Page:Poems (IA poemslowell00lowe).pdf/93

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PROMETHEUS.
75
By its own labour, lightened with glad hymnsTo an omnipotence which thy mad boltsWould cope with as a spark with the vast sea,—Even the spirit of free love and peace,Duty's sure recompense through life and death,—These are such harvests as all master-spiritsReap, haply not on earth, but reap no lessBecause the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs;These are the bloodless daggers wherewithalThey stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge:For their best part of life on earth is when,Long after death, prisoned and pent no more,Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have becomePart of the necessary air men breathe;When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud,They shed down light before us on life's sea,That cheers us to steer onward still in hope.Earth with her twining memories ivies o'erTheir holy sepulchres; the chainless sea,In tempest or wide calm, repeats their thoughts;The lightning and the thunder, all free things,Have legends of them for the ears of men.
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