Pro. And what art thou,

O melancholy Voice?

The Earth. I am the Earth,

Thy mother; she within whose stony veins,
To the last fibre of the loftiest tree

Whose thin leaves tremble in the frozen air,
Joy ran, as blood within a living frame,
When thou didst from her bosom, like a cloud
Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy!
And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted
Their prostrate brows from the polluting dust,
And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread
Grew pale, until his thunder chained thee here.
Then, see those million worlds which burn and roll
Around us: their inhabitants beheld

My sphered light wane in wide Heaven; the sea
Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fire
From earthquake-rifted mountains of bright snow
Shook its portentous hair beneath Heaven's frown;
Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains;
Blue thistles bloomed in cities; foodless toads
Within voluptuous chambers panting crawled:
When Plague had fallen on man and beast, and worm
And Famine; and black blight on herb and tree;
And in the corn, and vines, and meadow-grass,
Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds

Draining their growth, for my wan breast was dry
With grief: and the thin air, my breath, was stained
With the contagion of a mother's hate

Breathed on her child's destroyer; aye, I heard
Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not,

Yet my innumerable seas and streams,

Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air, And the inarticulate people of the dead,

Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate

In secret joy and hope those dreadful words,

But dare not speak them.

Pro. Venerable mother!

All else who live and suffer take from thee

Some comfort; flowers, and fruits, and happy sounds,

And love, though fleeting; these may not be mine.
But mine own words, I pray, deny me not.

The Earth. They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust, The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child,.

Met his own image walking in the garden.

That apparition, sole of men, he saw.

For know there are two worlds of life and death.
One that which thou beholdest; but the other
Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit
The shadows of all forms that think and live
Till death unite them and they part no more;
Dreams and the light imaginings of men,
And all that faith creates or love desires,
Terrible, strange, sublime, and beauteous shapes.
There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing shade.
'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains; all the gods
Are there, and all the powers of nameless worlds,
Vast sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, and beasts;
And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom;
And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne
Of burning gold. Son, one of these shall utter
The curse which all remember. Call at will
Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter,
Hades, or Typhon, or what mightier Gods
From all prolific Evil since thy ruin

Have sprung, and trampled on my prostrate sons,
Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge

Of the Supreme may sweep thro' vacant shades,
As rainy wind thro' the abandoned gate

Of a fallen palace.

Pro. Mother, let not aught

Of that which may be evil pass again
My lips, or those of aught resembling me.
Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear!

Ione. My wings are folded o'er mine ears

My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes;
Yet thro' their silver shade appears
And thro' their lulling plumes arise,
A Shape, a throng of sounds;

May it be no ill to thee,

O thou of many wounds!

Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake,
Ever thus we watch and wake.

Pan. The sound is of whirlwind underground,

Earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven; The shape is awful like the sound,

Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven.

A sceptre of pale gold

To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud
His veined hand doth hold.

Cruel he looks, but calm and strong,

Like one who does, not suffers, wrong.

Pantasm of Jupiter. Why have the secret powers of this strange world

riven me, a frail and empty phantom, hither
On direst storms? What unaccustomed sounds
Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voice
With which our pallid race hold ghasty talk
In darkness? And, proud sufferer, who art thou?

Pro. Tremendous Image, as thou art must be He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his foe, The Titan. Speak the words which I would hear, Although no thought inform thine empty voice.

The Earth. Listen! And tho' your echoes must be mute,

Grey mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs, Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams, Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak.

Phan. A spirit seizes me and speaks within. It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud.

Pan. See, how he lifts his mighty looks! the Heaven Darkens above.

Pro. I see the curse on gestures proud and cold,
And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate,
And such despair as mocks itself with smiles,
Written as on a scroll: yet speak: Oh, speak!

Phantasm. Fiend, I defy thee! With a calm fixed mind
All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do;
Foul Tyrant both of Gods and Human-kind,
One only being shalt thou not subdue.
Rain then thy plagues upon me here,
Ghastly disease, and frenzying lear;
And let alternate frost and fire
Eat into me, and be thine ire

Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned forms
Of furies, driving by upon the wounding storms.

Aye, do thy worst. Thou art omnipotent.

O'er all things but thyself I gave thee power,
And my own will. Be thy swift mischiefs sent
To blast mankind, from yon ethereal tower.
Let thy malignant spirit move

In darkness over those I love:
On me and mine I imprecate
The utmost torture of thy hate;

And thus devote to sleepless agony

This undeclining head while thou must reign on high.

But thou, who art the God and Lord: O thou
Who fillest with thy soul this world of woe,
To whom all things of Earth and Heaven do bow
In fear and worship: all-prevailing foe!
I curse thee! Let a sufferer's curse

Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse;

"Till thine Infinity shall be

A robe of envenomed agony,

And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain,

To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving brain.

Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse,

Ill deeds, then be thou damned, beholding good

Both infinite as is the universe,

And thou, and thy self-torturing solitude.
An awful image of calm power

Though now thou sittest, let the hour

Come when thou must appear to be
That which thou art internally,

And after many a false and fruitless crime

[time.

Scorn track thy lagging fall thro' boundless space and

Pro. Were these my words, O Parent?

The Earth.

They were thine

Pro. It doth repent me: words are quick and vain: Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine.

1 wish no living thing to suffer pain.

The Earth. Misery, O misery to me,
That Jove at length should vanquish thee.
Wail, howl aloud, Land and Sea,
The Earth's rent heart shall answer ye.
Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead,

Your refuge, your defence, lies fallen and vanquished

First Echo. Lies fallen and vanquished!

Second Echo. Fallen and vanquished!

Ione. Fear not: 'tis but some passing spasm,
The Titan is unvanquished still,
But see, where, thro' the azure chasm
Of yon forked and snowy hill,
Trampling the slant winds on high

With golden-sandalled feet, that glow

Under plumes of purple dye,

Like rose-ensanguined ivory,

A Shape comes now,

Stretching on high from his right hand
A serpent-cinctured wand.

Pan. 'Tis Jove's world-wandering herald, Mercury

Ione. And who are those with hydra tresses

And iron wings that climb the wind,

Whom the frowning God repress es