PROMETHEUS—CHRIST.
LASHED to the planet, glaring at the sky,
An eagle at his heart—the Pagan Christ!
Why is it, Mystery? O, dumb Darkness, why
Have always men, with loving hearts themselves,
Made devils of their gods?
The whirling globe
Bears round man's sweating agony of blood,
That Might may gloat above impotent Pain!
Man's soul is dual—he is half a fiend,
And from himself he typifies Almighty.
