PROMETHEUS.—Deem me not self-willed nor with pride high-strung, That I am dumb; my heart is gnawed to see Myself thus mocked and jeered. These gods, to whom Owe they their green advancement but to me? But this ye know; and, not to teach the taught, I’ll speak of it no more. Of human kind, My great offence in aiding them, in teaching The babe to speak, and rousing torpid mind To take the grasp of itself—of this I’ll talk; Meaning to mortal men no blame, but only The true recital of mine own deserts. For, soothly, having eyes to see they saw not, And hearing heard not; but, like dreamy phantoms, A random life they led from year to year, All blindly floundering on. No craft they knew With woven brick or jointed beam to pile The sunward porch; but in the dark earth burrowed And housed, like tiny ants in sunless caves. No signs they knew to mark the wintry year: The flower-strewn Spring, and the fruit-laden Summer, Uncalendared, unregistered, returned— Till I the difficult art of the stars revealed, Their risings and their settings. Numbers, too, I taught them (a most choice device), and how By marshalled signs to fix their shifting thoughts, That Memory, mother of Muses, might achieve Her wondrous works. I first slaved to the yoke Both ox and ass. I, the rein-loving steeds (Of wealth’s gay-flaunting pomp the chiefest pride) Joined to the car; and bade them ease the toils Of laboring men vicarious. I the first Upon the lint-winged car of mariner Was launched, sea-wandering. Such wise arts I found, To soothe the ills of man’s ephemeral life; But for myself, plunged in this depth of woe, No prop I find. CHORUS.—Sad chance! Thy wit hath slipt From its firm footing then when needed most, Like some unlearned leech who many healed, But being sick himself, from all his store, Cannot cull out one medicinal drug.