He who stole fire from heaven, Long heav'd his bold and patient breast; 'twas riven By the Caucasian bird and bolts of Jove. Stolen that fire have I, And am enchain'd to die By every jealous Power that frowns above. I call not upon thee again To hear my vows and calm my pain, Who sittest high enthron'd Where Venus rolls her gladsome star, Propitious Love! But thou disown'd By sire and mother, whosoe'er they are, Unblest in form and name, Despair! Why dost thou follow that bright demon? why His purest altar art thou always nigh? |