From time to time I meet with those who cry
Peccavi , and the bitter cup still drink
For errors of a season long gone by;
Though once I held with them, this now I think —

At last is outlawed one's account for sins,
The thorn of conscience — let it cease to turn!
'Tis then a time of thankfulness begins;
We find some gifts our virtues could not earn!

Read how Orestes, years of torment done,
Felt suddenly withdrawn the Furies' goad:
'Twas then Athene and Latona's son
Checked those pursuers, and compassion showed.

On Ares' Hill the Furies' temple stood:
Orestes, now his spirit filled with ease,
Their altar wreathed with flowers and called them Good —
The favoring, the kind, Eumenides!

Can I do less than he — young Greek of old?
How well I know what felt that fugitive
Who could not with his torturing memories hold,
Nor yet without them had he learned to live!

Oh, let them be my friends, who were my dread,
With several lash for every ill thing done —
Whose brazen feet pursued where'er I fled,
Whose torch lit up whatever shade I won!

Drop, scourge, at last — and heavy hand, uplift! ...
Now, since they send me such abounding ease,
Should I not bring to them some little gift —
The favoring, the kind, Eumenides?

What I have done amiss must so remain,
Not mine to longer grieve therefor, or brood;
Both sins and lashes have not been in vain;
I call my own departing Furies " Good ! " !

This have I written for those souls who still
Peccavi cry — because their sins were sore,
When better they might climb the templed hill,
And carry there their flowers — and grieve no more!