Finally, let him fling my form
Down whirling gulfs, the central storm
Of being; let me lie
Plunged in the black Tartarean gloom;
Yet—yet—his sentence shall not doom
This deathless self to die!
Hermes.
These are the workings of a brain
More than a little touched; the vein
Of voluble ecstasy!
Surely he wandereth from the way,
His reason lost, who thus can pray!
A mouthing madman he!
Therefore, O ye who court his fate,
Rash mourners,—ere it be too late
And ye indeed are sad
For vengeance spurring hither fast,—
Hence! lest the bellowing thunderblast
Like him should strike you mad!
Chorus.
Words which might work persuasion speak
If thou must counsel me; nor seek
Thus, like a stream in spate,
To uproot mine honour. Dost thou dare
Urge me to baseness! I will bear
With him all blows of fate;
For false forsakers I despise;
At treachery my gorge doth rise:—
I spew it forth with hate!
Hermes.
Only,—with ruin on your track,—
Rail not at fortune: but look back
