Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 16.djvu/220

198 Where are ye now, mistaken oracles! That shook my timid virtue, and foretold That I should prove a guilty parricide? My father's dead, ye meant but to deceive me; These hands are not polluted with his blood: The slave of error, I have wandered long In darkness, busied in a fruitless toil, And to remove imaginary ills, Have made my life a scene of real woes, The offspring of my fond credulity. How deep must be the color of my fate When miseries like this can bring relief! Bliss spring from sorrow, and a father's death Shall be accepted as the gift of heaven! But I must hence, and to his ashes pay The tribute due:—ha! silent, and in tears!

Ought I to speak? O heaven!

Hast thou aught more Of ill to tell me?

For a moment grant me Your private ear.

Retire.— What can this mean?

Think not of Corinth: thither, if thou goest, Thy death is certain.