Prometheus.

Cover thy spacious heavens, Zeus,     With clouds of mist,     And, like the boy who lops     The thistles' heads,     Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks,     Yet thou must leave     My earth still standing;     My cottage too, which was not raised by thee;     Leave me my hearth,     Whose kindly glow     By thee is envied.     I know nought poorer     Under the sun, than ye gods!     Ye nourish painfully,     With sacrifices     And votive prayers,     Your majesty:     Ye would e'en starve,     If children and beggars     Were not trusting fools.     While yet a child     And ignorant of life,     I turned my wandering gaze     Up tow'rd the sun, as if with him     There were an ear to hear my wailings,     A heart, like mine,     To feel compassion for distress.     Who help'd me     Against the Titans' insolence?     Who rescued me from certain death,     From slavery?     Didst thou not do all this thyself,     My sacred glowing heart?     And glowedst, young and good,     Deceived with grateful thanks     To yonder slumbering one?     I honour thee! and why?     Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrows     Of the heavy laden?     Hast thou e'er dried up the tears     Of the anguish-stricken?     Was I not fashion'd to be a man     By omnipotent Time,     And by eternal Fate,     Masters of me and thee?     Didst thou e'er fancy     That life I should learn to hate,     And fly to deserts,     Because not all     My blossoming dreams grew ripe?     Here sit I, forming mortals     After my image;     A race resembling me,     To suffer, to weep,     To enjoy, to be glad,     And thee to scorn,     As I!