185
Nor aught issue allows begirt by billows of Ocean:
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 eyne in latest languor of dying,
Ne'er from my wearied frame go forth slow-ebbing my senses,
190
Ere from the Gods just doom implore I, treason-betrayed,
And with my breath supreme firm faith of Celestials invoke I.
Therefore, O ye who 'venge man's deed with penalties direful,