Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart.

ONE after one the stars have risen and set, Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain:

The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold

Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den,

Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn,

Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient;

And now bright Lucifer grows less and less,

Into the heaven's blue quiet deep-withdrawn.

Sunless and starless all, the desert sky
Arches above me, empty as this heart
For ages hath been empty of all joy,
Except to brood upon its silent hope,
As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now

All night have I heard voices: deeper yet The deep low breathing of the silence grew,

While all about, muffled in awe, there stood

Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart,

But, when I turned to front them, far along

Only a shudder through the midnight ran, And the dense stillness walled me closer round.

But still I heard them wander up and down

That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings

Did mingle with them, whether of those hags

Let slip upon me once from Hades deep,
Or of yet direr torments, if such be,
I could but guess; and then toward me

Some doom was close upon me, and I looked

And saw the red moon through the heavy mist,

Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling,

Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged Into the rising surges of the pines, Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins

Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, Sent up a murmur in the morning wind, Sad as the wail that from the populous earth

All day and night to high Olympus soars, Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!

Thy hated name is tossed once more in

scorn

From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove!

They are wrung from me but by the ago

nies

Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall

From clouds in travail of the lightning, when

The great wave of the storm high-curled and black

Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break.

Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type

Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? True Power was never born of brutish Strength,

Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs

Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts,

That quell the darkness for a space, so strong

As the prevailing patience of meek Light, Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace,

Wins it to be a portion of herself? Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast

The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear

Than this thy ravening bird on which I

smile?

Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold What kind of doom it is whose omen flits Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves The fearful shadow of the kite. What

need

To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save?

Evil its errand hath, as well as Good; When thine is finished, thou art known

no more:

There is a higher purity than thou,
And higher purity is greater strength;
Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy
heart

Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might.

Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled

With thought of that drear silence and deep night

and thine:

Let man but will, and thou art god no

more,

More capable of ruin than the gold
And ivory that image thee on earth.
He who hurled down the monstrous
Titan-brood

Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned,

Is weaker than a simple human thought. My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze,

That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole; For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow In my wise heart the end and doom of all.

Yes, 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 com

mune

great spirit,

With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale,

Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will.

So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth,

And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove!

feet

The vintage on thine altars poured no

Not that I feel that hunger after fame, Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with;

But that the memory of noble deeds
Cries shame upon the idle and the vile,
And keeps the heart of Man forever up
To the heroic level of old time.
To be forgot at first is little pain
To a heart conscious of such high intent
As must be deathless on the lips of men;
But, having been a name, to sink and be
A something which the world can do
without,

Which, having been or not, would never change

The lightest pulse of fate, this is indeed

A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs.

Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, And memory thy vulture; thou wilt find Oblivion far lonelier than this peak. Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it

much

That I should brave thee, miserable god! But I have braved a mightier than thou, Even the tempting of this soaring heart, Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou,

A god among my brethren weak and blind,

Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing To be down-trodden into darkness soon. But now I am above thee, for thou art The bungling workmanship of fear, the block

That awes the swart Barbarian; but I Am what myself have made, -a nature wise

With finding in itself the types of all, With watching from the dim verge of

the time

What things to be are visible in the gleams

Thrown forward on them from the luminous past,

Wise with the history of its own frail

heart,

With reverence and with sorrow, and with love,

Broad as the world, for freedom and for

man.