Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 128

Like thee, Orestes, I am not prepared

Downwards to wander to yon realm of shade.

I purpose still, through the entangled paths,

Which seem as they would lead to blackest night,

Again to wind our upward way to life.

Of death I think not; I observe and mark

Whether the gods may not perchance present

Means and fit moment for a joyful flight.

Dreaded or not, the stroke of death must come;

And though the priestess stood with hand uprais'd,

Prepar'd to cut our consecrated locks,

Our safety still should be my only thought;

Uplift thy soul above this weak despair;

Desponding doubts but hasten on our peril.

Apollo pledg'd to us his sacred word,

That in his sister's holy fane for thee

Were comfort, aid, and glad return prepar'd.

The words of Heaven are not equivocal,

As in despair the poor oppress'd one thinks.