When Prometheus Stole The Flame.

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]             When Prometheus stole the flame,             Did he know what with it came?             Did he look afar and see             All the blessings that would be?             Could he view the gentle gloam             Of the fireside of a home?             Or the centre-table's blaze,             Turning evenings into days,             Where, encamped with quiet zest,             Happy children toil and rest?             Did he view the parlor's gleam,             Or the 'wildering palace dream?             See the torch's floating glare             Burn its way through walls of air;             Or, through under-regions trace             Earth's remotest hiding-place?             Did he see the flags of steam             O'er the cities flash and gleam?             To his vision, like a star,             Did the light-house gleam afar,             Which another eye should be             To the traveller of the sea?             If Prometheus, tortured - bound -             Knew the blessings man had found,             Then his sufferings must have been             Soothed by blessings from within.                          *             *             *             *             *             When Prometheus stole the flame,             Did he know what with it came?             Did he see the fire up-steal,             Rise, and take its midnight meal?             Did he view the palace wall             Stumble 'mid the smoke and fall?             Did he see some cherished home             Feed a fiery ocean's foam?             Did he hear the war-alarms             Of a nation called to arms,             And behold men, in their ire,             Murdering men with bolts of fire?             Did some miscreant cross his sight,             Bent on booty or on spite,             Stealing steps into the dark,             With the incendiary spark?             Did there, faint and haggard, rise             Ghosts before his startled eyes,             Godly men of scathless name,             Felled for fuel to the flame;             In a short-lived earthly hell             Thrown, for voicing heaven too well?             If he knew that glittering thing             Would to Earth such curses bring,             Then his sufferings may have been             Edged with poison from within.     [From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]     MARCH 20, 18 - .         Somehow, the fire I saw not long ago         Has subsequently chased me, high and low;         Runs back and forth betwixt my head and heart,         And shows no disposition to depart.         And so I've wandered 'round (too much, perhaps),         And got acquainted with the fireman chaps,         And planted good cigars where they would seem         Inclined to grow up helpful to my scheme.         (I never smoke; but, travelling near and far,         There's few things help one like a good cigar;         When safe between a neighbor's teeth 'tis hung,         It oils his ways and loosens up his tongue.         I get more from cigars, before it's through,         Than all the fellows that I give them to.         Perhaps they should not smoke; but, if they will,         My method helps their families foot the bill.)         Not long ago a sturdy fireman lad,         Who smoked up every last cigar I had,         Unrolled the following story to my view,         Which I believe (conditionally) true: