THESE pangs I bear through lingering centuries For slavish Man, in pity and in scorn; Glad, while by birds of Jove my breast is torn Till sunset, that I spurned his luring prize: Yet when she came, that queen with jacinth eyes August yet changeful, like the sea at morn, I could have triumphed that mine Earth had borne A creature fashioned in such glorious wise. Nay! but my will were firm, though Heaven should give A Goddess pure. One only gift I seek, Freedom for Man; or, this renounced, I live Self-sentenced to mine own immortal hate: Better the rock, the chain, the eagle's beak, And this fulfilment of my chosen fate. |