Şiir 64
Aid of my sire can I crave? Whom I willing abandoned,
180
Treading in tracks of a youth bewrayed with blood of a brother!
Can I console my soul with the helpful love of a helpmate
Who flies me with pliant oars, flies overbounding the sea-depths?
Nay, if this Coast I quit, this lone isle lends me no roof-tree,
Nor aught issue allows begirt by billows of Ocean:
185
Nowhere is path for flight: none hope shows: all things are silent:
All be a desolate waste: all makes display of destruction.
Yet never close these eyes in latest languor of dying,
Ne’er from my wearied frame go forth slow-ebbing my senses,
Ere from the Gods just doom implore I, treason-betrayed,
190
And with my breath supreme firm faith of Celestials invoke I.
Therefore, O you who ’venge man’s deed with penalties direful,
Eumenides! aye wont to bind with viperous hairlocks
Foreheads,—Oh, deign outspeak fierce wrath from bosom outbreathing,
Hither, Oh hither, speed, and lend you all ear to my grievance,
195
Which now sad I (alas!) outpour from innermost vitals
Maugre my will, sans help, blind, fired with furious madness.
And, as indeed all spring from veriest core of my bosom,
Suffer you not the cause of grief and woe to evanish;