Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire And 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 hate Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven To 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 note Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song. We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong As 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.
Love hath the wings of the butterfly, Oh, clasp him but gently, Pausing and dipping and fluttering by Inconsequently. Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh; Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold, Cling to him strongly-- What if the look of the world be cold, And life go wrongly? Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold; Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale, Hearken his trilling-- List to his song when the moonlight is pale,-- Passionate, thrilling. Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail; Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night, Wildly defiant. Hear him and yield up your soul to his might, Tenderly pliant. None shall regret him who heed him aright; Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
The world is a snob, and the man who wins Is the chap for its money's worth: And the lust for success causes half of the sins That are cursing this brave old earth. For it 's fine to go up, and the world's applause Is sweet to the mortal ear; But the man who fails in a noble cause Is a hero that 's no less dear.
'T is true enough that the laurel crown Twines but for the victor's brow; For many a hero has lain him down With naught but the cypress bough. There are gallant men in the losing fight, And as gallant deeds are done As ever graced the captured height Or the battle grandly won.