PROMETHEUS BOUND.
157
Then left I earthly sights, to wander
Amid a grove of name divine,
Where bay-reflecting streams meander,
And Moloch Fame hath rear'd a shrine.
Not green, but black, is that reflection;
On rocky beds those waters lie;
That grove hath chilness and dejection.—
How could I sing? I had to sigh.
Last, human Love, thy Lares greeting,
To rest and warmth I vow'd my years.
To rest? how wild my pulse is beating!
To warmth? ah me! my burning tears.
Ay! they may burn—though thou be frozen
By death, and changes wint'ring on!
Fame—Beauty!—idols madly chosen—
Were yet of gold; but thou art stone!
