Man and beast, and foul and fair,
  Like a tempest through the air;
  Thou shalt quell this horseman grim,
  Woundless though in heart or limb.

PROMETHEUS
  Spirits! how know ye this shall be?

CHORUS
  In the atmosphere we breathe,
  As buds grow red, when the snow-storms flee,
  From spring gathering up beneath,
  Whose mild winds shake the elder-brake,
  And the wandering herdsmen know
  That the white-thorn soon will blow:
  Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace,
  When they struggle to increase,
  Are to us as soft winds be
  To shepherd boys, the prophecy
  Which begins and ends in thee.

IONE
  Where are the Spirits fled?

PANTHEA
  Only a sense
  Remains of them, like the omnipotence