Hadst to thyself usurped,—­his by sole right,
    For Man hath right to all save Tyranny,—­
    And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. 
    Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance,
    Begotten by the slaves they trample on, 110
    Who, could they win a glimmer of the light,
    And see that Tyranny is always weakness,
    Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease,
    Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain
    Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. 115
    Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right
    To the firm centre lays its moveless base. 
    The tyrant trembles, if the air but stirs
    The innocent ringlets of a child’s free hair,
    And crouches, when the thought of some great spirit, 120
    With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale,
    Over men’s hearts, as over standing corn,
    Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will. 
    So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth,
    And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove! 125

[Footnote 20:  That is, Jove himself.]

      And, wouldst thou know of my supreme revenge,
    Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart,
    Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are,
    Listen! and tell me if this bitter peak,
    This never-glutted vulture, and these chains 130
    Shrink not before it; for it shall befit
    A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. 
    Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand
    On a precipitous crag that overhangs
    The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, 135
    As in a glass, the features dim and vast
    Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems,
    Of what had been.  Death ever fronts the wise;
    Not fearfully, but with clear promises
    Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, 140
    Their outlook widens, and they see beyond
    The horizon of the present and the past,
    Even to the very source and end of things. 
    Such am I now:  immortal woe hath made
    My heart a seer, and my soul a judge 145
    Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. 
    The sure supremeness of the Beautiful,
    By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure
    Of such as I am, this is my revenge,
    Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch, 150
    Through which I see a sceptre and a throne. 
    The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills,
    Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee,—­
    The songs of maidens pressing with white feet
    The vintage on thine altars poured no more,—­ 155
    The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath
    Dim grapevine bowers, whose rosy bunches press