Prometheus
Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fireAnd swept to earth with it o’er land and sea.He lit the vestal flames of poesy,Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.
Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hatePursued the fearless one who ravished HeavenThat earth might hold in fee the perfect leavenTo lift men’s souls above their low estate.
But judge you now, when poets wield the pen,Think you not well the wrong has been repaired?’Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared:The fire has been returned to Heaven again!
We have no singers like the ones whose noteGave challenge to the noblest warbler’s song.We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strongAs that which broke from Shelley’s golden throat.
The measure of our songs is our desires:We tinkle where old poets used to storm.We lack their substance tho’ we keep their form:We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.