Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show.
The suffocating sense of woe.
Which speaks but in its loneliness.
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless."
"Yet, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown
By years of solitude,—that holds apart
The past and future, giving the soul room
To search into itself,—and long commune
With this eternal silence;—more a god.
In my long-suffering and strength to meet
With equal front the direst shafts of fate.
Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism. . .
Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type
Of what all lofty spirits endure that fain
Would win men back to strength and peace through love
Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart
Envy, or scorn or hatred tears lifelong
With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left;
And faith, which is but hope grown wise, and love
And patience, which at last shall overcome."
