And cling to it; though under my wrath's night
  It climb the crags of life, step after step,
  Which wound it, as ice wounds unsandalled feet,
  It yet remains supreme o'er misery,
  Aspiring, unrepressed, yet soon to fall;
  Even now have I begotten a strange wonder,
  That fatal child, the terror of the earth,
  Who waits but till the destined hour arrive,
  Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant throne
  The dreadful might of ever-living limbs
  Which clothed that awful spirit unbeheld,
  To redescend, and trample out the spark.
  Pour forth heaven's wine, Idæan Ganymede,
  And let it fill the dædal cups like fire,
  And from the flower-inwoven soil divine,
  Ye all-triumphant harmonies, arise,
  As dew from earth under the twilight stars.
  Drink! be the nectar circling through your veins
  The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods,
  Till exultation burst in one wide voice
  Like music from Elysian winds.
  And thou
  Ascend beside me, veilèd in the light