From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom.

And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove!

They are wrung from me but by the agonies

Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall

From clouds in travail of the lightning, when

The great wave of the storm highcurled and black

Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break.

Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type

Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force?

True Power was never born of brutish Strength,

Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy

dugs

Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts,

That quell the darkness for a space, so

strong