Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 127

It is the path of death that now we tread

At every step my soul grows more serene.

When I implor'd Apollo to remove

The grisly band of Furies from my side,

He seem'd, with hope-inspiring, godlike words,

To promise aid and safety in the fane

Of his lov'd sister, who o'er Tauris rules.

Thus the prophetic word fulfils itself,

That with my life shall terminate my woe.

How easy 'tis for me, whose heart is crush'd,

Whose sense is deaden'd by a hand divine,

Thus to renounce the beauteous light of day!

And must the son of Atreus not entwine

The wreath of conquest round his dying brow—

Must I, as my forefathers, as my sire,

Bleed like a victim—an ignoble death—

So be it! Better at the altar here,

Than in a nook obscure, where kindred hands

Have spread assassination's wily net.

Yield me this brief repose, infernal Powers!

Ye, who, like loosen'd hounds, still scent the blood

Which, trickling from my feet, betrays my path.

Leave me! ere long I come to you below.

Nor you, nor I, should view the light of day.

The soft green carpet of the beauteous earth

Is no arena for unhallow'd fiends.

Below I seek you, where an equal fate

Binds all in murky, never-ending night.

Thee only, thee, my Pylades, my friend,

The guiltless partner of my crime and curse,

Thee am I loath, before thy time, to take

To yonder cheerless shore! Thy life or death

Alone awakens in me hope or fear.