Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 16.djvu/223

Rh In that deserted place, a Theban, Who called himself thy father, left thee; there To perish: some kind God conducted me That way; I pitied, took thee in my arms, Revived, and cherished thee: to Corinth then Carried my little charge, and to the king Presented thee; who, mark thy wondrous fate! His child just dead, adopted thee his son, And by that stroke of policy confirmed His tottering power: As son of Polybus Thou wert brought up by him who had preserved thee: The throne of Corinth never was thy right, But conscience robbed thee of what chance bestowed.

Immortal powers, who rule the fate of kings! Am I thus doomed in one unhappy day To suffer such variety of woe! On a frail mortal shall your miracles Be thus exhausted! But inform me, friend, This old man, from whose hands you took me, say, Hast thou beheld him since that fatal hour?

Never: perhaps he's dead, he who alone Could tell thee the strange secret of thy birth But on my mind his image is engraved So deeply, I should know him well.

Alas! Wretch that I am! why should I wish to find him? Rather, submissive to the will of heaven Should I keep close the veil that o'er my eyes