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İngilizce İngilizce Latince

Şiir 64

O my only son, far dearer to me than long life, lately restored to me at extreme end of my years, O son whom I am forced to send off to a doubtful hazard, since my ill fate and your ardent valour snatch you from me unwilling, whose dim 215

eyes are not yet sated with my son’s dear form: nor gladly and with joyous breast do I send you, nor will I suffer you to bear signs of helpful fortune, but first from my breast many a complaint will I express, sullying my grey hairs with dust and ashes, 220

and then will I hang dusky sails to the swaying mast, so that our sorrow and burning of mind are shown by rusty-dark Iberian canvas. Yet if the dweller on holy Itone, who deigns to defend our race and Erectheus’ dwellings, 225

grant you to besprinkle your right hand in the bull’s blood, then see that in very truth these commandments deep-stored in your heart’s memory do flourish, nor any time deface them. As soon as your eyes shall see our cliffs, lower their gloomy clothing from every yard, 230

and let the twisted cordage bear aloft snowy sails, where resplendent shall shine bright topmast spars, so that, immediately discerning, I may know with gladness and lightness of heart that in prosperous hour you are returned to my face. These charges, at first held in constant mind, from Theseus slipped away as clouds are impelled by the breath of the winds 235

from the ethereal peak of a snow-clad mount. But as his father sought the castle’s turrets as watchplace, dimming his anxious eyes with continual weeping, when first he spied the discoloured canvas, flung himself headlong from the top of the crags, 240

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Şiir 64

Şifre Yenileme