Page:Poems (IA poemslowell00lowe).pdf/99

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PROMETHEUS.
81
Part of that awful Presence which doth hauntThe palaces of tyrants, to hunt off,With its grim eyes and fearful whisperingsAnd hideous sense of utter loneliness,All hope of safety, all desire of peace,All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,—Part of that spirit which doth ever broodIn patient calm on the unpilfered nestOf man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledgedTo sail with darkening shadow o'er the world,Filling with dread such souls as dare not trustIn the unfailing energy of Good,Until they swoop, and their pale quarry makeOf some o'erbloated wrong,—that spirit whichScatters great hopes in the seed-field of man,Like acorns among grain, to grow and beA roof for freedom in all coming time!
But no, this cannot be; for ages yet,In solitude unbroken, shall I hearThe angry Caspian to the Euxine shout,And Euxine answer with a muffled roar,
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