Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/35

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?

⁠Pro. 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,
Grey mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs,
Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams,
Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak.

⁠Phan. A spirit seizes me and speaks within;
It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud.

⁠Pan. See how he lifts his mighty looks! the Heaven
Darkens above.

⁠Ione. He speaks! Oh, shelter me!

⁠Pro. 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,
Written as on a scroll: yet speak: Oh, speak!