Page:Poems (IA poemslowell00lowe).pdf/97

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PROMETHEUS.
79
The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, weak god,Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul,Fresh-living still in the serene abyss,In ever heaving shall partake, that growsFrom heart to heart among the sons of men,—As the ominous hum before the earthquake runsFar through the Ægean from roused isle to isle,—Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines,And mighty rents in many a cavernous errorThat darkens the free light to man:—This heart,Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth.Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws.Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shallIn all the throbbing exultations shareThat wait on freedom's triumphs, and in allThe glorious agonies of martyr-spirits.—Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged cloudsThat veil the future, showing them the end,—Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth,Girding the temples like a wreath of stars.This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel,Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts
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