And now the Prophet — prophet me undoing,Has led away to these so deadly fortunes!Instead of my sire’s altar, waits the hack-blockShe struck with first warm bloody sacrificing!Yet nowise unavenged of gods will death be:For there shall come another, our avenger,The mother-slaying scion, father’s doomsman:Fugitive, wanderer, from this land an exile,Back shall he come, — for friends, copestone these curses!For there is sworn a great oath from the gods thatHim shall bring hither his fallen sire’s prostration.Why make I then, like an indweller, moaning?Since at the first I foresaw Ilion’s citySuffering as it has suffered: and who took it,Thus by the judgment of the gods are faring.I go, will suffer, will submit to dying!But, Haides’ gates — these same I call, I speak to,And pray that on an opportune blow chancing,Without a struggle, — blood the calm death bringingIn easy outflow, — I this eye may close up!