Prometheus Or The Poet's Forethought

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Of Prometheus, how undaunted
        On Olympus' shining bastions
    His audacious foot he planted,
    Myths are told and songs are chanted,
        Full of promptings and suggestions.

    Beautiful is the tradition
        Of that flight through heavenly portals,
    The old classic superstition
    Of the theft and the transmission
        Of the fire of the Immortals!

    First the deed of noble daring,
        Born of heavenward aspiration,
    Then the fire with mortals sharing,
    Then the vulture,--the despairing
        Cry of pain on crags Caucasian.

    All is but a symbol painted
        Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer;
    Only those are crowned and sainted
    Who with grief have been acquainted,
        Making nations nobler, freer.

    In their feverish exultations,
        In their triumph and their yearning,
    In their passionate pulsations,
    In their words among the nations,
        The Promethean fire is burning.

    Shall it, then, be unavailing,
        All this toil for human culture?
    Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing,
    Must they see above them sailing
        O'er life's barren crags the vulture?

    Such a fate as this was Dante's,
        By defeat and exile maddened;
    Thus were Milton and Cervantes,
    Nature's priests and Corybantes,
        By affliction touched and saddened.

    But the glories so transcendent
        That around their memories cluster,
    And, on all their steps attendant,
    Make their darkened lives resplendent
        With such gleams of inward lustre!

    All the melodies mysterious,
        Through the dreary darkness chanted;
    Thoughts in attitudes imperious,
    Voices soft, and deep, and serious,
        Words that whispered, songs that haunted!

    All the soul in rapt suspension,
        All the quivering, palpitating
    Chords of life in utmost tension,
    With the fervor of invention,
        With the rapture of creating!

    Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling!
        In such hours of exultation
    Even the faintest heart, unquailing,
    Might behold the vulture sailing
        Round the cloudy crags Caucasian!

    Though to all there is not given
        Strength for such sublime endeavor,
    Thus to scale the walls of heaven,
    And to leaven with fiery leaven
        All the hearts of men for ever;

    Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted
        Honor and believe the presage,
    Hold aloft their torches lighted,
    Gleaming through the realms benighted,
        As they onward bear the message!