
MERCURY:
Alas! I wonder at, yet pity thee.
PROMETHEUS:
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.
IONE:
O, sister, look! White fire
Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow-loaded cedar;
How fearfully God's thunder howls behind!
MERCURY:
I must obey his words and thine: alas! _435
Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart!
PANTHEA:
See where the child of Heaven, with winged feet,
Runs down the slanted sunlight of the dawn.
IONE:
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.
FIRST FURY:
Prometheus!
SECOND FURY:
Immortal Titan!
THIRD FURY:
Champion of Heaven's slaves!
PROMETHEUS:
He whom some dreadful voice invokes is here,
Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible forms, _445
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.
FIRST FURY:
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, _455
We track all things that weep, and bleed, and live,
When the great King betrays them to our will.
PROMETHEUS:
Oh! many fearful natures in one name,
I know ye; and these lakes and echoes know
The darkness and the clangour of your wings. _460
But why more hideous than your loathed selves
Gather ye up in legions from the deep?
SECOND FURY:
We knew not that: Sisters, rejoice, rejoice!
PROMETHEUS:
Can aught exult in its deformity?
SECOND FURY:
The beauty of delight makes lovers glad, _465
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 aereal 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.
PROMETHEUS:
I laugh your power, and his who sent you here,
To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain.
FIRST FURY:
Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone, _475
And nerve from nerve, working like fire within?
PROMETHEUS:
Pain is my element, as hate is thine;
Ye rend me now; I care not.
SECOND FURY:
Dost imagine
We will but laugh into thy lidless eyes?
PROMETHEUS:
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.
THIRD FURY:
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 _485
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?
PROMETHEUS:
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.
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; _540
For the wild language of his grief was high,
Such as in measure were called poetry;
And I remember one remark which then
Maddalo made. He said: 'Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong, _545
They learn in suffering what they teach in song. '
If I had been an unconnected man,
I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice,--for to me
It was delight to ride by the lone sea; _550
And then, the town is silent--one may write
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair _555
Which were twin-born with poetry, and all
We seek in towns, with little to recall
Regrets for the green country. I might sit
In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night _560
And make me know myself, and the firelight
Would flash upon our faces, till the day
Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay:
But I had friends in London too: the chief
Attraction here, was that I sought relief _565
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought
Within me--'twas perhaps an idle thought--
But I imagined that if day by day
I watched him, and but seldom went away,
And studied all the beatings of his heart _570
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from this dark estate:
In friendships I had been most fortunate-- _575
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend; and this was all
Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go in crowds or solitude
And leave no trace--but what I now designed _580
Made for long years impression on my mind.
The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.
After many years
And many changes I returned; the name
Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; _585
But Maddalo was travelling far away
Among the mountains of Armenia.
His dog was dead. His child had now become
A woman; such as it has been my doom
To meet with few,--a wonder of this earth, _590
Where there is little of transcendent worth,
Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she,
And, with a manner beyond courtesy,
Received her father's friend; and when I asked
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, _595
And told as she had heard the mournful tale:
'That the poor sufferer's health began to fail
Two years from my departure, but that then
The lady who had left him, came again.
Her mien had been imperious, but she now _600
Looked meek--perhaps remorse had brought her low.
Her coming made him better, and they stayed
Together at my father's--for I played,
As I remember, with the lady's shawl--
I might be six years old--but after all _605
She left him. '. . . 'Why, her heart must have been tough:
How did it end? ' 'And was not this enough?
They met--they parted. '--'Child, is there no more? '
'Something within that interval which bore
The stamp of WHY they parted, HOW they met: _610
Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears,
Ask me no more, but let the silent years
Be closed and cered over their memory
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie. ' _615
I urged and questioned still, she told me how
All happened--but the cold world shall not know.
CANCELLED FRAGMENTS OF JULIAN AND MADDALO.
'What think you the dead are? ' 'Why, dust and clay,
What should they be? ' ''Tis the last hour of day.
Look on the west, how beautiful it is _620
Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud . . . fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought, _625
Till it dies . . . and . . . between
The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,
And infinite tranquillity of heaven.
Ay, beautiful! but when not. . . '
. . .
'Perhaps the only comfort which remains _630
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody. '
NOTES:
_45 may Hunt manuscript; can 1824.
_99 a one Hunt manuscript; an one 1824.
_105 sunk Hunt manuscript; sank 1824.
_108 ever Hunt manuscript; even 1824.
_119 in Hunt manuscript; from 1824.
_124 a Hunt manuscript; an 1824.
_171 That Hunt manuscript; Which 1824.
_175 mind Hunt manuscript; minds 1824.
_179 know 1824; see Hunt manuscript.
_188 those Hunt manuscript; the 1824.
_191 their Hunt manuscript; this 1824.
_218 Moons, etc. , Hunt manuscript;
The line is wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.
_237 far Hunt manuscript; but 1824.
_270 nor Hunt manuscript; and 1824.
_292 cold Hunt manuscript; and 1824.
_318 least Hunt manuscript; last 1824.
_323 sweet Hunt manuscript; fresh 1824.
_356 have Hunt manuscript; hath 1824.
_361 in this keen Hunt manuscript; under this 1824.
_362 cry Hunt manuscript; eye 1824.
_372 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.
_388 greet Hunt manuscript; meet 1824.
_390 your Hunt manuscript; thy 1824.
_417 his Hunt manuscript; its 1824.
_446 glance Hunt manuscript; glass 1824.
_447 with Hunt manuscript; near 1824.
_467 lip Hunt manuscript; life 1824.
_483 this Hunt manuscript; that 1824.
_493 I would Hunt manuscript; I'd 1824.
_510 despair Hunt manuscript; my care 1839.
_511 leant] See Editor's Note.
_518 were Hunt manuscript; was 1839.
_525 his Hunt manuscript; it 1824.
_530 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.
_537 were now Hunt manuscript; now were 1824.
_588 regrets Hunt manuscript; regret 1824.
_569 but Hunt manuscript;
wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.
_574 his 1824; this [? ] Hunt manuscript.
NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY.
From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and,
circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks
in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord
Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he
sent for his family from Lucca to join him.
I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent,
demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was
situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a
range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a
vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from
the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which
Shelley made his study, and in which he began the "Prometheus"; and
here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote "Julian and Maddalo".
A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the
hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose
dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices
owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind
the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the
wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines,
while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the
picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut-wood,
at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to
the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode.
Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even
more severely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose
small features I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her
father, showed symptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate.
Teething increased her illness and danger. We were at Este, and when
we became alarmed, hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we
arrived at Fusina, we found that we had forgotten our passport, and
the soldiers on duty attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but
they could not resist Shelley's impetuosity at such a moment. We had
scarcely arrived at Venice before life fled from the little sufferer,
and we returned to Este to weep her loss.
After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which was interspersed by
visits to Venice, we proceeded southward.
***
PROMETHEUS UNBOUND.
A LYRICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS.
AUDISNE HAEC AMPHIARAE, SUB TERRAM ABDITE?
[Composed at Este, September, October, 1818 (Act 1); at Rome,
March-April 6, 1819 (Acts 2, 3); at Florence, close of 1819 (Act 4).
Published by C. and J. Ollier, London, summer of 1820. Sources of the
text are (1) edition of 1820; (2) text in "Poetical Works", 1839,
prepared with the aid of a list of errata in (1) written out by
Shelley; (3) a fair draft in Shelley's autograph, now in the Bodleian.
This has been carefully collated by Mr. C. D. Locock, who prints the
result in his "Examination of the Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian
Library", Oxford (Clarendon Press), 1903. Our text is that of 1820,
modified by edition 1839, and by the Bodleian fair copy. In the
following notes B = the Bodleian manuscript; 1820 = the editio
princeps, printed by Marchant for C. and J. Ollier, London; and 1839 =
the text as edited by Mrs. Shelley in the "Poetical Works", 1st and
2nd editions, 1839. The reader should consult the notes on the Play at
the end of the volume. ]
PREFACE.
The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their subject any portion of
their national history or mythology, employed in their treatment of it
a certain arbitrary discretion. They by no means conceived themselves
bound to adhere to the common interpretation or to imitate in story as
in title their rivals and predecessors. Such a system would have
amounted to a resignation of those claims to preference over their
competitors which incited the composition. The Agamemnonian story was
exhibited on the Athenian theatre with as many variations as dramas.
I have presumed to employ a similar license. The "Prometheus Unbound"
of Aeschylus supposed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim as
the price of the disclosure of the danger threatened to his empire by
the consummation of his marriage with Thetis. Thetis, according to
this view of the subject, was given in marriage to Peleus, and
Prometheus, by the permission of Jupiter, delivered from his captivity
by Hercules. Had I framed my story on this model, I should have done
no more than have attempted to restore the lost drama of Aeschylus; an
ambition which, if my preference to this mode of treating the subject
had incited me to cherish, the recollection of the high comparison
such an attempt would challenge might well abate. But, in truth, I was
averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that of reconciling the
Champion with the Oppressor of mankind. The moral interest of the
fable, which is so powerfully sustained by the sufferings and
endurance of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could conceive of
him as unsaying his high language and quailing before his successful
and perfidious adversary. The only imaginary being resembling in any
degree Prometheus, is Satan; and Prometheus is, in my judgement, a
more poetical character than Satan, because, in addition to courage,
and majesty, and firm and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he
is susceptible of being described as exempt from the taints of
ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggrandisement,
which, in the Hero of "Paradise Lost", interfere with the interest.
The character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry
which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and to excuse the
former because the latter exceed all measure. In the minds of those
who consider that magnificent fiction with a religious feeling it
engenders something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, the type of
the highest perfection of moral and intellectual nature, impelled by
the purest and the truest motives to the best and noblest ends.
This Poem was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths
of Caracalla, among the flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous
blossoming trees, which are extended in ever winding labyrinths upon
its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air. The
bright blue sky of Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awakening
spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it
drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the inspiration of
this drama.
The imagery which I have employed will be found, in many instances, to
have been drawn from the operations of the human mind, or from those
external actions by which they are expressed. This is unusual in
modern poetry, although Dante and Shakespeare are full of instances of
the same kind: Dante indeed more than any other poet, and with greater
success. But the Greek poets, as writers to whom no resource of
awakening the sympathy of their contemporaries was unknown, were in
the habitual use of this power; and it is the study of their works
(since a higher merit would probably be denied me) to which I am
willing that my readers should impute this singularity.
One word is due in candour to the degree in which the study of
contemporary writings may have tinged my composition, for such has
been a topic of censure with regard to poems far more popular, and
indeed more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible that any
one who inhabits the same age with such writers as those who stand in
the foremost ranks of our own, can conscientiously assure himself that
his language and tone of thought may not have been modified by the
study of the productions of those extraordinary intellects. It is
true, that, not the spirit of their genius, but the forms in which it
has manifested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their own
minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and intellectual condition
of the minds among which they have been produced. Thus a number of
writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom,
it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of
the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated
lightning of their own mind.
The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive imagery which
distinguishes the modern literature of England has not been, as a
general power, the product of the imitation of any particular writer.
The mass of capabilities remains at every period materially the same;
the circumstances which awaken it to action perpetually change. If
England were divided into forty republics, each equal in population
and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose but that, under
institutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce
philosophers and poets equal to those who (if we except Shakespeare)
have never been surpassed. We owe the great writers of the golden age
of our literature to that fervid awakening of the public mind which
shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of the Christian
religion. We owe Milton to the progress and development of the same
spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a
republican, and a bold inquirer into morals and religion. The great
writers of our own age are, we have reason to suppose, the companions
and forerunners of some unimagined change in our social condition or
the opinions which cement it. The cloud of mind is discharging its
collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and
opinions is now restoring, or is about to be restored.
As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, but it creates
by combination and representation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful
and new, not because the portions of which they are composed had no
previous existence in the mind of man or in nature, but because the
whole produced by their combination has some intelligible and
beautiful analogy with those sources of emotion and thought, and with
the contemporary condition of them: one great poet is a masterpiece of
nature which another not only ought to study but must study. He might
as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be
the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude
from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a
great contemporary. The pretence of doing it would be a presumption in
any but the greatest; the effect, even in him, would be strained,
unnatural and ineffectual. A poet is the combined product of such
internal powers as modify the nature of others; and of such external
influences as excite and sustain these powers; he is not one, but
both. Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the
objects of nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he
ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon
which all forms are reflected, and in which they compose one form.
Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors and
musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the
creations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest do not
escape. There is a similarity between Homer and Hesiod, between
Aeschylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Horace, between Dante and
Petrarch, between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden and Pope;
each has a generic resemblance under which their specific distinctions
are arranged. If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am
willing to confess that I have imitated.
Let this opportunity be conceded to me of acknowledging that I have,
what a Scotch philosopher characteristically terms, 'a passion for
reforming the world:' what passion incited him to write and publish
his book, he omits to explain. For my part I had rather be damned with
Plato and Lord Bacon, than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus. But it
is a mistake to suppose that I dedicate my poetical compositions
solely to the direct enforcement of reform, or that I consider them in
any degree as containing a reasoned system on the theory of human
life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence; nothing can be equally well
expressed in prose that is not tedious and supererogatory in verse. My
purpose has hitherto been simply to familiarise the highly refined
imagination of the more select classes of poetical readers with
beautiful idealisms of moral excellence; aware that until the mind can
love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles
of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the
unconscious passenger tramples into dust, although they would bear the
harvest of his happiness. Should I live to accomplish what I purpose,
that is, produce a systematical history of what appear to me to be the
genuine elements of human society, let not the advocates of injustice
and superstition flatter themselves that I should take Aeschylus
rather than Plato as my model.
The having spoken of myself with unaffected freedom will need little
apology with the candid; and let the uncandid consider that they
injure me less than their own hearts and minds by misrepresentation.
Whatever talents a person may possess to amuse and instruct others, be
they ever so inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if his
attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccomplished
purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble themselves to heap the
dust of oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will betray his
grave which might otherwise have been unknown.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
PROMETHEUS.
DEMOGORGON.
JUPITER.
THE EARTH.
OCEAN.
APOLLO.
MERCURY.
OCEANIDES: ASIA, PANTHEA, IONE.
HERCULES.
THE PHANTASM OF JUPITER.
THE SPIRIT OF THE EARTH.
THE SPIRIT OF THE MOON.
SPIRITS OF THE HOURS.
SPIRITS. ECHOES. FAUNS. FURIES.
ACT 1.
SCENE:
A RAVINE OF ICY ROCKS IN THE INDIAN CAUCASUS.
PROMETHEUS IS DISCOVERED BOUND TO THE PRECIPICE.
PANTEA AND IONE ARE SEATED AT HIS FEET.
TIME, NIGHT.
DURING, THE SCENE MORNING SLOWLY BREAKS.
PROMETHEUS:
Monarch of Gods and DAEmons, 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 _5
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:-- _15
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, for ever!
No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure.
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? _25
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, for ever! _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 _35
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, _45
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
The leaden-coloured 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 wide Heaven!
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, _55
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! _65
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised wings
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss,
As thunder, louder than your own, made rock
The orbed 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.
NOTE:
_54 thro' wide B; thro' the wide 1820.
FIRST VOICE (FROM THE MOUNTAINS):
Thrice three hundred thousand years
O'er the Earthquake's couch we stood: _75
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
Thro' a city and a solitude.
THIRD VOICE (FROM THE AIR):
I had clothed, since Earth uprose,
Its wastes in colours not their own,
And oft had my serene repose
Been cloven by many a rending groan. _85
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
FIRST VOICE:
But never bowed our snowy crest
As at the voice of thine unrest.
SECOND VOICE:
Never such a sound before
To the Indian waves we bore.
A pilot asleep on the howling sea _95
Leaped up from the deck in agony,
And heard, and cried, 'Ah, woe is me! '
And died as mad as the wild waves be.
THIRD VOICE:
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.
FOURTH VOICE:
And we shrank back: for dreams of ruin
To frozen caves our flight pursuing
Made us keep silence--thus--and thus-- _105
Though silence is a hell to us.
THE EARTH:
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! '
NOTE:
_106 as hell 1839, B; a hell 1820.
PROMETHEUS:
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, _115
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?
Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow-fed streams, _120
Now seen athwart frore vapours, 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, _125
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!
THE EARTH:
They dare not. _130
PROMETHEUS:
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 _135
I only know that thou art moving near
And love. How cursed I him?
THE EARTH:
How canst thou hear
Who knowest not the language of the dead?
PROMETHEUS:
Thou art a living spirit; speak as they.
THE EARTH:
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. _145
PROMETHEUS:
Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim,
Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel
Faint, like one mingled in entwining love;
Yet 'tis not pleasure.
THE EARTH:
No, thou canst not hear:
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known _150
Only to those who die.
PROMETHEUS:
And what art thou,
O, melancholy Voice?
THE EARTH:
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, _155
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 sphered light wane in wide Heaven; the sea _165
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 _175
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, _185
But dare not speak them.
NOTE:
_137 And love 1820; And lovest cj. Swinburne.
PROMETHEUS:
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
THE EARTH:
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: _195
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, _205
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 _215
Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades,
As rainy wind through the abandoned gate
Of a fallen palace.
PROMETHEUS:
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!
IONE:
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, _225
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
PANTHEA:
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 _235
To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud
His veined hand doth hold.
Cruel he looks, but calm and strong,
Like one who does, not suffers wrong.
PHANTASM OF JUPITER:
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? _245
PROMETHEUS:
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.
THE EARTH:
Listen! And though your echoes must be mute, _250
Grey mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs,
Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams,
Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak.
PHANTASM:
A spirit seizes me and speaks within:
It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. _255
PANTHEA:
See, how he lifts his mighty looks, the Heaven
Darkens above.
IONE:
He speaks! O shelter me!
PROMETHEUS:
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!
PHANTASM:
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. _265
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. _275
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! _285
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. _295
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.
PROMETHEUS:
Were these my words, O Parent?
THE EARTH:
They were thine.
PROMETHEUS:
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. _305
THE EARTH:
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 vanquished.
FIRST ECHO:
Lies fallen and vanquished!
SECOND ECHO:
Fallen and vanquished!
IONE:
Fear not: 'tis but some passing spasm,
The Titan is unvanquished still. _315
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.
PANTHEA:
'Tis Jove's world-wandering herald, Mercury. _325
IONE:
And who are those with hydra tresses
And iron wings that climb the wind,
Whom the frowning God represses
Like vapours steaming up behind,
Clanging loud, an endless crowd-- _330
PANTHEA:
These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds,
Whom he gluts with groans and blood,
When charioted on sulphurous cloud
He bursts Heaven's bounds.
IONE:
Are they now led, from the thin dead _335
On new pangs to be fed?
PANTHEA:
The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud.
FIRST FURY:
Ha! I scent life!
SECOND FURY:
Let me but look into his eyes!
THIRD FURY:
The hope of torturing him smells like a heap
Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. _340
FIRST FURY:
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?
MERCURY:
Back to your towers of iron,
And gnash, beside the streams of fire and wail, _345
Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise! and Gorgon,
Chimaera, 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.
FIRST FURY:
Oh, mercy! mercy! _350
We die with our desire: drive us not back!
MERCURY:
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. _355
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 _365
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 _375
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.
PROMETHEUS:
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-winged snow cling round my hair: _385
Whilst my beloved race is trampled down
By his thought-executing ministers.
Such is the tyrant's recompense: 'tis 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: _395
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, _405
Enduring thus, the retributive hour
Which since we spake is even nearer now.
But hark, the hell-hounds clamour: fear delay:
Behold! Heaven lowers under thy Father's frown.
MERCURY:
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?
PROMETHEUS:
I know but this, that it must come.
MERCURY:
Alas!
Thou canst not count thy years to come of pain?
PROMETHEUS:
They last while Jove must reign: nor more, nor less _415
Do I desire or fear.
MERCURY:
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, lost, shelterless;
Perchance it has not numbered the slow years
Which thou must spend in torture, unreprieved?
PROMETHEUS:
Perchance no thought can count them, yet they pass.
MERCURY:
If thou might'st dwell among the Gods the while
Lapped in voluptuous joy? _425
PROMETHEUS:
I would not quit
This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains.
MERCURY:
Alas! I wonder at, yet pity thee.
PROMETHEUS:
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.
IONE:
O, sister, look! White fire
Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow-loaded cedar;
How fearfully God's thunder howls behind!
MERCURY:
I must obey his words and thine: alas! _435
Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart!
PANTHEA:
See where the child of Heaven, with winged feet,
Runs down the slanted sunlight of the dawn.
IONE:
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.
FIRST FURY:
Prometheus!
SECOND FURY:
Immortal Titan!
THIRD FURY:
Champion of Heaven's slaves!
PROMETHEUS:
He whom some dreadful voice invokes is here,
Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible forms, _445
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.
FIRST FURY:
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, _455
We track all things that weep, and bleed, and live,
When the great King betrays them to our will.
PROMETHEUS:
Oh! many fearful natures in one name,
I know ye; and these lakes and echoes know
The darkness and the clangour of your wings. _460
But why more hideous than your loathed selves
Gather ye up in legions from the deep?
SECOND FURY:
We knew not that: Sisters, rejoice, rejoice!
PROMETHEUS:
Can aught exult in its deformity?
SECOND FURY:
The beauty of delight makes lovers glad, _465
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 aereal 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.
PROMETHEUS:
I laugh your power, and his who sent you here,
To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain.
FIRST FURY:
Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone, _475
And nerve from nerve, working like fire within?
PROMETHEUS:
Pain is my element, as hate is thine;
Ye rend me now; I care not.
SECOND FURY:
Dost imagine
We will but laugh into thy lidless eyes?
PROMETHEUS:
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.
THIRD FURY:
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 _485
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?
PROMETHEUS:
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.
