part I

was satisfied, but still It galled me, for the rumour would not die. Eluding then my parents I made way To Delphi, where, as touching my desire, Phoebus denied me; but brake forth instead With other oracles of misery And horrible misfortune, how that I Must know my mother's shame, and cause to appear A birth intolerable in human view, And do to death the author of my life. I fled forth at the word, conjecturing now Corinthia's region by the stars of heaven, And wandered, where I never might behold Those dreadful prophecies fulfilled on me. So travelling on, I came even to the place Where, as thou tell'st, the King of Thebè fell. And, O my wife, I will hide nought from thee. When I drew near the cross-road of your tale, A herald, and a man upon a car, Like your description, there encountered me. And he who led the car, and he himself The greybeard, sought to thrust me from the path. Then in mine angry mood I sharply struck The driver-man who turned me from the way; Which when the elder saw, he watched for me As I passed by, and from the chariot-seat Smote full upon my head with the fork'd goad; But got more than he gave; for, by a blow From this right hand, smit with my staff, he fell Instantly rolled out of the car supine. I slew them every one. Now if that stranger Had aught in common with king Laius, What wretch on earth was e'er so lost as I? Whom have the Heavens so followed with their hate? No house of Theban or of foreigner Must any more receive me, none henceforth Must speak to me, but drive me from the door! I, I have laid this curse on mine own head! Yea, and this arm that slew him now enfolds His queen. O cruel stain! Am I not vile? Polluted utterly! Yes, I must flee, And, lost to Thebè, nevermore behold My home, nor tread my country, lest I meet In marriage mine own mother, and bring low His head that gave me life and reared my youth, My father, Polybus. Ah! right were he Who should declare some god of cruel mood Had sent this trouble upon my soul! Ye Powers, Worshipped in holiness, ne'er may I see That day, but perish from the sight of men, Ere sins like these be branded on my name!

CH. Thy fear is ours, O king: yet lose not hope, Till thou hast heard the witness of the deed.

OED. Ay, that is all I still have left of hope, To bide the coming of the shepherd man.

JO. What eager thought attends his presence here?

OED. I'll tell thee. Should his speech accord with thine, My life stands clear from this calamity.

JO. What word of mine agreed not with the scene?

OED. You said he spake of robbers in a band As having slain him. Now if he shall still Persist in the same number, I am free. One man and many cannot be the same. But should he tell of one lone traveller, Then, unavoidably, this falls on me.

JO. So 'twas given out by him, be sure of that. He cannot take it back. Not I alone But all the people heard him speak it so. And should he swerve in aught from his first tale, He ne'er can show the murder of the king Rightly accordant with the oracle. For Phoebus said expressly he should fall Through him whom I brought forth. But that poor babe Ne'er slew his sire, but perished long before. Wherefore henceforth I will pursue my way Regardless of all words of prophecy.

OED. Wisely resolved. But still send one to bring The labourer swain, and be not slack in this.

JO. I will, and promptly. Go we now within! My whole desire is but to work thy will. [_Exeunt_

CHORUS O may my life be evermore I 1 Pure in each holy word and deed By those eternal laws decreed That pace the sapphire-paven floor! Children of Heaven, of Ether born, No mortal knew their natal morn, Nor may Oblivion's waters deep E'er lull their wakeful spirit asleep, Nor creeping Age o'erpower the mighty God Who far within them holds his unprofaned abode.

Pride breeds the tyrant: monstrous birth! I 2 Insolent Pride, if idly nursed On timeless surfeit, plenty accursed, Spurning the lowlier tract of Earth Mounts to her pinnacle,--then falls, Dashed headlong down sheer mountain walls To dark Necessity's deep ground, Where never foothold can be found. Let wrestlers for my country's glory speed, God, I thee pray! Be God my helper in all need!

But if one be, whose bold disdain I 2 Walks in a round of vapourings vain And violent acts, regarding not The Rule of Right, but with proud thought Scorning the place where Gods have set their seat, --Made captive by an Evil Doom, Shorn of that inauspicious bloom, Let him be shown the path of lawful gain And taught in holier ways to guide his feet, Nor with mad folly strain His passionate arms to clasp things impious to retain. Who in such courses shall defend his soul From storms of thundrous wrath that o'er him roll? If honour to such lives be given, What needs our choir to hymn the power of Heaven?

No more to Delphi, central shrine II 2 Of Earth, I'll seek, for light divine, Nor visit Abae's mystic fane Nor travel o'er the well-trod plain Where thousands throng to famed Olympia's town, Unless, with manifest accord, The event fulfil the oracular word. Zeus, Lord of all! if to eternity Thou would'st confirm thy kingdom's large renown, Let not their vauntings high Evade the sovereign look of the everlasting eye! They make as though the ancient warning slept By Laius erst with fear and trembling kept; Apollo's glory groweth pale, And holiest rites are prone to faint and fail.

_Enter_ JOCASTA.

JO. Princes of Thebes, it came into my thought To stand before some holy altar-place With frankincense and garlands. For the king, Transported by the tempest of his fear, Runs wild in grief, nor like a man of sense Reasons of present things from what hath been. Each tongue o'ermasters him that tells of woe. Then since my counsels are of no avail, To thee, for thou art nearest, Lykian God, I bring my supplication with full hand. O grant us absolution and relief! For seeing him, our pilot, so distraught, Like mariners, we are all amazed with dread.

_Enter the_ CORINTHIAN SHEPHERD.

COR. SH. Are ye the men to tell me where to find The mansion of the sovereign Oedipus? Or better, where he may himself be found?

CH. Here is the roof you seek, and he, our lord, Is there within: and, stranger, thou behold'st The queenly mother of his royal race.

COR. SH. May she and hers be alway fortunate! Still may she crown him with the joys of home!

JO. Be thou, too, blest, kind sir! Thy gracious tongue Deserves no less. But tell me what request Or what intelligence thou bring'st with thee?

COR. SH. Good tidings for thy house and husband, queen.

JO. What are they? Who hath sent thee to our hall?

COR. SH. From Corinth come I, and will quickly tell What sure will please you; though perchance 'twill grieve.

JO. What news can move us thus two ways at once?

COR. SH. 'Twas rumoured that the people of the land Of Corinth would make Oedipus their king.

JO. Is ancient Polybus not still in power?

COR. SH. No. Death confines him in a kingly grave.

JO. Hold there! How say you? Polybus in his grave?

COR. SH. May I die for him if I speak not true!

JO. (_To an attendant_). Run thou, and tell this quickly to my lord! Voices of prophecy, where are ye now? Long time hath Oedipus, a homeless man, Trembled with fear of slaying Polybus. Who now lies slain by Fortune, not by him.

_Enter_ OEDIPUS.

OED. Jocasta, my dear queen, why didst thou send To bring me hither from our palace-hall?

JO. Hear that man's tale, and then consider well The end of yonder dreadful prophecy.

OED. Who is the man, and what his errand here?

JO. He comes from Corinth, to make known to thee That Polybus, thy father, is no more.

OED. How, stranger? Let me learn it from thy mouth.

COR. SH. If my first duty be to make this clear, Know beyond doubt that he is dead and gone.

OED. By illness coming o'er him, or by guile?

COR. SH. Light pressure lays to rest the timeworn frame.

OED. He was subdued by sickness then, poor soul!

COR. SH. By sickness and the burden of his years.

OED. Ah! my Jocasta, who again will heed The Pythian hearth oracular, and birds Screaming in air, blind guides! that would have made My father's death my deed; but he is gone, Hidden underneath the ground, while I stand hero Harmless and weaponless:--unless, perchance, My absence killed him,--so he may have died Through me. But be that as it may, the grave That covers Polybus, hath silenced, too, One voice of prophecy, worth nothing now.

JO. Did I not tell thee so, long since?

OED. Thou didst. But I was drawn to error by my fear.

JO. Now cast it altogether out of mind.

OED. Must I not fear my mother's marriage-bed?

JO. Why should man fear, seeing his course is ruled By fortune, and he nothing can foreknow? 'Tis best to live at ease as best one may. Then fear not thou thy mother's nuptial hour. Many a man ere now in dreams hath lain With her who bare him. He hath least annoy Who with such omens troubleth not his mind.

OED. That word would be well spoken, were not she Alive that gave me birth. But since she lives, Though you speak well, yet have I cause for fear.

JO. Your father's burial might enlighten you.

OED. It doth. But I am darkened by a life.

COR. SH. Whose being overshadows thee with fear?

OED. Queen Meropè, the consort of your king.

COR. SH. What in her life should make your heart afraid?

OED. A heaven-sent oracle of dreadful sound.

COR. SH. May it be told, or must no stranger know?

OED. Indeed it may. Word came from Phoebus once That I must know my mother's shame, and shed With these my hands my own true father's blood. Wherefore long since my home hath been removed Far from Corinthos:--not unhappily; But still 'tis sweet to see a parent's face.

COR. SH. Did fear of this make thee so long an exile?

OED. Of this and parricide, my aged friend.

COR. SH. I came with kind intent--and, dear my lord, I fain would rid thee from this haunting dread.

OED. Our gratitude should well reward thy love.

COR. SH. Hope of reward from thee in thy return Was one chief motive of my journey hither.

OED. Return? Not to my parents' dwelling-place!

COR. SH. Son, 'tis too clear, you know not what you do.

OED. Wherefore, kind sir? For Heaven's sake teach me this.

COR. SH. If for these reasons you avoid your home.

OED. The fear torments me, Phoebus may prove true.

COR. SH. Lest from your parents you receive a stain?

OED. That is the life-long torment of my soul.

COR. SH. Will you be certified your fears are groundless?

OED. How groundless, if I am my parents' child?

COR. SH. Because with Polybus thou hast no kin.

OED. Why? Was not he the author of my life?

COR. SH. As much as I am, and no more than I.

OED. How can my father be no more to me Than who is nothing?

COR. SH. In begetting thee Nor I nor he had any part at all.

OED. Why then did he declare me for his son?

COR. SH. Because he took thee once a gift from me.

OED. Was all that love unto a foundling shown?

COR. SH. Heirless affection so inclined his heart.

OED. A gift from you! Your purchase, or your child?[5]

COR. SH. Found in Cithaeron's hollowy wilderness.

OED. What led your travelling footstep to that ground?

COR. SH. The flocks I tended grazed the mountain there.

OED. A shepherd wast thou, and a wandering hind?

COR. SH. Whatever else, my son, thy saviour then.

OED. From what didst thou release me or relieve?

COR. SH. Thine instep bears memorial of the pain.

OED. Ah! what old evil will thy words disclose?

COR. SH. Thy feet were pierced. 'Twas I unfastened them.

OED. So cruel to my tender infancy!

COR. SH. From this thou hast received thy name.

OED. By heaven I pray thee, did my father do this thing, Or was't my mother?

COR. SH. That I dare not say. He should know best who gave thee to my hand.

OED. Another gave me, then? You did not find me?

COR. SH. Another herdsman passed thee on to me.

OED. Can you describe him? Tell us what you know.

COR. SH. Methinks they called him one of Laius' people.

OED. Of Laius once the sovereign of this land?

COR. SH. E'en so. He was a shepherd of his flock.

OED. And is he still alive for me to see?

COR. SH. You Thebans are most likely to know that.

OED. Speak, any one of you in presence here, Can you make known the swain he tells us of, In town or country having met with him? The hour for this discovery is full come.

CH. Methinks it is no other than the peasant Whom thou didst seek before to see: but this Could best be told by queen Jocasta there.

OED. We lately sought that one should come, my queen. Know'st thou, is this of whom he speaks the same?

JO. What matter who? Regard not, nor desire Even vainly to remember aught he saith.

OED. When I have found such tokens of my birth, I must disclose it.

JO. As you love your life, By heaven I beg you, search no further here! The sickness in my bosom is enough.

OED. Nay, never fear! Were I proved thrice a slave And waif of bondwomen, you still are noble.

JO. Yet hearken, I implore you: do not so.

OED. I cannot hear you. I must know this through.

JO. With clear perception I advise the best.

OED. Thy 'best' is still my torment.

JO. Wretched one, Never may'st thou discover who thou art!

OED. Will some one go and bring the herdman hither? Leave her to revel in her lordly line!

JO. O horrible! O lost one! This alone I speak to thee, and no word more for ever. [_Exit_

CH. Oedipus, wherefore is Jocasta gone, Driven madly by wild grief? I needs must fear Lest from this silence she make sorrow spring.

OED. Leave her to raise what storm she will. But I Will persevere to know mine origin, Though from an humble seed. Her woman's pride Is shamed, it may be, by my lowliness. But I, whilst I account myself the son Of prospering Fortune, ne'er will be disgraced. For she is my true mother: and the months, Coheirs with me of the same father, Time, Have marked my lowness and mine exaltation. So born, so nurtured, I can fear no change, That I need shrink to probe this to the root. [OEDIPUS _remains, and gazes towards the country, while the_ CHORUS _sing_

CHORUS. If I wield a prophet's might, 1 Or have sense to search aright, Cithaeron, when all night the moon rides high, Loud thy praise shall be confessed, How upon thy rugged breast, Thou, mighty mother, nursed'st tenderly Great Oedipus, and gav'st his being room Within thy spacious home. Yea, we will dance and sing Thy glory for thy kindness to our king. Phoebus, unto thee we cry, Be this pleasing in thine eye!

Who, dear sovereign, gave thee birth, 2 Of the long lived nymphs of earth? Say, was she clasped by mountain roving Pan? Or beguiled she one sweet hour With Apollo in her bower, Who loves to trace the field untrod by man? Or was the ruler of Cyllene's height The author of thy light? Or did the Bacchic god, Who makes the top of Helicon to nod, Take thee for a foundling care From his playmates that are there?

_The_ THEBAN SHEPHERD _is seen approaching, guarded._

OED. If haply I, who never saw his face, Thebans, may guess, methinks I see the hind Whose coming we have longed for. Both his age, Agreeing with this other's wintry locks, Accords with my conjecture, and the garb Of his conductors is well known to me As that of mine own people. But methinks [_to_ LEADER of CHORUS] Thou hast more perfect knowledge in this case, Having beheld the herdman in the past.

CH. I know him well, believe me. Laius Had no more faithful shepherd than this man.

OED. Corinthian friend, I first appeal to you: Was't he you spake of?

COR. SH. 'Twas the man you see.

OED. Turn thine eyes hither, aged friend, and tell What I shall ask thee. Wast thou Laius' slave?

THEB. SH. I was, not bought, but bred within the house.

OED. What charge or occupation was thy care?

THEB. SH. Most of my time was spent in shepherding.

OED. And where didst thou inhabit with thy flock?

THEB. SH. 'Twas now Cithaeron, now the neighbouring tract.

OED. And hadst thou there acquaintance of this man?

THEB. SH. Following what service? What is he you mean?

OED. The man you see. Hast thou had dealings with him?

THEB. SH. I cannot bring him all at once to mind.

COR. SH. No marvel, good my lord. But I will soon Wake to clear knowledge his oblivious sense. For sure I am he can recall the time, When he with his two flocks, and I with one Beside him, grazed Cithaeron's pasture wide Good six months' space of three successive years, From spring to rising of Arcturus; then For the bleak winter season, I drove mine To their own folds, he his to Laius' stalls. Do I talk idly, or is this the truth?

THEB. SH. The time is far remote. But all is true.

COR. SH. Well, dost remember having given me then A child, that I might nurture him for mine?

THEB. SH. What means thy question? Let me know thy drift.

COR. SH. Friend, yonder stands the infant whom we knew.

THEB. SH. Confusion seize thee, and thy evil tongue!

OED. Check not his speech, I pray thee, for thy words Call more than his for chastisement, old sir.

THEB. SH. O my dread lord, therein do I offend?

OED. Thou wilt not answer him about the child?

THEB. SH. He knows not what he speaks. His end is vain.

OED. So! Thou'lt not tell to please us, but the lash Will make thee tell.

THEB. SH. By all that's merciful, Scourge not this aged frame!

OED. Pinion him straight!

THEB. SH. Unhappy! wherefore? what is't you would know?

OED. Gave you this man the child of whom he asks you?

THEB. SH. I gave it him. Would I had died that hour!

OED. Speak rightly, or your wish will soon come true.

THEB. SH. My ruin comes the sooner, if I speak.

OED. This man will balk us with his baffling prate.

THEB. SH. Not so. I said long since, 'I gave the child.'

OED. Whence? Was't your own, or from another's hand?

THEB. SH. 'Twas not mine own; another gave it me.

OED. What Theban gave it, from what home in Thebes?

THEB. SH. O, I implore thee, master, ask no more!

OED. You perish, if I have to ask again.

THEB. SH. The child was of the stock of Laius.

OED. Slave-born, or rightly of the royal line?

THEB. SH. Ah me! Now comes the horror to my tongue!

OED. And to mine ear. But thou shalt tell it me!

THEB. SH. He was given out for Laius' son: but she, Thy queen, within the palace, best can tell.

OED. How? Did she give it thee?

THEB. SH. My lord, she did.

OED. With what commission?

THEB. SH. I was to destroy him.

OED. And could a mother's heart be steeled to this?

THEB. SH. With fear of evil prophecies.

OED. What were they?

THEB. SH. 'Twas said the child should be his father's death.

OED. What then possessed thee to give up the child To this old man?

THEB. SH. Pity, my sovereign lord! Supposing he would take him far away Unto the land whence he was come. But he Preserved him to great sorrow. For if thou Art he this man hath said, be well assured Thou bear'st a heavy doom.

OED. O horrible! Horrible! All fulfilled, as sunlight clear! Oh may I nevermore behold the day, Since proved accursèd in my parentage, In those I live with, and in him I slew! [_Exeunt_

CHORUS. O mortal tribes of men, I 1 How near to nothingness I count you while your lives remain! What man that lives hath more of happiness Than to seem blest, and, seeming, fade in night? O Oedipus, in this thine hour of gloom, Musing on thee and thy relentless doom, I call none happy who beholds the light.

Thou through surpassing skill I 2 Didst rise to wealth and power, When thou the monstrous riddling maid didst kill, And stoodst forth to my country as a tower To guard from myriad deaths this glorious town; Whence thou wert called my king, of faultless fame, In all the world a far-resounded name, Unparagoned in honour and renown.

But now to hear of thee, who more distressed? II 1 Who more acquainted with fierce misery, Assaulted by disasters manifest, Than thou in this thy day of agony? Most noble, most renowned!--Yet one same room Heard thy first cry, and in thy prime of power, Received thee, harbouring both bride and groom, And bore it silently till this dread hour. How could that furrowing of thy father's field Year after year continue unrevealed?

Time hath detected thine unwitting deed, II 2 Time, who discovers all with eyes of fire, Accusing thee of living without heed In hideous wedlock husband, son, and sire. Ah would that we, thou child of Laius born, Ah would that we had never seen thee nigh! E'er since we knew thee who thou art, we mourn Exceedingly with cries that rend the sky. For, to tell truth, thou didst restore our life And gavest our soul sweet respite after strife.

_Enter_ Messenger.

MESS. O ye who in this land have ever held Chief honour, what an object of dire woe Awaits your eyes, your ears! What piercing grief Your hearts must suffer, if as kinsmen should Ye still regard the house of Laius! Not Phasis, nor the Danube's rolling flood, Can ever wash away the stain and purge This mansion of the horror that it hides. --And more it soon shall give to light, not now Unconsciously enacted. Of all ill, Self-chosen sorrows are the worst to bear.

CH. What hast thou new to add? the weight of grief From that we know burdens the heart enough.

MESS. Soon spoken and soon heard is the chief sum. Jocasta's royal head is sunk in death.

CH. The hapless queen! What was the fatal cause?

MESS. Her own determination. You are spared The worst affliction, not being there to see. Yet to the height of my poor memory's power The wretched lady's passion you shall hear. When she had passed in her hot mood within The vestibule, straight to the bridal room She rushes, tearing with both hands her hair. Then having entered, shutting fast the door, She called aloud on Laius, long dead, With anguished memory of that birth of old Whereby the father fell, leaving his queen To breed a dreadful brood for his own son. And loudly o'er the bed she wailed, where she, In twofold wedlock, hapless, had brought forth Husband from husband, children from a child. We could not know the moment of her death, Which followed soon, for Oedipus with cries Broke in, and would not let us see her end, But held our eyes as he careered the hall, Demanding arms, and where to find his wife,-- No, not his wife, but fatal mother-croft, Cropped doubly with himself and his own seed. And in his rage some god directed him To find her:--'twas no man of us at hand. Then with a fearful shout, as following His leader, he assailed the folding-doors; And battering inward from the mortised bolts The bending boards, he burst into the room: Where high suspended we beheld the queen, In twisted cordage resolutely swung. He all at once on seeing her, wretched king! Undid the pendent noose, and on the ground Lay the ill-starred queen. Oh, then 'twas terrible To see what followed--for he tore away The tiring-pins wherewith she was arrayed, And, lifting, smote his eyeballs to the root, Saying, Nevermore should they behold the evil His life inherited from that past time, But all in dark henceforth should look upon Features far better not beheld, and fail To recognize the souls he had longed to know. Thus crying aloud, not once but oftentimes He drave the points into his eyes; and soon The bleeding pupils moistened all his beard, Nor stinted the dark flood, but all at once The ruddy hail poured down in plenteous shower. Thus from two springs, from man and wife together, Rose the joint evil that is now o'erflowing. And the old happiness in that past day Was truly happy, but the present hour Hath pain, crime, ruin:--whatsoe'er of ill Mankind have named, not one is absent here.

CH. And finds the sufferer now some pause of woe?

MESS. He bids make wide the portal and display To all the men of Thebes the man who slew His father, who unto his mother did What I dare not repeat, and fain would fling His body from the land, nor calmly bide The shock of his own curse on his own hall. Meanwhile he needs some comfort and some guide, For such a load of misery who can bear? Thyself shalt judge: for, lo, the palace-gates Unfold, and presently thine eyes will see A hateful sight, yet one thou needs must pity.

_Enter_ OEDIPUS, _blind and unattended._

LEADER OF CH. O horror of the world! Too great for mortal eye! More terrible than all I have known of ill! What fury of wild thought Came o'er thee? Who in heaven Hath leapt against thy hapless life With boundings out of measure fierce and huge? Ah! wretched one, I cannot look on thee: No, though I long to search, to ask, to learn. Thine aspect is too horrible.--I cannot!

OED. Me miserable! Whither am I borne? Into what region are these wavering sounds Wafted on aimless wings? O ruthless Fate! To what a height thy fury hath soared!

CH. Too far For human sense to follow, or human thought To endure the horror.

OED. O dark cloud, descending I 1 Unutterably on me! invincible, Abhorred, borne onward by too sure a wind. Woe, woe! Woe! Yet again I voice it, with such pangs Both from these piercing wounds I am assailed And from within through memory of my grief.

CH. Nay, 'tis no marvel if thy matchless woe Redouble thine affliction and thy moan!

OED. Ah! Friend, thou art still constant! Thou remainest I 2 To tend me and to care for the blind man. Alas! I know thee well, nor fail I to perceive, Dark though I be, thy kind familiar voice.

CH. How dreadful is thy deed! How couldst thou bear Thus to put out thine eyes? What Power impelled thee?

OED. Apollo, dear my friends, Apollo brought to pass II 1 In dreadful wise, this my calamitous woe. But I,--no being else,--I with this hand destroyed them. [_Pointing to his eyes_ For why should I have sight, To whom nought now gave pleasure through the eye?

CH. There speak'st thou truly.

OED. What could I see, whom hear With gladness, whom delight in any more? Lead me away out of the land with speed! Be rid of the destroyer, the accursed, Whom most of all the world the Gods abhor.

CH. O miserable in thy calamity And not less miserable in thy despair, Would thou wert still in ignorance of thy birth!

OED. My curse on him who from the cruel bond II 2 That held my feet in that high pasture-land Freed me, and rescued me from murder there, And saved my life! Vain kindness! Then to have died Had spared this agony to me and mine.

CH. Ay, would it had been so!

OED. Then had I ne'er Been proved a parricide, ne'er borne the shame Of marriage bonds incestuous! But now I am God abandoned, Son of the unholy, Rival of him who gave me being. Ah woe! What sorrow beyond sorrows hath chief place? That sorrow Oedipus must bear!

LEADER OF CH. I know not how to call thee wise in this: Thou wert better dead than to be blind and live.

OED. That this last act hath not been for the best Instruct me not, nor counsel me again. How, if I kept my sight, could I have looked In Hades on my father's countenance, Or mine all hapless mother, when, toward both, I have done deeds no death can e'er atone? Ah! but my children were a sight of joy,-- Offspring of such a marriage! were they so? Never, to eyes of mine! nor town, nor tower, Nor holy shrines o' the gods, which I myself, Dowered with the fairest life of Theban men, Have forfeited, alas, by mine own law, Declaring men should drive from every door One marked by Heaven as impious and impure, Nay worse, of Laius born! And was I then, By mine own edict branded thus, to look On Theban faces with unaltered eye? Nay verily, but had there been a way To stop the hearing fountain through the ear, I had not faltered, but had closed and barred Each gate of this poor body, deaf and blind! So thought might sweetly dwell at rest from ill Cithaeron! Why didst thou receive me? Why Not slay me then and there? So had I not Told to the world the horror of my birth. O foster home of Corinth and her king, How bright the life ye cherished, filming o'er What foulness far beneath! For I am vile, And vile were both my parents. So 'tis proved O cross road in the covert of the glen, O thicket in the gorge where three ways met, Bedewed by these my hands with mine own blood From whence I sprang--have ye forgotten me? Or doth some memory haunt you of the deeds I did before you, and went on to do Worse horrors here? O marriage twice accurst! That gave me being, and then again sent forth Fresh saplings springing from the selfsame seed, To amaze men's eyes and minds with dire confusion Of father, brother, son, bride, mother, wife, Murder of parents, and all shames that are! Silence alone befits such deeds. Then, pray you, Hide me immediately away from men! Kill me outright, or fling me far to sea, Where never ye may look upon me more. Come, lend your hand unto my misery! Comply, and fear not, for my load of woe Is incommunicable to all but me.

CH. With timely presence to fulfil thy need With act and counsel, Creon comes, who now Is regent o'er this people in thy room.

OED. Alas, what shall I say to him? What plea For my defence will hold? My evil part Toward him in all the past is clearly proved.

_Enter_ CREON.

CR. I come not, Oedipus, to mock thy woes, Nor to reproach thee for thine evils past. But ye, (_to_ Chorus) if all respect of mortal eye Be dead, let awe of the universal flame Of life's great nourisher, our lord the Sun, Forbid your holding thus unveiled to view This huge abomination, which nor Earth Nor sacred Element, nor light of Heaven Can once endure. Convey him in with speed. Religion bids that kindred eyes and ears Alone should witness kindred crime and woe.

OED. By Heaven, since thou hast reft away my fear, So nobly meeting my unworthiness, I pray thee, hear me for thine own behoof.

CR. What boon dost thou desire so earnestly?

OED. Fling me with speediest swiftness from the land, Where nevermore I may converse with men.

CR. Doubt not I would have done it, but the God Must be inquired of, ere we act herein.

OED. His sacred utterance was express and clear, The parricide, the unholy, should be slain.

CR. Ay, so 'twas spoken: but, in such a time, We needs must be advised more perfectly.

OED. Will ye then ask him for a wretch like me?

CR. Yea. For even thou methinks wilt now believe.

OED. Not only so. But I will charge thee too, With urgent exhortation, to perform The funeral rite for her who lies within-- She is thy kinswoman--howe'er thou wilt. But never let this city of my sires Claim me for living habitant! There, there Leave me to range the mountain, where my nurse, Cithaeron, echoeth with my name,--Cithaeron, Which both my parents destined for my tomb. So my true murderers will be my death. Yet one thing I can tell. Mine end will come Not by disease nor ordinary chance I had not lived when at the point to die, But for some terrible doom. Then let my fate Run out its full career. But for my children Thou, Creon, shalt provide. As for my sons, I pray thee burden not thyself with them. They ne'er will lack subsistence--they are men. But my poor maidens, hapless and forlorn, Who never had a meal apart from mine, But ever shared my table, yea, for them Take heedful care, and grant me, though but once. Yea, I beseech thee, with these hands to feel, Thou noble heart! the forms I love so well, And weep with them our common misery. Oh, if my arms were round them, I might seem To have them as of old when I could see-- What! Am I fooled once more, or do I hear My dear ones weeping! And hath Creon sent, Pitying my sorrows, mine own children to me Whom most I love? Can this be truth I utter?

CR. Yea, I have done it. For I knew the joy Thou ever hadst in this, thy comfort now.

OED. Fair be thy fortune, and, for this last deed, Heaven guide thee on a better course than mine. Where are ye, O my children? Come, draw near To these my hands of brother blood with you, Hands that have made so piteous to your sight The darkened gaze of his once brilliant eyes, Who all in blindness, with no thought of ill, Became your father at that fount of life, Where he himself took being! Oh! for you I weep, not seeing you, when I but think Of all the bitter passages of fate That must attend you amongst men. For where Can ye find fellowship, what civic throng Shall ye resort unto, what festival, From whence, instead of sight or sound enjoyed, Ye will not come in tears unto your home? And when ye reach the marriageable bloom, My daughters, who will be the man to cast His lot with yours, receiving for his own All those reproaches which have marred the name Of both my parents and your name no less? What evil is not here? Your father slew His father, and then eared the mother field Where he himself was sown, and got you from The source of his own birth. Such taunts will fly. And who will marry you? No man, my daughters; But ye must wither childless and unwed. Son of Menoeceus, who alone art left As father to these maidens, for the pair That gave them birth are utterly undone, Suffer them not, being your kinswomen, To wander desolate and poor, nor make Their lot perforce the counterpart of mine. But look on them with pity, left in youth Forlorn of all protection save from thee. Noble one, seal this promise with thy hand! --For you, my children, were ye of an age To ponder speech, I would have counselled you Full carefully. Now I would have you pray To dwell where 'tis convenient, that your life May find more blessing than your father knew.

CR. Thou hast had enough of weeping. Close thee in thy chamber walls.

OED. I must yield, though sore against me.

CR. Yea, for strong occasion calls.

OED. Know'st thou on what terms I yield it?

CR. Tell me, let us hear and know.

OED. That ye send from the country.

CR. God alone can let thee go.

OED. But the Gods long since abhor me.

CR. Thou wilt sooner gain that boon.

OED. Then consent.

CR. 'Tis not my wont to venture promises too soon.

OED. Lead me now within the palace.

CR. Come, but leave thy children.

OED. Nay! Tear not these from my embraces!

CR. Hope not for perpetual sway: Since the power thou once obtainedst ruling with unquestioned might Ebbing from thy life hath vanished ere the falling of the night.

LEADER OF CHORUS. Dwellers in our native Thebè, fix on Oedipus your eyes. Who resolved the dark enigma, noblest champion and most wise. Like a star his envied fortune mounted beaming[6] far and wide: Now he sinks in seas of anguish, whelmed beneath a raging tide. Therefore, with the old-world sages, waiting for that final day, I will call no mortal happy, while he holds his house of clay, Till without one pang of sorrow, all his hours have passed away.

* * * * *

ELECTRA

THE PERSONS

An Old Man, _formerly one of the retainers of Agamemnon._ ORESTES, _son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra_. ELECTRA, _sister of Orestes_. CHORUS _of Argive Women_. CHRYSOTHEMIS, _sister of Orestes and Electra_. CLYTEMNESTRA. AEGISTHUS.

PYLADES _appears with_ ORESTES, _but does not speak_.

SCENE. Mycenae: before the palace of the Pelopidae.

Agamemnon on his return from Troy, had been murdered by his wife Clytemnestra and her paramour Aegisthus, who had usurped the Mycenean throne. Orestes, then a child, had been rescued by his sister Electra, and sent into Phocis with the one servant who remained faithful to his old master. The son of Agamemnon now returns, being of a full age, accompanied by this same attendant and his friend Pylades, with whom he has already concerted a plan for taking vengeance on his father's murderers, in obedience to the command of Apollo.

Orestes had been received in Phocis by Strophius, his father's friend. Another Phocian prince, named Phanoteus, was a friend of Aegisthus.

ELECTRA

ORESTES _and the_ Old Man--PYLADES _is present._

OLD MAN. Son of the king who led the Achaean host Erewhile beleaguering Troy, 'tis thine to day To see around thee what through many a year Thy forward spirit hath sighed for. Argolis Lies here before us, hallowed as the scene Of Io's wildering pain: yonder, the mart Named from the wolf slaying God[1], and there, to our left, Hera's famed temple. For we reach the bourn Of far renowned Mycenae, rich in gold And Pelops' fatal roofs before us rise, Haunted with many horrors, whence my hand, Thy murdered sire then lying in his gore, Received thee from thy sister, and removed Where I have kept thee safe and nourished thee To this bright manhood thou dost bear, to be The avenger of thy father's bloody death. Wherefore, Orestes, and thou, Pylades, Dearest of friends, though from a foreign soil, Prepare your enterprise with speed. Dark night Is vanished with her stars, and day's bright orb Hath waked the birds of morn into full song. Now, then, ere foot of man go forth, ye two Knit counsels. 'Tis no time for shy delay: The very moment for your act is come.

OR. Kind faithful friend, how well thou mak'st appear Thy constancy in service to our house! As some good steed, aged, but nobly bred, Slacks not his spirit in the day of war, But points his ears to the fray, even so dost thou Press on and urge thy master in the van. Hear, then, our purpose, and if aught thy mind, Keenly attent, discerns of weak or crude In this I now set forth, admonish me. I, when I visited the Pythian shrine Oracular, that I might learn whereby To punish home the murderers of my sire, Had word from Phoebus which you straight shall hear: 'No shielded host, but thine own craft, O King! The righteous death-blow to thine arm shall bring.' Then, since the will of Heaven is so revealed, Go thou within, when Opportunity Shall marshal thee the way, and gathering all Their business, bring us certain cognizance. Age and long absence are a safe disguise; They never will suspect thee who thou art. And let thy tale be that another land, Phocis, hath sent thee forth, and Phanoteus, Than whom they have no mightier help in war. Then, prefaced with an oath, declare thy news, Orestes' death by dire mischance, down-rolled From wheel-borne chariot in the Pythian course. So let the fable be devised; while we, As Phoebus ordered, with luxuriant locks Shorn from our brows, and fair libations, crown My father's sepulchre, and thence return Bearing aloft the shapely vase of bronze That's hidden hard by in brushwood, as thou knowest, And bring them welcome tidings, that my form Is fallen ere now to ashes in the fire. How should this pain me, in pretence being dead, Really to save myself and win renown? No saying bodes men ill, that brings them gain. Oft have I known the wise, dying in word, Return with glorious salutation home. So lightened by this rumour shall mine eye Blaze yet like bale-star on mine enemies. O native earth! and Gods that hold the land, Accept me here, and prosper this my way! Thou, too, paternal hearth! To thee I come, Justly to cleanse thee by behest from heaven. Send me not bootless, Gods, but let me found A wealthy line of fair posterity! I have spoken. To thy charge! and with good heed Perform it. We go forth. The Occasion calls, Great taskmaster of enterprise to men.

ELECTRA (_within_). Woe for my hapless lot!

OLD M. Hark! from the doors, my son, methought there came A moaning cry, as of some maid within.

OR. Can it be poor Electra? Shall we stay, And list again the lamentable sound?

OLD M. Not so. Before all else begin the attempt To execute Apollo's sovereign will, Pouring libation to thy sire: this makes Victory ours, and our success assured. [_Exeunt_

_Enter_ ELECTRA.

MONODY.

EL. O purest light! And air by earth alone Measured and limitable, how oft have ye Heard many a piercing moan, Many a blow full on my bleeding breast, When gloomy night Hath slackened pace and yielded to the day! And through the hours of rest, Ah! well 'tis known To my sad pillow in yon house of woe, What vigil of scant joyance keeping, Whiles all within are sleeping, For my dear father without stint I groan, Whom not in bloody fray The War-god in the stranger-land Received with hospitable hand, But she that is my mother, and her groom, As woodmen fell the oak, Cleft through the skull with murdering stroke. And o'er this gloom No ray of pity, save from only me, Goes forth on thee, My father, who didst die A cruel death of piteous agony. But ne'er will I Cease from my crying and sad mourning lay, While I behold the sky, Glancing with myriad fires, or this fair day. But, like some brood-bereavèd nightingale, With far-heard wail, Here at my father's door my voice shall sound. O home beneath the ground! Hades unseen, and dread Persephonè, And darkling Hermes, and the Curse revered, And ye, Erinyës, of mortals feared, Daughters of Heaven, that ever see Who die unjustly, who are wronged i' the bed Of those they wed, Avenge our father's murder on his foe! Aid us, and send my brother to my side; Alone I cannot longer bide The oppressive strain of strength-o'ermastering woe.

CHORUS (_entering_). O sad Electra, child I 1 Of a lost mother, why still flow Unceasingly with lamentation wild For him who through her treachery beguiled, Inveigled by a wife's deceit, Fallen at the foul adulterer's feet, Most impiously was quelled long years ago? Perish the cause! if I may lawfully pray so.

EL. O daughters of a noble line, Ye come to soothe me from my troublous woe. I see, I know: Your love is not unrecognized of mine. But yet I will not seem as I forgot, Or cease to mourn my hapless father's lot. Oh, of all love That ever may you move, This only boon I crave-- Leave me to rave!

CH. Lament, nor praying breath I 2 Will raise thy sire, our honoured chief, From that dim multitudinous gulf of death. Beyond the mark, due grief that measureth, Still pining with excess of pain Thou urgest lamentation vain, That from thy woes can bring thee no relief. Why hast thou set thy heart on unavailing grief?

EL. Senseless were he who lost from thought A noble father, lamentably slain! I love thy strain, Bewildered mourner, bird divinely taught, For 'Itys,' 'Itys,' ever heard to pine. O Niobè, I hold thee all divine, Of sorrows queen, Who with all tearful mien Insepulchred in stone Aye makest moan.

CH. Not unto thee alone hath sorrow come, II 1 Daughter, that thou shouldst carry grief so far Beyond those dwellers in the palace-home Who of thy kindred are And own one source with thee. What life hath she, Chrysothemis, and Iphianassa bright, And he whose light Is hidden afar from taste of horrid doom, Youthful Orestes, who shall come To fair Mycenae's glorious town, Welcomed as worthy of his sire's renown, Sped by great Zeus with kindly thought, And to this land with happiest omen brought?

EL. Awaiting him I endlessly endure; Unwed and childless still I go, With tears in constant flow, Girt round with misery that finds no cure. But he forgets his wrong and all my teaching. What message have I sent beseeching, But baffled flies back idly home? Ever he longs, he saith, but, longing, will not come.

CH. Take heart, dear child! still mighty in the sky II 2 Is Zeus who ruleth all things and surveys. Commit to him thy grief that surgeth high, And walk in safer ways, Let not hate vex thee sore, Nor yet ignore The cause of hate and sorrow in thy breast. Time bringeth rest: All is made easy through his power divine. The heir of Agamemnon's line Who dwells by Crisa's pastoral strand Shall yet return unto his native land; And he shall yet regard his own Who reigns beneath upon his Stygian throne.

EL. Meanwhile my life falls from me in despair Years pass and patience nought avails: My heart within me fails: Orphaned I pine without protecting care; And like a sojourner all unregarded At slave-like labour unrewarded I toil within my father's hall Thus meanly attired, and starved, a table-serving thrall.

CH. Sad was thy greeting when he reached the strand, III 1 Piteous thy crying where thy father lay On that fell day When the bronze edge with dire effect was driven. By craft 'twas planned, By frenzied lust the blow was given: Mother and father of a monstrous birth, Whether a God there wrought or mortal of the Earth.

EL. O day beyond all days that yet have rolled Most hateful in thy course of light! O horror of that night! O hideous feast, abhorr'd, not to be told! How could I bear it, when my father's eye Saw death advancing from the ruthless pair, Conjoint in cruel villany, By whom my life was plunged in black despair? Oh, to the workers of such deeds as these May great Olympus' Lord Return of evil still afford, Nor let them wear the gloss of sovran ease!

CH. Take thought to keep thy crying within bound. III 2 Doth not thy sense enlighten thee to see How recklessly Even now thou winnest undeservèd woe? Still art thou found To make thy misery overflow Through self-bred gloomy strife. But not for long Shall one alone prevail who strives against the strong.

EL. 'Twas dire oppression taught me my complaint I know my rage a quenchless fire: But nought, however dire, Shall visit this my frenzy with restraint, Or check my lamentation while I live. Dear friends, kind women of true Argive breed, Say, who can timely counsel give Or word of comfort suited to my need? Beyond all cure shall this my cause be known. No counsels more! Ah leave, Vain comforters, and let me grieve With ceaseless pain, unmeasured in my moan.

CH. With kind intent IV Full tenderly my words are meant; Like a true mother pressing heart to heart, I pray thee, do not aggravate thy smart.

EL. But have my miseries a measure? Tell. Can it be well To pour forgetfulness upon the dead? Hath mortal head Conceived a wickedness so bold? O never may such brightness shine for me, Nor let me peaceful be With aught of good my life may still enfold, If from wide echoing of my father's name The wings of keen lament I must withhold. Sure holy shame And pious care would vanish among men, If he, mere earth and nothingness, must lie In darkness, and his foes shall not again Render him blood for blood in amplest penalty.

LEADER OF CH. Less from our own desires, my child, we came, Than for thy sake. But, if we speak amiss, Take thine own course. We still will side with thee.

EL. Full well I feel that too impatiently I seem to multiply the sounds of woe. Yet suffer me, dear women! Mighty force Compels me. Who that had a noble heart And saw her father's cause, as I have done, By day and night more outraged, could refrain? Are my woes lessening? Are they not in bloom?-- My mother full of hate and hateful proved, Whilst I in my own home must dwell with these, My father's murderers, and by them be ruled, Dependent on their bounty even for bread. And then what days suppose you I must pass, When I behold Aegisthus on the throne That was my father's; when I see him wear Such robes, and pour libations by the hearth Where he destroyed him; lastly, when I see Their crowning insolence,--our regicide Laid in my father's chamber beside her, My mother--if she still must bear the name When resting in those arms? Her shame is dead. She harbours with blood-guiltiness, and fears No vengeance, but, as laughing at the wrong, She watches for the hour wherein with guile She killed our sire, and orders dance and mirth That day o' the month, and joyful sacrifice Of thanksgiving. But I within the house Beholding, weep and pine, and mourn that feast Of infamy, called by my father's name, All to myself; for not even grief may flow As largely as my spirit would desire. That so-called princess of a noble race O'ercrows my wailing with loud obloquy: 'Hilding! are you alone in grief? Are none Mourning for loss of fathers but yourself? 'Fore the blest Gods! ill may you thrive, and ne'er Find cure of sorrow from the powers below!' So she insults: unless she hear one say 'Orestes will arrive': then standing close, She shouts like one possessed into mine ear, 'These are your doings, this your work, I trow. You stole Orestes from my gripe, and placed His life with fosterers; but you shall pay Full penalty.' So harsh is her exclaim. And he at hand, the husband she extols, Hounds on the cry, that prince of cowardice, From head to foot one mass of pestilent harm. Tongue-doughty champion of this women's-war. I, for Orestes ever languishing To end this, am undone. For evermore Intending, still delaying, he wears out All hope, both here and yonder. How, then, friends, Can I be moderate, or feel the touch Of holy resignation? Evil fruit Cannot but follow on a life of ill.

CH. Say, is Aegisthus near while thus you speak? Or hath he left the palace? We would know.

EL. Most surely. Never think, if he were by, I could stray out of door. He is abroad.

CH. Then with less fear I may converse with thee.

EL. Ask what you will, for he is nowhere near.

CH. First of thy brother I beseech thee tell, How deem'st thou? Will he come, or still delay?

EL. His promise comes, but still performance sleeps.

CH. Well may he pause who plans a dreadful deed.

EL. I paused not in his rescue from the sword.

CH. Fear not. He will bestead you. He is true.

EL. But for that faith my life had soon gone by.

CH. No more! I see approaching from the house Thy sister by both parents of thy blood, Chrysothemis; in her hand an offering, Such as old custom yields to those below.

_Enter_ CHRYSOTHEMIS.

CHRYSOTHEMIS. What converse keeps thee now beyond the gates, Dear sister? why this talk in the open day? Wilt thou not learn after so long to cease From vain indulgence of a bootless rage? I know in my own breast that I am pained By what thou griev'st at, and if I had power, My censure of their deeds would soon be known. But in misfortune I have chosen to sail With lowered canvas, rather than provoke With puny strokes invulnerable foes. I would thou didst the like: though I must own The right is on thy side, and not on mine. But if I mean to dwell at liberty, I must obey in all the stronger will.

EL. 'Tis strange and pitiful, thy father's child Can leave him in oblivion and subserve The mother. All thy schooling of me springs From her suggestion, not of thine own wit. Sure, either thou art senseless, or thy sense Deserts thy friends. Treason or dulness then? Choose!--You declared but now, if you had strength, You would display your hatred of this pair. Yet, when I plan full vengeance for my sire, You aid me not, but turn me from the attempt. What's this but adding cowardice to evil? For tell me, or be patient till I show, What should I gain by ceasing this my moan? I live to vex them:--though my life be poor, Yet that suffices, for I honour him, My father,--if affection touch the dead. You say you hate them, but belie your word, Consorting with our father's murderers. I then, were all the gifts in which you glory Laid at my feet, will never more obey This tyrant power. I leave you your rich board And life of luxury. Ne'er be it mine[2] to feed On dainties that would poison my heart's peace! I care not for such honour as thou hast. Nor wouldst thou care if thou wert wise. But now, Having the noblest of all men for sire, Be called thy mother's offspring; so shall most Discern thine infamy and traitorous mind To thy dead father and thy dearest kin.

CH. No anger, we entreat. Both have said well, If each would learn of other, and so do.

CHR. For my part, women, use hath seasoned me To her discourse. Nor had I spoken of this, Had I not heard a horror coming on That will restrain her from her endless moan.

EL. Come speak it forth, this terror! I will yield, If thou canst tell me worse than I endure.

CHR. I'll tell thee all I know. If thou persist In these thy wailings, they will send thee far From thine own land, and close thee from the day, Where in a rock-hewn chamber thou may'st chant Thine evil orisons in darkness drear. Think of it, while there 's leisure to reflect; Or if thou suffer, henceforth blame me not.

EL. And have they so determined on my life?

CHR. 'Tis certain; when Aegisthus comes again.

EL. If that be all, let him return with speed!

CHR. Unhappy! why this curse upon thyself?

EL. If this be their intent, why, let him come!

CHR. To work such harm on thee! What thought is this!

EL. Far from mine eye to banish all your brood.

CHR. Art not more tender of the life thou hast?

EL. Fair, to a marvel, is my life, I trow!

CHR. It would be, couldst thou be advised for good.

EL. Never advise me to forsake my kin.

CHR. I do not: only to give place to power.

EL. Thine be such flattery. 'Tis not my way.

CHR. Sure, to be wrecked by rashness is not well.

EL. Let me be wrecked in 'venging my own sire.

CHR. I trust his pardon for my helplessness.

EL. Such talk hath commendation from the vile.

CHR. Wilt thou not listen? Wilt thou ne'er be ruled?

EL. No; not by thee! Let me not sink so low.

CHR. Then I will hie me on mine errand straight.

EL. Stay; whither art bound? For whom to spend those gifts?

CHR. Sent by my mother to my father's tomb To pour libations to him.

EL. How? To him? Most hostile to her of all souls that are?

CHR. Who perished by her hand--so thou wouldst say.

EL. What friend hath moved her? Who hath cared for this?

CHR. Methinks 'twas some dread vision, seen by night.

EL. Gods of my father, O be with me now!

CHR. What? art thou hopeful from the fear I spake of?

EL. Tell me the dream, and I will answer thee.

CHR. I know but little of it.

EL. Speak but that. A little word hath ofttimes been the cause Of ruin or salvation unto men.

CHR. 'Tis said she saw our father's spirit come Once more to visit the abodes of light; Then take and firmly plant upon the hearth The sceptre which he bore of old, and now Aegisthus bears: and out of this upsprang A burgeoned shoot, that shadowed all the ground Of loved Mycenae. So I heard the tale Told by a maid who listened when the Queen Made known her vision to the God of Day. But more than this I know not, save that I Am sent by her through terror of the dream. And I beseech thee by the Gods we serve To take my counsel and not rashly fall. If thou repel me now, the time may come When suffering shall have brought thee to my side.

EL. Now, dear Chrysothemis, of what thou bearest Let nothing touch his tomb. 'Tis impious And criminal to offer to thy sire Rites and libations from a hateful wife. Then cast them to the winds, or deep in dust Conceal them, where no particle may reach His resting-place: but lie in store for her When she goes underground. Sure, were she not Most hardened of all women that have been, She ne'er had sent those loveless offerings To grace the sepulchre of him she slew. For think how likely is the buried king To take such present kindly from her hand, Who slew him like an alien enemy, Dishonoured even in death, and mangled him, And wiped the death-stain with his flowing locks-- Sinful purgation! Think you that you bear In those cold gifts atonement for her guilt? It is not possible. Wherefore let be. But take a ringlet from thy comely head, And this from mine, that lingers on my brow[3] Longing to shade his tomb. Ah, give it to him, All I can give, and this my maiden-zone, Not daintily adorned, as once erewhile. Then, humbly kneeling, pray that from the ground He would arise to help us 'gainst his foes, And grant his son Orestes with high hand Strongly to trample on his enemies; That in our time to come from ampler stores We may endow him, than are ours to-day. I cannot but imagine that his will Hath part in visiting her sleep with fears. But howsoe'er, I pray thee, sister mine, Do me this service, and thyself, and him, Dearest of all the world to me and thee, The father of us both, who rests below.

CH. She counsels piously; and thou, dear maid, If thou art wise, wilt do her bidding here.

CHR. Yea, when a thing is right, it is not well Idly to wrangle, but to act with speed. Only, dear friends, in this mine enterprise, Let me have silence from your lips, I pray; For should my mother know of it, sharp pain Will follow yet my bold adventurous feat. [_Exit_ CHRYSOTHEMIS

CHORUS. An erring seer am I, I 1 Of sense and wisdom lorn, If this prophetic Power of right, O'ertaking the offender, come not nigh Ere many an hour be born. Yon vision of the night, That lately breathed into my listening ear, Hath freed me, O my daughter, from all fear. Sweet was that bodement. He doth not forget, The Achaean lord that gave thee being, nor yet The bronzen-griding axe, edged like a spear, Hungry and keen, though dark with stains of time, That in the hour of hideous crime Quelled him with cruel butchery: That, too, remembers, and shall testify.

From ambush deep and dread I 2 With power of many a hand And many hastening feet shall spring The Fury of the adamantine tread, Visiting Argive land Swift recompense to bring For eager dalliance of a blood-stained pair Unhallowed, foul, forbidden. No omen fair,-- Their impious course hath fixed this in my soul,-- Nought but black portents full of blame shall roll Before their eyes that wrought or aided there. Small force of divination would there seem In prophecy or solemn dream, Should not this vision of the night Reach harbour in reality aright.

O chariot-course of Pelops, full of toil[4]! II How wearisome and sore Hath been thine issue to our native soil!-- Since, from the golden oar Hurled to the deep afar, Myrtilus sank and slept, Cruelly plucked from that fell chariot-floor, This house unceasingly hath kept Crime and misfortune mounting evermore.

_Enter_ CLYTEMNESTRA.

CLYTEMNESTRA. Again you are let loose and range at will. Ay, for Aegisthus is not here, who barred Your rashness from defaming your own kin Beyond the gates. But now he's gone from home, You heed not me: though you have noised abroad That I am bold in crime, and domineer Outrageously, oppressing thee and thine. I am no oppressor, but I speak thee ill, For thou art ever speaking ill of me-- Still holding forth thy father's death, that I Have done it. So I did: I know it well: That I deny not; for not I alone But Justice slew him; and if you had sense, To side with Justice ought to be your part. For who but he of all the Greeks, your sire, For whom you whine and cry, who else but he Took heart to sacrifice unto the Gods Thy sister?--having less of pain, I trow, In getting her, than I, that bore her, knew! Come, let me question thee! On whose behalf Slew he my child? Was 't for the Argive host? What right had they to traffic in my flesh?-- Menelaüs was his brother. Wilt thou say He slew my daughter for his brother's sake? How then should he escape me? Had not he, Menelaüs, children twain, begotten of her Whom to reclaim that army sailed to Troy? Was Death then so enamoured of my seed, That he must feast thereon and let theirs live? Or was the God-abandoned father's heart Tender toward them and cruel to my child? Doth this not argue an insensate sire? I think so, though your wisdom may demur. And could my lost one speak, she would confirm it. For my part, I can dwell on what I have done Without regret. You, if you think me wrong, Bring reasons forth and blame me to my face!

EL. Thou canst not say this time that I began And brought this on me by some taunting word. But, so you'd suffer me, I would declare The right both for my sister and my sire.

CLY. Thou hast my sufferance. Nor would hearing vex, If ever thus you tuned your speech to me.

EL. Then I will speak. You say you slew him. Where Could there be found confession more depraved, Even though the cause were righteous? But I'll prove No rightful vengeance drew thee to the deed, But the vile bands of him you dwell with now. Or ask the huntress Artemis, what sin She punished, when she tied up all the winds Round Aulis.--I will tell thee, for her voice Thou ne'er may'st hear! 'Tis rumoured that my sire, Sporting within the goddess' holy ground, His foot disturbed a dappled hart, whose death Drew from his lips some rash and boastful word. Wherefore Latona's daughter in fell wrath Stayed the army, that in quittance for the deer My sire should slay at the altar his own child. So came her sacrifice. The Achaean fleet Had else no hope of being launched to Troy Nor to their homes. Wherefore, with much constraint And painful urging of his backward will, Hardly he yielded;--not for his brother's sake. But grant thy speech were sooth, and all were done In aid of Menelaüs; for this cause Hadst thou the right to slay him? What high law Ordaining? Look to it, in establishing Such precedent thou dost not lay in store Repentance for thyself. For if by right One die for one, thou first wilt be destroyed If Justice find thee.--But again observe The hollowness of thy pretended plea. Tell me, I pray, what cause thou dost uphold In doing now the basest deed of all, Chambered with the blood-guilty, with whose aid Thou slewest our father in that day. For him You now bear children--ousting from their right The stainless offspring of a holy sire. How should this plead for pardon? Wilt thou say Thus thou dost 'venge thy daughter's injury? O shameful plea? Where is the thought of honour, If foes are married for a daughter's sake?-- Enough. No words can move thee. Thy rash tongue With checkless clamour cries that we revile Our mother. Nay, no mother, but the chief Of tyrants to us! For my life is full Of weariness and misery from thee And from thy paramour. While he abroad, Orestes, our one brother, who escaped Hardly from thy attempt, unhappy boy! Wears out his life, victim of cross mischance. Oft hast thou taunted me with fostering him To be thy punisher. And this, be sure, Had I but strength, I had done. Now for this word, Proclaim me what thou wilt,--evil in soul, Or loud in cursing, or devoid of shame: For if I am infected with such guilt, Methinks my nature is not fallen from thine.

CH. (_looking at_ CLYTEMNESTRA). I see her fuming with fresh wrath: the thought Of justice enters not her bosom now.

CLY. What thought of justice should be mine for her, Who at her age can so insult a mother? Will shame withhold her from the wildest deed?

EL. Not unashamed, assure thee, I stand here, Little as thou mayest deem it. Well I feel My acts untimely and my words unmeet. But your hostility and treatment force me Against my disposition to this course. Harsh ways are taught by harshness.

CLY. Brazen thing! Too true it is that words and deeds of mine Are evermore informing thy harsh tongue.

EL. The shame is yours, because the deeds are yours. My words are but their issue and effect.

CLY. By sovereign Artemis, whom still I serve, You'll rue this boldness when Aegisthus comes.

EL. See now, your anger bears you off, and ne'er Will let you listen, though you gave me leave.

CLY. Must I not even sacrifice in peace From your harsh clamour, when you've had your say?

EL. I have done. I check thee not. Go, sacrifice! Accuse not me of hindering piety.

CLY. (_to an attendant_). Then lift for me those fruitful offerings, While to Apollo, before whom we stand, I raise my supplication for release From doubts and fears that shake my bosom now. And, O defender of our house! attend My secret utterance. No friendly ear Is that which hearkens for my voice. My thought Must not be blazoned with her standing by, Lest through her envious and wide-babbling tongue She fill the city full of wild surmise. List, then, as I shall speak: and grant the dreams Whose two-fold apparition I to-night Have seen, if good their bodement, be fulfilled: If hostile, turn their influence on my foes. And yield not them their wish that would by guile Thrust me from this high fortune, but vouchsafe That ever thus exempt from harms I rule The Atridae's home and kingdom, in full life, Partaking with the friends I live with now All fair prosperity, and with my children, Save those who hate and vex me bitterly. Lykeian Phoebus, favourably hear My prayer, and grant to all of us our need! More is there, which, though I be silent here, A God should understand. No secret thing Is hidden from the all-seeing sons of Heaven.

_Enter the_ Old Man.

OLD M. Kind dames and damsels, may I clearly know If these be King Aegisthus' palace-halls?

CH. They are, sir; you yourself have guessed aright.

OLD M. May I guess further that in yonder dame I see his queen? She looks right royally.

CH. 'Tis she,--no other,--whom your eyes behold.

OLD M. Princess, all hail! To thee and to thy spouse I come with words of gladness from a friend.

CLY. That auspice I accept. But I would first Learn from thee who of men hath sent thee forth?

OLD M. Phanoteus the Phocian, with a charge of weight.

CLY. Declare it, stranger. Coming from a friend, Thou bring'st us friendly tidings, I feel sure.

OLD M. Orestes' death. Ye have the sum in brief.

EL. Ah me! undone! This day hath ruined me.

CLY. What? Let me hear again. Regard her not.

OLD M. Again I say it, Orestes is no more.

EL. Undone! undone! Farewell to life and hope!

CLY. (_to_ ELECTRA). See thou to thine own case! (_To_ Old Man) Now, stranger, tell me In true discourse the manner of his death.

OLD M. For that I am here, and I will tell the whole. He, entering on the great arena famed As Hellas' pride, to win a Delphian prize, On hearing the loud summons of the man Calling the foot-race, which hath trial first, Came forward, a bright form, admired by all. And when his prowess in the course fulfilled The promise of his form, he issued forth Dowered with the splendid meed of victory.-- To tell a few out of the many feats Of such a hero were beyond my power. Know then, in brief, that of the prizes set For every customary course proclaimed By order of the judges, the whole sum Victoriously he gathered, happy deemed By all; declared an Argive, and his name Orestes, son of him who levied once The mighty armament of Greeks for Troy. So fared he then: but when a God inclines To hinder happiness, not even the strong Are scatheless. So, another day, when came At sunrise the swift race of charioteers, He entered there with many a rival car:-- One from Achaia, one from Sparta, two Libyan commanders of the chariot-yoke; And he among them fifth, with steeds of price From Thessaly;--the sixth Aetolia sent With chestnut mares; the seventh a Magnete man; The eighth with milk-white colts from Oeta's vale; The ninth from god-built Athens; and the tenth Boeotia gave to make the number full. Then stood they where the judges of the course Had posted them by lot, each with his team; And sprang forth at the brazen trumpet's blare. Shouting together to their steeds, they shook The reins, and all the course was filled with noise Of rattling chariots, and the dust arose To heaven. Now all in a confusèd throng Spared not the goad, each eager to outgo The crowded axles and the snorting steeds; For close about his nimbly circling wheels And stooping sides fell flakes of panted foam. Orestes, ever nearest at the turn, With whirling axle seemed to graze the stone, And loosing with free rein the right-hand steed That pulled the side-rope[5], held the near one in. So for a time all chariots upright moved, But soon the Oetaean's hard-mouthed horses broke From all control, and wheeling as they passed From the sixth circuit to begin the seventh, Smote front to front against the Barcan car. And when that one disaster had befallen, Each dashed against his neighbour and was thrown, Till the whole plain was strewn with chariot-wreck. Then the Athenian, skilled to ply the rein, Drew on one side, and heaving to, let pass The rider-crested surge that rolled i' the midst. Meanwhile Orestes, trusting to the end, Was driving hindmost with tight rein; but now, Seeing him left the sole competitor, Hurling fierce clamour through his steeds, pursued: So drave they yoke by yoke--now this, now that Pulling ahead with car and team. Orestes, Ill-fated one, each previous course had driven Safely without a check, but after this, In letting loose again the left-hand rein[6], He struck the edge of the stone before he knew, Shattering the axle's end, and tumbled prone, Caught in the reins[7], that dragged him with sharp thongs. Then as he fell to the earth the horses swerved, And roamed the field. The people when they saw Him fallen from out the car, lamented loud For the fair youth, who had achieved before them Such glorious feats, and now had found such woe,-- Dashed on the ground, then tossed with legs aloft Against the sky,--until the charioteers, Hardly restraining the impetuous team, Released him, covered so with blood that none,-- No friend who saw--had known his hapless form. Which then we duly burned upon the pyre. And straightway men appointed to the task From all the Phocians bear his mighty frame-- Poor ashes! narrowed in a brazen urn,-- That he may find in his own fatherland His share of sepulture.--Such our report, Painful to hear, but unto us, who saw, The mightiest horror that e'er met mine eye.

CH. Alas! the stock of our old masters, then, Is utterly uprooted and destroyed.

CLY. O heavens! what shall I say? That this is well? Or terrible, but gainful? Hard my lot, To save my life through my calamity!

OLD M. Lady, why hath my speech disheartened thee?

CLY. To be a mother hath a marvellous power: No injury can make one hate one's child.

OLD M. Then it should seem our coming was in vain.

CLY. In vain? Nay, verily; thou, that hast brought Clear evidences of his fate, who, sprung Prom my life's essence, severed from my breast And nurture, was estranged in banishment, And never saw me from the day he went Out from this land, but for his father's blood Threatened me still with accusation dire; That sleep nor soothed at night nor sweetly stole My senses from the day, but, all my time, Each instant led me on the way to death!-- But this day's chance hath freed me from all fear Of him, and of this maid: who being at home Troubled me more, and with unmeasured thirst Kept draining my life-blood; but now her threats Will leave us quiet days, methinks, and peace Unbroken.--How then shouldst thou come in vain?

EL. O misery! 'Tis time to wail thy fate, Orestes, when, in thy calamity, Thy mother thus insults thee. Is it well?

CLY. 'Tis well that he is gone, not that you live.

EL. Hear, 'venging spirits of the lately dead!

CLY. The avenging spirits have heard and answered well.

EL. Insult us now, for thou art fortunate!

CLY. You and Orestes are to quench my pride.

EL. Our pride is quenched. No hope of quenching thee!

CLY. A world of good is in thy coming, stranger, Since thou hast silenced this all-clamorous tongue.

OLD M. Then I may go my way, seeing all is well.

CLY. Nay, go not yet! That would disgrace alike Me and the friend who sent you to our land. But come thou in, and leave her out of door To wail her own and loved ones' overthrow. [_Exeunt_ CLYTEMNESTRA _and_ Old Man

EL. Think you the wretch in heartfelt agony Weeps inconsolably her perished son? She left us with a laugh! O misery! How thou hast ruined me, dear brother mine, By dying! Thou hast torn from out my heart The only hope I cherished yet, that thou Living wouldst come hereafter to avenge Thy father's woes and mine. Where must I go? Since I am left of thee and of my sire Bereaved and lonely, and once more must be The drudge and menial of my bitterest foes, My father's murderers. Say, is it well? Nay, nevermore will I consort with these, But sinking here before the palace gate, Thus, friendless, I will wither out my life. Hereat if any in the house be vexed, Let them destroy me; for to take my life Were kindness, and to live is only pain: Life hath not kindled my desires with joy.

CH. 1. O ever-blazing sun! I 1 O lightning of the eternal Sire! Can ye behold this done And tamely hide your all-avenging fire?

EL. Ah me!

CH. 2. My daughter, why these tears?

EL. Woe!

CH. 3. Weep not, calm thy fears.

EL. You kill me.

CH. 4. How?

EL. To breathe A hope for one beneath So clearly sunk in death, 'Tis to afflict me more Already pining sore.

CH. 5. One in a woman's toils I 2 Was tangled[8], buried by her glittering coils, Who now beneath--

EL. Ah woe!

CH. 6. Rules with a spirit unimpaired and strong.

EL. O dreadful!

CH. 7. Dreadful was the wrong.

EL. But she was quelled.

CH. 8. Ay.

EL. True! That faithful mourner knew A brother's aid. But I Have no man now. The one I had, is gone, is gone. Rapt into nothingness.

CH. 9. Thou art wrung with sore distress. II 1

EL. I know it. Too well I know, Taught by a life of woe, Where horror dwells without relief.

CH. 10. Our eyes have seen thy grief.

EL. Then comfort not again--

CH. 11. Whither now turns thy strain?

EL. One utterly bereft, Seeing no hope is left, Of help from hands owning the same great sire.

CH. 12. 'Tis nature's debt. II 2

EL. To expire On sharp-cut dragging thongs, 'Midst wildly trampling throngs Of swiftly racing hoofs, like him, Poor hapless one?

CH. 13. Vast, dim, And boundless was the harm.

EL. Yea, severed from mine arm, By strangers kept--

CH. 14. O pain!

EL. Hidden he must remain, Of me unsepulchred, unmourned, unwept.

_Enter_ CHRYSOTHEMIS.

CHR. Driven by delight, dear sister, I am come, Reckless of dignity, with headlong speed. For news I bear of joy and sweet relief From ills that drew from thee thy ceaseless moan.

EL. Whence couldst thou hear of succour for my woes, That close in darkness without hope of dawn?

CHR. Here is Orestes, learn it from my mouth, As certainly as you now look on me.

EL. What? Art thou mad, unhappy one, to laugh Over thine own calamity and mine?

CHR. No, by our father's hearth, I say not this In mockery. I tell you he is come.

EL. Me miserable! Who hath given thine ear The word that so hath wrought on thy belief?

CHR. Myself am the eyewitness, no one else Gained my belief, but proofs I clearly saw.

EL. What sign hath so engrossed thine eye, poor girl? What sight hath fired thee with this quenchless glow?

CHR. But list to me, I pray thee, that henceforth Thou mayest account me clear eyed, or a fool!

EL. By all means, if it pleasure thee, say on.

CHR. Well, I will tell thee all I saw:--I came Unto the ancient tomb that holds our sire; And from the topmost mound I marked a stream Of milk fresh-flowing, and his resting place Ringed round with garlands of all flowers that blow. I marvelled at the sight, and peered about, Lest some one might be nearer than we knew. But finding all was quiet in the spot, I ventured closer to the tomb, and there, Hard by the limit, I beheld a curl Of hair new shorn, with all the gloss of youth And straight it struck my heart, as with a sense Of something seen, ah me! long, long ago, And told me that my sight encountered here The token of Orestes, dearest soul Then, clasping it, I did not cry aloud, But straight mine eyes were filled with tears of joy. And now as much as then I feel assured He and none else bestowed this ornament. To whom beyond thyself and me belongs Such consecration? And I know this well, I did it not,--nor thou. Impossible! Thou canst not worship even the blessèd Gods Forth of this roof, unpunished. And, most sure, Our mother is not minded so to act, Nor, had she done it, could we fail to know. This offering comes then of Orestes' hand. Take courage, dear one. Not one fate pursues One house perpetually, but changeth still. Ours was a sullen Genius, but perchance This day begins the assurance of much good.

EL. Oh how I pity thine infatuate mind!

CHR. Why? Dost thou find no comfort in my news?

EL. You know not where you roam. Far wide! far wide!

CHR. Not know? when I have seen it with mine eyes?

EL. Dear, he is dead. Look not to him, poor girl! Salvation comes to thee no more from him.

CHR. Oh me, unfortunate! Who told thee this?

EL. He who stood by and saw his life destroyed.

CHR. Amazement seizes me. Where is that man?

EL. Right welcome to the mother there within.

CHR. Me miserable! Who then can have decked With all those ceremonies our father's tomb?

EL. I cannot but suppose some hand hath brought These gifts in memory of Orestes dead.

CHR. O cruel fate! While I in ecstasy Sped with such news, all ignorant, it seems, Of our dire fortune; and, arriving, find Fresh sorrows added to the former woe.

EL. It is so, sister; yet if thou wilt list To me, thou mayest disperse this heaviness.

CHR. What? Shall I raise the dead again to life?

EL. I did not mean so. I am not so fond.

CHR. What bid you then that I have power to do?

EL. To endure courageously what I enjoin.

CHR. So it make profit, I will not refuse.

EL. Remember, without toil no plan may thrive!

CHR. I know it, and will aid thee to my power.

EL. Then hearken my resolve. Thou seëst now, We have no friendly succour in the world; But death has taken all, and we are left Two only. I, so long as I could hear My brother lived and flourished, still had hope He would arise to wreak his father's blood. But now that he is gone, to thee I turn, To help thy sister boldly to destroy The guilty author of our father's death, Aegisthus.--Wherefore hide it from thee now? --Yea, sister! Till what term wilt thou remain Inactive? To what end? What hope is yet Left standing? Surely thou hast cause to grieve, Bobbed of thy father's opulent heritage, And feeling bitterly the creeping years That find thee still a virgin and unwed. Nay, nor imagine thou shalt ever know That blessing. Not so careless of his life Is King Aegisthus, as to risk the birth Of sons from us, to his most certain fall. But if thou wilt but follow my resolve, First thou shalt win renown of piety From our dead father, and our brother too, Who rest beneath the ground, and shalt be free For evermore in station as in birth, And nobly matched in marriage, for the good Draw gazers to them still. Then seest thou not What meed of honour, if thou dost my will, Thou shalt apportion to thyself and me? For who, beholding us, what citizen, What foreigner, will not extend the hand Of admiration, and exclaim, 'See, friends, These scions of one stock, these noble twain, These that have saved their father's house from woe, Who once when foes were mighty, set their life Upon a cast, and stood forth to avenge The stain of blood! Who will not love the pair And do them reverence? Who will not give Honour at festivals, and in the throng Of popular resort, to these in chief, For their high courage and their bold emprise?' Such fame will follow us in all the world. Living or dying, still to be renowned. Ah, then, comply, dear sister; give thy sire This toil--this labour to thy brother give; End these my sufferings, end thine own regret: The well-born cannot bear to live in shame.

CH. In such affairs, for those who speak and hear Wise thoughtfulness is still the best ally.

CHR. True, noble women, and before she spake Sound thought should have prevented the rash talk That now hath proved her reckless. What wild aim Beckons thee forth in arming this design Whereto thou wouldst demand my ministry? Dost not perceive, thou art not man but woman, Of strength inferior to thine enemies,-- Their Genius daily prospering more and more, Whilst ours is dwindling into nothingness? Who then that plots against a life so strong Shall quit him of the danger without harm? Take heed we do not add to our distress Should some one hear of this our colloquy. Small help and poor advantage 'twere for us To win brief praise and then inglorious die. Nay, death is not so hateful as when one Desiring death is balked of that desire. And I beseech thee, ere in utter ruin We perish and make desolate our race, Refrain thy rage. And I will guard for thee In silence these thy words unrealized; If thou wilt learn this wisdom from long time, Having no strength, to bend before the strong.

CH. Comply. Than prudence and a heedful mind, No fairer treasure can be found for men.

EL. Thy words have not surprised me. Well I knew The good I offered would come back with scorn. I, all alone and with a single hand, Must do this. For it shall not rest undone.

CHR. Would thou hadst been thus minded when our sire Lay dying! In one act thou hadst compassed all.

EL. My spirit was the same: my mind was less.

CHR. Be such the life-long temper of thy mind!

EL. Thine admonition augurs little aid.

CHR. Yea. For the attempt would bring me certain bane.

EL. I envy thee thy prudence, hate thy fear.

CHR. Even when thou speak'st me fair, I will endure it.

EL. Take heart. That never will be thine from me.

CHR. Long time remains to settle that account.

EL. I find no profit in thee. Go thy way.

CHR. Profit there is, hadst thou a mind to learn.

EL. Go to thy mother and declare all this!

CHR. I am not so in hatred of thy life.

EL. Yet know the shame thou wouldst prepare for me.

CHR. No, no! Not shame, but care for thine estate.

EL. Must I still follow as thou thinkest good?

CHR. When thou hast wisdom, thou shalt be the guide.

EL. 'Tis hard when error wears the garb of sense.

CHR. Right. That is the misfortune of your case.

EL. Why? Feel you not the justice of my speech?

CHR. Justice may chance to bring me injury.

EL. I care not, I, to live by such a rule.

CHR. Well, if you do it, you will find me wise.

EL. Well, I will do it, nought dismayed by thee.

CHR. Speak you plain sooth? and will you not be counselled?

EL. No, for bad counsel is of all most hateful.

CHR. You take the sense of nothing that I say.

EL. Long since, not newly, my resolve is firm.

CHR. Then I will go. Thy heart will ne'er be brought To praise my words, nor I thine action here.

EL. Then go within! I will not follow thee, Though thou desire it vehemently. None Would be so fond to hunt on a cold trail.

CHR. If this seem wisdom to thee, then be wise Thy way: but in the hour of misery, When it hath caught thee, thou wilt praise my words. [_Exit_ CHRYSOTHEMIS

CHORUS. Wise are the birds of air I 1 That with true filial care For those provide convenient food Who gave them birth, who wrought their good. Why will not men the like perfection prove? Else, by the fires above, And heavenly Rectitude, Fierce recompense they shall not long elude. O darkling rumour, world-o'er-wandering voice That piercest to the shades beneath the ground, To dead Atrides waft a sound Of sad reproach, not bidding him rejoice.

Stained is the ancestral hall, I 2 Broken the battle-call, That heretofore his children twain In loving concord did sustain. Alone, deserted, vexed, Electra sails, Storm-tossed with rugged gales, Lamenting evermore Like piteous Philomel, and pining sore For her lost father;--might she but bring down That two-fold Fury, caring not for death, But ready to resign her breath, What maid so worthy of a sire's renown?

None who inherit from a noble race, II 1 Complying with things base Will let their ancient glory be defiled. So 'twas thy choice, dear child, Through homeless misery[9] to win a two-fold prize, Purging the sin and shame[10] That cloud the Argive name, So to be called most noble and most wise.

May'st thou surpass thy foes in wealth and power II 2 As o'er thee now they tower! Since I have found thee, not in bright estate, Nor blessed by wayward fate, But through thy loyalty to Heaven's eternal cause Wearing the stainless crown Of perfectest renown, And richly dowered by the mightiest laws.

_Enter_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES, _with the urn_.

OR. Say, dames and damsels, have we heard aright, And speed we to the goal of our desire?

CH. And what desire or quest hath brought thee hither?

OR. I seek Aegisthus' dwelling all this while.

CH. Welcome. The tongue that told thee hath no blame.

OR. Which of you all will signify within Our joint arrival,--not unwelcome here.

CH. This maiden, if the nearest should report.

OR. Mistress, wilt thou go yonder and make known, That certain Phocians on Aegisthus wait?

EL. Oh! can it be that you are come to bring Clear proofs of the sad rumour we have heard?

OR. I know not what ye have heard. Old Strophius Charged me with tidings of Orestes' fate.

EL. What, stranger? How this terror steals on me!

OR. Bearing scant remnants of his body dead In this small vase thou seest, we bring them home.

EL. O sorrow! thou art here: I see full well That burden of my heart in present view.

OR. If thou hast tears for aught Orestes suffered, Know that he lies within this vessel's room.

EL. Ah, sir! by all in Heaven, if yonder urn Hide him, ah! give it once into my hand, That o'er that dust I may lament and mourn Myself and mine own house and all our woe!

OR. Bring it and give her, whosoe'er she be. For not an enemy--this petition shows it-- But of his friends or kindred, is this maid. [_The urn is given into_ ELECTRA'S _hands_

EL. O monument of him whom o'er all else I loved! sole relic of Orestes' life, How cold in this thy welcome is the hope Wherein I decked thee as I sent thee forth! Then bright was thy departure, whom I now Bear lightly, a mere nothing, in my hands. Would I had gone from life, ere I dispatched Thee from my arms that saved thee to a land Of strangers, stealing thee from death! For then Thou hadst been quiet on that far off day, And had thy portion in our father's tomb Now thou hast perished in the stranger land Far from thy sister, lorn and comfortless And I, O wretchedness! neither have bathed And laid thee forth, nor from the blazing fire Collected the sad burden, as was meet But thou, when foreign hands have tended thee Com'st a small handful in a narrow shell Woe for the constant care I spent on thee Of old all vainly, with sweet toil! For never Wast thou thy mother's darling, nay, but mine, And I of all the household most thy nurse, While 'sister, sister,' was thy voice to me But now all this is vanished in one day, Dying in thy death. Thou hast carried all away As with a whirlwind, and art gone. No more My father lives, thyself art lost in death, I am dead, who lived in thee. Our enemies Laugh loudly, and she maddens in her joy, Our mother most unmotherly, of whom Thy secret missives ofttimes told me, thou Wouldst be the punisher. But that fair hope The hapless Genius of thy lot and mine Hath reft away, and gives thee thus to me,-- For thy loved form thy dust and fruitless shade O bitterness! O piteous sight! Woe! woe! Oh! sent on thy dire journey, dearest one, How thou hast ruined me! Thou hast indeed, Dear brother! Then receive me to thyself, Hide me in this thy covering, there to dwell, Me who am nothing, with thy nothingness, For ever! Yea, when thou wert here above, I ever shared with thee in all, and now I would not have thee shut me from thy tomb. Oh! let me die and follow thee! the dead, My mind assures me now, have no more pain.

CH. Electra, think! Thou hadst a mortal sire, And mortal was thy brother. Grieve not far.

OR. O me! What shall I speak, or which way turn The desperate word? I cannot hold my tongue.

EL. What pain o'ercomes thee? Wherefore speak'st thou so?

OR. Can this be famed Electra I behold?

EL. No other. In sad case, as you may see

OR. Ah! deep indeed was this calamity!

EL. Is't possible that thou shouldst grieve for me?

OR. O ruined form! abandoned to disgrace!

EL. 'Tis me you mean, stranger, I feel it now.

OR. Woe 's me! Untrimmed for bridal, hapless maid!

EL. Why this fixed gaze, O stranger! that deep groan?

OR. How all unknowing was I of mine ill!

EL. What thing hath passed to make it known to thee?

OR. The sight of thee attired with boundless woe.

EL. And yet thine eye sees little of my pain.

OR. Can aught be still more hateful to be seen?

EL. I have my dwelling with the murderers--

OR. Of whom? What evil would thy words disclose?

EL. Of him who gave me birth. I am their slave.

OR. Whose power compels thee to this sufferance?

EL. One called my mother, most unmotherly.

OR. How? by main force, or by degrading shames?

EL. By force and shames, and every kind of evil.

OR. And is there none to succour or prevent?

EL. None. Him I had, you give me here in dust.

OR. How mine eye pities thee this while, poor maid!

EL. Know now, none ever pitied me but you.

OR. None ever came whose heart like sorrow wrung.

EL. Is't possible we have some kinsman here?

OR. I will tell it, if these women here be friendly.

EL. They are. They may be trusted. Only speak.

OR. Let go yon vase, that thou may'st learn the whole.

EL. Nay, by the Gods! be not so cruel, sir!

OR. Obey me and thou shalt not come to harm.

EL. Ah, never rob me of what most I love!

OR. You must not hold it.

EL. O me miserable For thee, Orestes, if I lose thy tomb!

OR. Speak no rash word. Thou hast no right to mourn.

EL. No right to mourn my brother who is gone?

OR. Such utterance belongs not to thy tongue,

EL. Oh, am I thus dishonoured of the dead?

OR. Far from dishonour. But this ne'er was thine.

EL. Is't not Orestes' body that I bear?

OR. Nay, but the idle dressing of a tale.

EL. And where is his poor body's resting-place?

OR. Nowhere. Seek not the living with the dead,

EL. My son, what saidst thou?

OR. Nought but what is true.

EL. Doth he yet live?

OR. If I have life in me.

EL. Art thou Orestes?

OR. Let my signet here, That was our father's, tell thine eyes, I am.

EL. O day of days!

OR. Time hath no happier hour.

EL. Is it thy voice?

OR. Hearken not otherwhere.

EL. Have my arms caught thee?

OR. Hold me so for aye!

EL. O dearest women, Argives of my home! Ye see Orestes, dead in craft, but now By that same craft delivered and preserved.

CH. We see, dear daughter, and the gladsome tear Steals from our eye to greet the bright event.

EL. Offspring of him I loved beyond all telling! I 1 Ah! thou art come,--hast found me, eye to eye Behold'st the face thou didst desire to see.

OR. True, I am here; but bide in silence still.

EL. Wherefore?

OR. Hush! speak not loud, lest one within should hearken.

EL. By ever-virgin Artemis, ne'er will I Think worthy of my fear This useless mass of woman-cowardice Burdening the house within, Not peering out of door.

OR. Yet know that women too have might in war. Of that methinks thou hast feeling evidence.

EL. Ah me! thou hast unveiled And thrust before my gaze That burning load of my distress No time will soothe, no remedy will heal.

OR. I know that too. But when we are face to face With the evildoers,--then let remembrance work.

EL. All times alike are fit with instant pain I 2 Justly to mind me of that dreadful day; Even now but hardly hath my tongue been free.

OR. Yes, that is it. Therefore preserve this boon.

EL. Whereby?

OR. Put limits to unseasonable talk.

EL. Ah! brother, who, when thou art come, Could find it meet to exchange Language for silence, as thou bidst me do? Since beyond hope or thought Was this thy sight to me.

OR. God gave me to your sight when so he willed.

EL. O heaven of grace beyond The joy I knew but now! If God hath brought thee to our roof, A miracle of bounty then is here.

OR. I hate to curb the gladness of thy spirit, But yet I fear this ecstasy of joy.

EL. Oh! after all these years, II Now thou at length hast sped Thy dearest advent on the wished-for way, Do not, in all this woe Thou seest surrounding me--

OR. What means this prayer?

EL. Forbid me not my joy, Nor make me lose the brightness of thy face!

OR. Deep were my wrath at him who should attempt it.

EL. Is my prayer heard?

OR. Why doubt it?

EL. Friends, I learned A tale beyond my thought; and hearing I restrained My passion, voiceless in my misery, Uttering no cry. But now I have thee safe; now, dearest, thou art come, With thy blest countenance, which I Can ne'er forget, even at the worst of woe.

OR. A truce now to unnecessary words. My mother's vileness and Aegisthus' waste, Draining and squandering with spendthrift hand Our patrimony, tell me not anew. Such talk might stifle opportunity. But teach me, as befits the present need, What place may serve by lurking vigilance Or sudden apparition to o'erwhelm Our foes in the adventure of to-day. And, when we pass within, take heedful care Bright looks betray thee not unto our mother. But groan as for the dire calamity Vainly reported:--Let's achieve success, Then with free hearts we may rejoice and laugh.

EL. Dear brother, wheresoe'er thy pleasure leads, My will shall follow, since the joys I know, Not from myself I took them, but from thee. And ne'er would I consent thy slightest grief Should win for me great gain. Ill should I then Serve the divinity of this high hour! Thou knowest how matters in the palace stand. Thou hast surely heard, Aegisthus is from home, And she, our mother, is within. Nor fear She should behold me with a smiling face. Mine ancient hate of her hath sunk too deep. And from the time I saw thee, tears of joy Will cease not. Wherefore should I stint their flow? I, who in this thy coming have beheld Thee dead and living? Strangely hast thou wrought On me;--that should my father come alive, I would not think the sight were miracle, But sober truth. Since such thy presence, then, Lead as thy spirit prompts. For I alone Of two things surely had achieved one, Noble deliverance or a noble death.

OR. Be silent; for I hear within the house A footstep coming forth.

EL. (_loudly_). Strangers, go in! For none within the palace will reject Your burden, nor be gladdened by the event.

_Enter the_ Old Man.

OLD M. O lost in folly and bereft of soul! Is't that your care for life hath ebbed away, Or were you born without intelligence, When fallen, not near, but in the midst of ill, And that the greatest, ye perceive it not? Had I not watched the doors this while, your deeds Had gone within the palace ere yourselves. But, as things are, my care hath fenced you round. Now, then, have done with long-protracted talk, And this insatiable outburst of joy, And enter, for in such attempts as these Delay is harmful: and 'tis more than time.

OR. But how shall I find matters there within?

OLD M. Well. You are shielded by their ignorance.

OR. That means you have delivered me as dead.

OLD M. Alone of dead men thou art here above.

OR. Doth this delight them, or how went the talk?

OLD M. I will report, when all is done. Meanwhile, Know, all is well with them, even what is evil.

EL. Who is this, brother? I beseech thee, tell.

OR. Dost not perceive?

EL. I cannot even imagine.

OR. Know'st not into whose hands thou gav'st me once?

EL. Whose hands? How say you?

OR. His, who through thy care Conveyed me secretly to Phocis' plain.

EL. What! is this he, whom I, of all the band, Found singly faithful in our father's death?

OR. He is that man. No more!

EL. O gladsome day! Dear only saviour of our father's house, How earnest thou hither? Art thou he indeed, That didst preserve Orestes and myself From many sorrows? O dear hands, kind feet, Swift in our service,--how couldst thou so long Be near, nor show one gleam, but didst destroy My heart with words, hiding the loveliest deeds? Father!--in thee methinks I see my father. O welcome! thou of all the world to me Most hated and most loved in one short hour.

OLD M. Enough, dear maiden! Many nights and days Are circling hitherward, that shall reveal In clear recountment all that came between. But to you two that stand beside I tell, Now is your moment, with the Queen alone, And none of men within; but if you pause, Know that with others of profounder skill You'll have to strive, more than your present foes.

OR. Then, Pylades, we need no more to dwell On words, but enter on this act with speed, First worshipping the holy shrines o' the Gods That were my father's, harboured at the gate. [_They pass within_. ELECTRA _remains in an attitude of prayer_

EL. O King Apollo! hear them graciously, And hear me too, that with incessant hand Honoured thee richly from my former store! And now, fierce slayer, I importune thee, And woo thee with such gifts as I can give, Be kindly aidant to this enterprise, And make the world take note, what meed of bane Heaven still bestows on man's iniquity. [ELECTRA _goes within_

CH. Lo, where the War-god moves 1 With soft, sure footstep, on to his design, Breathing hot slaughter of an evil feud! Even now the inevitable hounds that track Dark deeds of hideous crime Are gone beneath the covert of the domes. Not long in wavering suspense shall hang The dreaming presage of my wistful soul.

For lo! within is led 2 With crafty tread the avenger of the shades, Even to his father's throne of ancient power, And in his hand the bright new-sharpened death! And Hermes, Maia's son, Is leading him, and hath concealed the guile Even to the fatal end in clouds of night. His time of weary waiting all is o'er.

_Re-enter_ ELECTRA.

EL. O dearest women! they are even now About it. Only bide in silence still.

CH. What is the present scene?

EL. She decks the vase For burial, and they both are standing by.

CH. And wherefore hast thou darted forth?

EL. To watch Aegisthus' coming, that he enter not At unawares.

CLY. (_within_). Ah! ah! Woe for the house, Desert of friends, and filled with hands of death!

EL. A cry within! Did ye not hear it, friends?

CH. Would I had not! I heard, and shivered through.

CLY. (_within_). Oh me! Alas, Aegisthus! where art thou?

EL. Hark! yet again that sound!

CLY. (_within_). O son, have pity! Pity the womb that bare thee.

EL. Thou hadst none For him, nor for his father, in that day.

HALF-CH. Poor city! hapless race! 1 Thy destiny to-day Wears thee away, away. What morn shall see thy face?

CLY. (_within_). Oh, I am smitten!

EL. Give a second stroke, If thou hast power.

CLY. (_within_). Oh me! again, again!

EL. Would thou wert shrieking for Aegisthus too!

CH. The curse hath found, and they in earth who lie Are living powers to-day. Long dead, they drain away The streaming blood of those who made them die.

_Enter_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES.

Behold, they come, they come! His red hand dripping as he moves With drops of sacrifice the War-god loves. My 'wildered heart is dumb.

EL. How is it with you, brother?

OR. If Apollo Spake rightfully, the state within is well.

EL. Wretched one, is she dead?

OR. No more have fear Thou shalt be slighted by thy mother's will.

CH. Cease, for I see Aegisthus near in view.

EL. In, in again, boys!

OR. Where do ye behold The tyrant?

EL. To our hand from yonder gate He comes with beaming look.

HALF-CH. Haste, with what speed ye may, 2 Stand on the doorway stone, That, having thus much done, Ye may do all to-day.

OR. Fear not: we will perform it.

EL. Speed ye now: Follow your thought.

OR. We are already there.

EL. Leave matters here to me. All shall go well. [_Exit_ ORESTES _with_ PYLADES

CH. Few words, as if in gentleness, 'twere good To utter in his ear, That, eager and unware, One step may launch him on the field of blood.

_Enter_ AEGISTHUS.

AEGISTHUS. Which of you know where are the Phocian men Who brought the news I hear, Orestes' life Hath suffered shipwreck in a chariot-race? You, you I question, you in former time So fearless! You methinks most feelingly Can tell us, for it touches you most near.

EL. I know: assure thee. Else had I not heard The dearest of all fortunes to my heart.

AEG. Where are the strangers then? Enlighten me.

EL. Yonder. Their hostess entertained them well.

AEG. And did they certainly report him dead?

EL. Not only so. They showed him to our sight.

AEG. May this clear evidence be mine to see?

EL. I envy not the sight that waits you there.

AEG. Against their wont thy words have given me joy.

EL. Much joy be thine, if this be joy to thee!

AEG. Silence, I say! Wide let the gates be flung! For all the Myceneans to behold And all in Argolis, that if but one Hath heretofore been buoyed on empty hopes Fixed in Orestes, seeing him now dead, He may accept my manage, and not wait For our stern chastisement to teach him sense.

EL. My lesson is already learnt: at length I am schooled to labour with the stronger will. [_The body of_ CLYTEMNESTRA _is disclosed under a veil:_ ORESTES _standing by_

AEG. Zeus! Divine envy surely hath laid low The form I here behold. But if the truth Provoke Heaven's wrath, be it unexpressed.--Unveil! Off with all hindrance, that mine eye may see, And I may mourn my kinsman as I should.

OR. Thyself put forth thy hand. Not mine but thine To look and speak with kindness to this corse.

AEG. I will, for thou advisest well; but thou, Call Clytemnestra, if she be within. [AEGISTHUS _lifts the shroud_

OR. She is beside thee, gaze not otherwhere.

AEG. What do I see! oh!

OR. Why so strange? Whom fear you?

AEG. Who are the men into whose midmost toils All hapless I am fallen?

OR. Ha! knowest thou not Thou hast been taking living men for dead?[11]

AEG. I understand that saying. Woe is me! I know, Orestes' voice addresseth me.

OR. A prophet! How wert thou so long deceived?

AEG. Undone, undone! Yet let me speak one word.

EL. Brother, by Heaven, no more! Let him not speak. When death is certain, what do men in woe Gain from a little time? Kill him at once! And, killed, expose him to such burial From dogs and vultures, as beseemeth such, Far from our view. Nought less will solace me For the remembrance of a life of pain.

OR. Go in and tarry not. No contest this Of verbal question, but of life or death.

AEG. Why drive you me within? If this you do Be noble, why must darkness hide the deed? Why not destroy me out of hand?

OR. Command not! Enter, and in the place where ye cut down My father, thou shalt yield thy life to me.

AEG. Is there no help but this abode must see The past and future ills of Pelops' race?

OR. Thine anyhow. That I can prophesy With perfect inspiration to thine ear.

AEG. The skill you boast belonged not to your sire.

OR. You question and delay. Go in!

AEG. Lead on.

OR. Nay, go thou first.

AEG. That I may not escape thee?

OR. No, that thou may'st not have thy wish in death. I may not stint one drop of bitterness. And would this doom were given without reprieve, If any try to act beyond the law, To kill them. Then the wicked would be few.

LEADER OF CH. O seed of Atreus! how triumphantly Through grief and hardness thou hast freedom found, With full achievement in this onset crowned!

* * * * *

THE TRACHINIAN MAIDENS

THE PERSONS

DÊANIRA, _wife of Heracles._ _An_ Attendant. HYLLUS, _son of Heracles and Dêanira_. CHORUS _of Trachinian Maidens_. _A_ Messenger. LICHAS, _the Herald_. _A_ Nurse. _An_ Old Man. HERACLES. IOLE, _who does not speak_.

SCENE. Before the temporary abode of Heracles in Trachis.

This tragedy is named from the Chorus. From the subject it might have been called 'Deanira or the Death of Heracles'.

The Centaur Nessus, in dying by the arrow of Heracles, which had been dipped in the venom of the Hydra, persuaded the bride Deanira, whose beauty was the cause of his death, to keep some of the blood from the wound as a love-charm for her husband. Many years afterwards, when Heracles was returning from his last exploit of sacking Oechalia, in Euboea, he sent before him, by his herald Lichas, Iole, the king's daughter, whom he had espoused. Deanira, when she had discovered this, commissioned Lichas when he returned to present his master with a robe, which she had anointed with the charm,--hoping by this means to regain her lord's affection. But the poison of the Hydra did its work, and Heracles died in agony, Deanira having already killed herself on ascertaining what she had done. The action takes place in Trachis, near the Mahae Gulf, where Heracles and Deanira, by permission of Ceyx, the king of the country, have been living in exile. At the close of the drama, Heracles, while yet alive, is carried towards his pyre on Mount Oeta.

THE TRACHINIAN MAIDENS

DÊANIRA. Men say,--'twas old experience gave the word, --'No lot of mortal, ere he die, can once Be known for good or evil.' But I know, Before I come to the dark dwelling-place, Mine is a lot, adverse and hard and sore. Who yet at Pleuron, in my father's home, Of all Aetolian women had most cause To fear my bridal. For a river-god, Swift Achelôüs, was my suitor there And sought me from my father in three forms; Now in his own bull-likeness, now a serpent Of coiling sheen, and now with manlike build But bovine front, while from the shadowy beard Sprang fountain-waters in perpetual spray. Looking for such a husband, I, poor girl! Still prayed that Death might find me, ere I knew That nuptial.--Later, to my glad relief, Zeus' and Alcmena's glorious offspring came, And closed with him in conflict, and released My heart from torment. How the fight was won I could not tell. If any were who saw Unshaken of dread foreboding, such may speak. But I sate quailing with an anguished fear, Lest beauty might procure me nought but pain, Till He that rules the issue of all strife, Gave fortunate end--if fortunate! For since, Assigned by that day's conquest, I have known The couch of Heracles, my life is spent In one continual terror for his fate. Night brings him, and, ere morning, some fresh toil Drives him afar. And I have borne him seed; Which he, like some strange husbandman that farms A distant field, finds but at sowing time And once in harvest. Such a weary life Still tossed him to and fro,--no sooner home But forth again, serving I know not whom. And when his glorious head had risen beyond These labours, came the strongest of my fear. For since he quelled the might of Iphitus, We here in Trachis dwell, far from our home, Dependent on a stranger, but where he Is gone, none knoweth. Only this I know, His going pierced my heart with pangs for him, And now I am all but sure he bears some woe. These fifteen months he hath sent me not one word. And I have cause for fear. Ere he set forth He left a scroll with me, whose dark intent I oft pray Heaven may bring no sorrow down.

ATTENDANT. Queen Dêanira, many a time ere now Have I beheld thee with all tearful moan Bewailing the departure of thy lord. But, if it be permitted that a slave Should tender counsel to the free, my voice May venture this:--Of thy strong band of sons Why is not one commissioned to explore For Heracles? and why not Hyllus first, Whom most it would beseem to show regard For tidings of his father's happiness? Ah! here I see him bounding home, with feet Apt for employment! If you count me wise, He and my words attend upon your will.

_Enter_ HYLLUS.

DÊ. Dear child, dear boy! even from the lowliest head Wise counsel may come forth. This woman here, Though a bond-maiden, hath a free-born tongue.

HYL. What word is spoken, mother? May I know?

DÊ. That, with thy father lost to us so long, 'Tis shame thou dost not learn his dwelling-place.

HYL. Yea, I have learnt, if one may trust report.

DÊ. Where art thou told his seat is fixed, my son?

HYL. 'Tis said that through the length of this past year He wrought as bondman to a Lydian girl.

DÊ. Hath he borne that? Then nothing can be strange!

HYL. Well, that is over, I am told. He is free.

DÊ. Where is he rumoured, then, alive or dead?

HYL. In rich Euboea, besieging, as they tell, The town of Eurytus, or offering siege.

DÊ. Child, hast thou heard what holy oracles He left with me, touching that very land?

HYL. What were they, mother, for I never knew?

DÊ. That either he must end his being there, Or, this one feat performed, his following time Should grace his life with fair prosperity. Wilt thou not then, my child, when he is held In such a crisis of uncertain peril, Run to his aid?--since we must perish with him, Or owe our lasting safety to his life.

HYL. I will go, mother. Had I heard this voice Of prophecy, long since I had been there. Fear is unwonted for our father's lot. But now I know, my strength shall all be spent To learn the course of these affairs in full.

DÊ. Go then, my son. Though late, to learn and do What wisdom bids, hath certainty of gain. [_Exit_ HYLLUS. DÊANIRA _withdraws_

CHORUS (_entering and turning towards the East_). Born of the starry night in her undoing, I 1 Lulled in her bosom at thy parting glow, O Sun! I bid thee show, What journey is Alcmena's child pursuing? What region holds him now, 'Mong winding channels of the deep, Or Asian plains, or rugged Western steep? Declare it, thou Peerless in vision of thy flashing ray That lightens on the world with each new day. Sad Dêanira, bride of battle-wooing[1], I 2 Ne'er lets her tearful eyelids close in rest, But in love-longing breast, Like some lorn bird its desolation rueing, Of her great husband's way Still mindful, worn with harrowing fear Lest some new danger for him should be near, By night and day Pines on her widowed couch of ceaseless thought, With dread of evil destiny distraught: [_Enter_ DÊANIRA.

For many as are billows of the South II 1 Blowing unweariedly, or Northern gale, One going and another coming on Incessantly, baffling the gazer's eye, Such Cretan ocean of unending toil Cradles our Cadmus-born, and swells his fame. But still some power doth his foot recall From stumbling down to Hades' darkling hall.

Wherefore, in censure of thy mood, I bring II 2 Glad, though opposing, counsel. Let not hope Grow weary. Never hath a painless life Been cast on mortals by the power supreme Of the All-disposer, Cronos' son. But joy And sorrow visit in perpetual round All mortals, even as circleth still on high The constellation of the Northern sky.

What lasteth in the world? Not starry night, III Nor wealth, nor tribulation; but is gone All suddenly, while to another soul The joy or the privation passeth on. These hopes I bid thee also, O my Queen! Hold fast continually, for who hath seen Zeus so forgetful of his own? How can his providence forsake his son?

DÊ. I see you have been told of my distress, And that hath brought you. But my inward woe, Be it evermore unknown to you, as now! Such the fair garden of untrammeled ease Where the young life grows safely. No fierce heat, No rain, no wind disturbs it, but unharmed It rises amid airs of peace and joy, Till maiden turn to matron, and the night Inherit her dark share of anxious thought, Haunted with fears for husband or for child. Then, imaged through her own calamity, Some one may guess the burden of my life. Full many have been the sorrows I have wept, But one above the rest I tell to-day. When my great husband parted last from home, He left within the house an ancient scroll Inscribed with characters of mystic note, Which Heracles had never heretofore, In former labours, cared to let me see,-- As bound for bright achievement, not for death. But now, as though his life had end, he told What marriage-portion I must keep, what shares He left his sons out of their father's ground: And set a time, when fifteen moons were spent, Counted from his departure, that even then Or he must die, or if that date were out And he had run beyond it, he should live Thenceforth a painless and untroubled life. Such by Heaven's fiat was the promised end Of Heracles' long labours, as he said; So once the ancient oak-tree had proclaimed In high Dodona through the sacred Doves. Of which prediction on this present hour In destined order of accomplishment The veritable issue doth depend. And I, dear friends, while taking rest, will oft Start from sweet slumbers with a sudden fear, Scared by the thought, my life may be bereft Of the best husband in the world of men.

CH. Hush! For I see approaching one in haste, Garlanded, as if laden with good news.

_Enter_ Messenger.

MESSENGER. Queen Dêanira, mine shall be the tongue To free thee first from fear. Alcmena's child Is living, be assured, and triumphing, And bringing to our Gods the fruits of war.

DÊ. What mean'st thou, aged sir, by what thou sayest?

MESS. That soon thy husband, envied all around, Will come, distinguished with victorious might.

DÊ. What citizen or stranger told thee this?

MESS. Your herald Lichas, where the oxen graze The summer meadow, cries this to a crowd. I, hearing, flew off hither, that being first To bring thee word thereof, I might be sure To win reward and gratitude from thee.

DÊ. And how is he not here, if all be well?

MESS. Crossed by no light impediment, my Queen. For all the Maliac people, gathering round, Throng him with question, that he cannot move. But he must still the travail of each soul, And none will be dismissed unsatisfied. Such willing audience he unwillingly Harangues, but soon himself will come in sight.

DÊ. O Zeus! who rulest Oeta's virgin wold, At last, though late, thou hast vouchsafed us joy. Lift up your voices, O my women! ye Within the halls, and ye beyond the gate! For now we reap the gladness of a ray, That dawns unhoped for in this rumour's sound.

CHORUS With a shout by the hearth let the palace roof ring From those that are dreaming of bridal, and ye, Young men, let your voices in harmony sing To the God of the quiver, the Lord of the free! And the Paean withal from the maiden band To Artemis, huntress of many a land, Let it rise o'er the glad roof tree, To Phoebus' own sister, with fire in each hand, And the Nymphs that her co-mates be! My spirit soars. O sovereign of my soul! I will accept the thrilling flute's control. [_They dance_ The ivy-crownèd thyrsus, see! With Bacchic fire is kindling me, And turns my emulous tread Where'er the mazy dance may lead. Euoî! Euoî! O Paean! send us joy. See, dearest Queen, behold! Before thy gaze the event will now unfold.

DÊ. Think not mine eye hath kept such careless guard, Dear maids, that I could miss this moving train. Herald, I bid thee hail, although so late Appearing, if thou bringest health with thee!

_Enter_ LICHAS, _with_ Captive Women.

LICHAS. A happy welcome on a happy way, As prosperous our achievement. Meet it is Good words should greet bright actions, mistress mine!

DÊ. Kind friend, first tell me what I first would know-- Shall I receive my Heracles alive?

LICH. I left him certainly alive and strong: Blooming in health, not with disease oppressed.

DÊ. In Greece, or in some barbarous country? Tell!

LICH. Euboea's island hath a promontory, Where to Cenaean Zeus he consecrates Rich altars and the tribute of the ground.

DÊ. Moved by an oracle, or from some vow?

LICH. So vowed he when he conquered with the spear The country of these women whom you see.

DÊ. And who, by Heaven, are they? Who was their sire? Their case is piteous, or eludes my thought.

LICH. He took them for the service of the Gods And his own house, when high Oechalia fell.

DÊ. Was't then before that city he was kept Those endless ages of uncounted time?

LICH. Not so. The greater while he was detained Among the Lydians, sold, as he declares, To bondage. Nor be jealous of the word, Since Heaven, my Queen, was author of the deed. Enthrallèd so to Asian Omphalè, He, as himself avers, fulfilled his year. The felt reproach whereof so chafed his soul, He bound fierce curses on himself and sware That,--children, wife and all,--he yet would bring In captive chains the mover of this harm. Nor did this perish like an idle word, But, when the stain was off him, straight he drew Allied battalions to assault the town Of Eurytus, whom, sole of earthly powers, He had noted as the source of his annoy, Because, having received him in his hall A guest of ancient days, he burst on him With outrage of loud voice and villanous mind, Saying, 'with his hand upon the unerring bow, Oechalia's princes could o'ershoot his skill; And born to bondage, he must quail beneath His overlord'; lastly, to crown this cry, When at a banquet he was filled with wine, He flung him out of door. Whereat being wroth, When Iphitus to the Tirynthian height Followed the track where his brood-mares had strayed, He, while the thought and eye of the man by chance Were sundered, threw him from the tower-crowned cliff. In anger for which deed the Olympian King, Father of Gods and men, delivered him To be a bond-slave, nor could brook the offence, That of all lives he vanquished, this alone Should have been ta'en by guile. For had he wrought In open quittance of outrageous wrong, Even Zeus had granted that his cause was just. The braggart hath no favour even in Heaven. Whence they, o'erweening with their evil tongue, Are now all dwellers in the house of death, Their ancient city a captive;--but these women Whom thou beholdest, from their blest estate Brought suddenly to taste of piteous woe, Come to thy care. This task thy wedded lord Ordained, and I, his faithful minister, Seek to perform. But, for his noble self, When with pure hands he hath done sacrifice To his Great Father for the victory given, Look for his coming, lady. This last word Of all my happy speech is far most sweet.

CH. Now surety of delight is thine, my Queen, Part by report and part before thine eye.

DÊ. Yea, now I learn this triumph of my lord, Joy reigns without a rival in my breast. This needs must run with that in fellowship. Yet wise consideration even of good Is flecked with fear of what reverse may come. And I, dear friends, when I behold these maids, Am visited with sadness deep and strange. Poor friendless beings, in a foreign land Wandering forlorn in homeless orphanhood! Erewhile, free daughters of a freeborn race, Now, snared in strong captivity for life. O Zeus of battles, breaker of the war, Ne'er may I see thee[2] turn against my seed So cruelly; or, if thou meanest so, Let me be spared that sorrow by my death! Such fear in me the sight of these hath wrought. Who art thou, of all damsels most distressed? Single or child-bearing? Thy looks would say, A maid, of no mean lineage. Lichas, tell, Who is the stranger-nymph? Who gave her birth? Who was her sire? Mine eye hath pitied her O'er all, as she o'er all hath sense of woe.

LICH. What know I? Why should'st thou demand? Perchance Not lowest in the list of souls there born.

DÊ. How if a princess, offspring of their King?

LICH. I cannot tell. I did not question far.

DÊ. Have none of her companions breathed her name?

LICH. I brought them silently. I did not hear.

DÊ. Yet speak it to us of thyself, poor maid! 'Tis sorrow not to know thee who thou art.

LICH. She'll ne'er untie her tongue, if she maintain An even tenor, since nor more nor less Would she disclose; but, poor unfortunate! With agonizing sobs and tears she mourns This crushing sorrow, from the day she left Her wind-swept home. Her case is cruel, sure,-- And claims a privilege from all who feel.

DÊ. Well, let her go, and pass beneath the roof In peace, as she desires; nor let fresh pain From me be added to her previous woe. She hath enough already. Come, away! Let's all within at once, that thou mayest speed Thy journey, and I may order all things here. [_Exit_ LICHAS, _with_ Captives, _into the house_. DÊANIRA _is about to follow them_

_Re-enter_ Messenger.

MESS. Pause first there on the threshold, till you learn (Apart from those) who 'tis you take within, And more besides that you yet know not of, Which deeply imports your knowing. Of all this I throughly am informed.

DÊ. What cause hast thou Thus to arrest my going?

MESS. Stand, and hear. Not idle was my former speech, nor this.

DÊ. Say, must we call them back in presence here, Or would'st thou tell thy news to these and me?

MESS. To thee and these I may, but let those be.

DÊ. Well, they are gone. Let words declare thy drift.

MESS. That man, in all that he hath lately said, Hath sinned against the truth: or now he's false, Or else unfaithful in his first report.

DÊ. What? Tell me thy full meaning clearly forth. That thou hast uttered is all mystery.

MESS. I heard this herald say, while many thronged To hearken, that this maiden was the cause, Why lofty-towered Oechalia and her lord Fell before Heracles, whom Love alone Of heavenly powers had warmed to this emprise, And not the Lydian thraldom or the tasks Of rigorous Omphalè, nor that wild fate Of rock-thrown Iphitus. Now he thrusts aside The Love-god, contradicting his first tale. When he that was her sire could not be brought To yield the maid for Heracles to hold In love unrecognized, he framed erelong A feud about some trifle, and set forth In arms against this damsel's fatherland (Where Eurytus, the herald said, was king) And slew the chief her father; yea, and sacked Their city. Now returning, as you see, He sends her hither to his halls, no slave, Nor unregarded, lady,--dream not so! Since all his heart is kindled with desire. I, O my Queen! thought meet to show thee all The tale I chanced to gather from his mouth, Which many heard as well as I, i' the midst Of Trachis' market-place, and can confirm My witness. I am pained if my plain speech Sound harshly, but the honest truth I tell.

DÊ. Ah me! Where am I? Whither am I fallen? What hidden woe have I unwarily Taken beneath my roof? O misery! Was she unknown, as he that brought her sware?

MESS. Nay, most distinguished both in birth and mien; Called in her day of freedom Iolè, Eurytus' daughter,--of whose parentage, Forsooth as ignorant, he ne'er would speak.

CH. I curse not all the wicked, but the man Whose secret practices deform his life.

DÊ. Say, maidens, how must I proceed? The words Now spoken have bewildered all my mind.

CH. Go in and question Lichas, who perchance Will tell the truth if you but tax him home.

DÊ. I will; you counsel reasonably.

MESS. And I, Shall I bide here till thou com'st forth? Or how?

DÊ. Remain. For see, without my sending for him, He issueth from the palace of himself.

_Enter_ LICHAS.

LICH. What message must I carry to my lord? Tell me, my Queen. I am going, as thou seest.

DÊ. So slow in coming, and so quickly flown, Ere one have time to talk with thee anew!

LICH. What wouldst thou ask me? I am bent to hear.

DÊ. And art thou bent on truth in the reply?

LICH. By Heaven! in all that I have knowledge of.

DÊ. Then tell me, who is she thou brought'st with thee?

LICH. An islander. I cannot trace her stock.

MESS. Look hither, man. Who is't to whom thou speakest?

LICH. Why such a question? What is thine intent?

MESS. Nay, start not, but make answer if thou knowest.

LICH. To Dêanira, Oeneus' queenly child, Heracles' wife,--if these mine eyes be true,-- My mistress.

MESS. Ay, that is the very word I longed to hear thee speak. Thy mistress, sayest?

LICH. To whom I am bound.

MESS. Hold there! What punishment Wilt thou accept, if thou art found to be Faithless to her?

LICH. I faithless! What dark speech Hast thou contrived?

MESS. Not I at all. 'Tis thou Dost wrap thy thoughts i' the dark.

LICH. Well, I will go. 'Tis folly to have heard thee for so long.

MESS. You go not till you answer one word more.

LICH. One, or a thousand! You'll not stint, I see.

MESS. Thou knowest the captive maid thou leddest home?

LICH. I do. But wherefore ask?

MESS. Did you not say That she, on whom you look with ignorant eye, Was Iolè, the daughter of the King, Committed to your charge?

LICH. Where? Among whom? What witness of such words will bear thee out?

MESS. Many and sound. A goodly company In Trachis' market-place heard thee speak this.

LICH. Ay. I said 'twas rumoured. But I could not give My vague impression for advised report.

MESS. Impression, quotha! Did you not on oath Proclaim your captive for your master's bride?

LICH. My master's bride! Dear lady, by the Gods, Who is the stranger? for I know him not.

MESS. One who was present where he heard thee tell, How that whole city was subdued and taken, Not for the bondage to the Lydian girl, But through the longing passion for this maid.

LICH. Dear lady, let the fellow be removed. To prate with madmen is mere foolishness.

DÊ. Nay, I entreat thee by His name, whose fire Lightens down Oeta's topmost glen, be not A niggard of the truth. Thou tell'st thy tale To no weak woman, but to one who knows Mankind are never constant to one joy. Whoso would buffet Love, aspires in vain. For Love leads even Immortals at his will, And me. Then how not others, like to me? 'Twere madness, sure, in me to blame my lord When this hath caught him, or the woman there, His innocent accomplice in a thing, No shame to either, and no harm to me. It is not so. But if from him thou learnest The lore of falsehood, it were best unlearnt; Or if the instruction comes of thine own thought, Such would-be kindness doth not prove thee kind. Then tell me all the truth. To one free-born The name of liar is a hateful lot. And thou canst not be hid. Thy news was heard By many, who will tell me. If thou fearest, Thou hast no cause--for doubtfulness is pain, But to know all, what harm? His loves ere now Were they not manifold? And none hath borne Reproach or evil word from me. She shall not, Though his new passion were as strong as death; Since most mine eye hath pitied her, because Her beauty was the ruin of her life, And all unweeting, she her own bright land, Poor hapless one! hath ravaged and enslaved.-- Let that be as it must. But for thy part, Though false to others, be still true to me.

CH. 'Tis fairly said. Comply. Thou ne'er wilt blame Her faithfulness, and thou wilt earn our loves.

LICH. Yea, dear my Queen, now I have seen thee hold Thy mortal wishes within mortal bound So meekly, I will freely tell thee all. It is as he avers. This maiden's love, Piercing through Heracles, was the sole cause, Why her Oechalia, land of plenteous woe, Was made the conquest of his spear. And he-- For I dare so far clear him--never bade Concealment or denial. But myself, Fearing the word might wound thy queenly heart, Sinned, if thou count such tenderness a sin. But now that all is known, for both your sakes, His, and thine own no less, look favouringly Upon the woman, and confirm the word Thou here hast spoken in regard to her:-- For he, whose might is in all else supreme, Is wholly overmastered by her love.

DÊ. Yea, so my mind is bent. I will do so. I will not, in a bootless strife 'gainst Heaven, Augment my misery with self-sought ill. Come, go we in, that thou may'st bear from me Such message as is meet, and also carry Gifts, such as are befitting to return For gifts new-given. Thou ought'st not to depart Unladen, having brought so much with thee. [_Exeunt_

CHORUS. Victorious in her might, I 1 The Queen of soft delight Still ranges onward with triumphant sway. What she from Kronos' son And strong Poseidon won, And Pluto, King of Night, I durst not say. But who, to earn this bride, Came forth in sinewy pride To strive, or e'er the nuptial might be known With fearless heart I tell What heroes wrestled well, With showering blows, and dust in clouds upthrown.

One was a river bold, I 2 Horn-crowned, with tramp fourfold, Bull Achelôüs, Acarnania's Fear; And one from Bacchus' town, Own son of Zeus, came down, With brandished mace, bent bow, and barbèd spear. Who then in battle brunt, Together, front to front, Hurled, eager both to win the beauteous prize; And Cypris 'mid the fray Alone, that dreadful day, Sate umpire, holding promise in her eyes.

Then clashed the fist, then clanged the bow; II Then horns gave crashing blow for blow, Whilst, as they clung, The twining hip throw both essay And hurtling foreheads' fearful play, And groans from each were wrung.

But the tender fair one far away Sate watching with an eye of piteous cheer (A mother's heart will heed the thing I say,) Till won by him who freed her from her fear. Sudden she leaves her mother's gentle side, Borne through the waste, our hero's tender bride.

_Enter_ DÊANIRA.

DÊ. Dear friends, while yonder herald in the house Holds converse with the captives ere he go, I have stol'n forth to you, partly to tell The craft my hand hath compassed, and in part, To crave your pity for my wretchedness. For I have taken to my hearth a maid,-- And yet, methinks, no maiden any more, Like some fond shipmaster, taking on board A cargo fraught with treason to my heart. And now we two are closed in one embrace Beneath one coverlet. Such generous meed For faith in guarding home this dreary while Hath the kind Heracles our trusty spouse, Sent in return! Yet, oft as he hath caught This same distemperature, I know not how To harbour indignation against him. But who that is a woman could endure To dwell with her, both married to one man? One bloom is still advancing, one doth fade. The budding flower is cropped, the full-blown head Is left to wither, while love passeth by Unheeding. Wherefore I am sore afraid He will be called my husband, but her mate, For she is younger. Yet no prudent wife Would take this angerly, as I have said. But, dear ones, I will tell you of a way, Whereof I have bethought me, to prevent This heart-break. I had hidden of long time In a bronze urn the ancient Centaur's gift, Which I, when a mere girl, culled from the wound Of hairy-breasted Nessus in his death. He o'er Evenus' rolling depths, for hire, Ferried wayfarers on his arm, not plying Or rowing-boat, or canvas-wingèd bark. Who, when with Heracles, a new-made bride, I followed by my father's sending forth, Shouldering me too, in the mid-stream, annoyed With wanton touch. And I cried out; and he, Zeus' son, turned suddenly, and from his bow Sent a wing'd shaft, that whizzed into his chest To the lungs. Then the weird Thing, with dying voice Spake to me:--'Child of aged Oeneüs, Since thou wert my last burden, thou shalt win Some profit from mine act, if thou wilt do What now I bid thee. With a careful hand Collect and bear away the clotted gore That clogs my wound, e'en where the monster snake Had dyed the arrow with dark tinct of gall; And thou shalt have this as a charm of soul For Heracles, that never through the eye Shall he receive another love than thine.' Whereof bethinking me, for since his death I kept it in a closet locked with care, I have applied it to this robe, with such Addition as his living voice ordained.-- The thing is done. No criminal attempts Could e'er be mine. Far be they from my thought, As I abhor the woman who conceives them! But if by any means through gentle spells And bonds on Heracles' affection, we May triumph o'er this maiden in his heart, My scheme is perfected. Unless you deem Mine action wild. If so, I will desist.

CH. If any ground of confidence approve Thine act, we cannot check thy counsel here.

DÊ. My confidence is grounded on belief, Though unconfirmed as yet by actual proof.

CH. Well, do it and try. Assurance cannot come Till action bring experience after it.

DÊ. The truth will soon be known. The man e'en now Is coming forth, and quickly will be there. Screen ye but well my counsel. Doubtful deeds, Wrapt close, will not deliver us to shame.

_Enter_ LICHAS.

LICH. Daughter of Oeneus, tell me thy commands. Already time rebukes our tardiness.

DÊ. Even that hath been my care, Lichas, while thou Wert talking to the stranger-maids within, That thou shouldst take for me this finewoven web, A present from these fingers to my lord. And when thou giv'st it, say that none of men Must wear it on his shoulders before him; And neither light of sun may look upon it, Nor holy temple-court, nor household flame, Till he in open station 'fore the Gods Display it on a day when bulls are slaughtered. So once I vowed, that should I ever see Or hear his safe return, I would enfold His glorious person in this robe, and show To all the Gods in doing sacrifice Him a fresh worshipper in fresh array.-- The truth hereof he will with ease descry Betokened on this treasure-guarding seal.-- Now go, and be advised, of this in chief, To act within thine office; then of this, To bear thee so, that from his thanks and mine Meeting in one, a twofold grace may spring.

LICH. If this my Hermes-craft be firm and sure, Then never will I fail thee, O my Queen! But I will show the casket as it is To whom I bear it, and in faithfulness Add all the words thou sendest in fit place.

DÊ. Go, then, at once. Thou hast full cognizance How things within the palace are preserved?

LICH. I know, and will declare. There is no flaw.

DÊ. Methinks thou knowest too, for thou hast seen, My kind reception of the stranger-maid?

LICH. I saw, and was amazed with heart-struck joy.

DÊ. What more is there to tell?--Too rash, I fear, Were thy report of longing on my part, Till we can learn if we be longed for there. [_Exeunt severally_

CHORUS. O ye that haunt the strand I 1 Where ships in quiet land Near Oeta's height and the warm rock-drawn well, And ye round Melis' inland gulf who dwell, Worshipping her who wields the golden wand,-- (There Hellas' wisest meet in council strong): Soon shall the flute arise With sound of glad surprise, Thrilling your sense with no unwelcome song, But tones that to the harp of Heavenly Muse belong.

Zeus' and Alcmena's son,-- I 2 All deeds of glory done,-- Speeds now triumphant to his home, whom we Twelve weary months of blind expectancy Lost in vast distance, from our country gone. While, sadly languishing, his loving wife, Still flowing down with tears, Pined with unnumbered fears. But Ares, lately stung to furious strife, Frees him for ever[3] from the toilsome life.

O let him come to-day! II Ne'er may his vessel stay, But glide with feathery sweep of many an oar, Till from his altar by yon island shore Even to our town he wind his prosperous way, In mien returning mild, And inly reconciled, With that anointing in his heart ingrained, Which the dark Centaur's wizard lips ordained.

_Enter_ DÊANIRA.

DÊ. O how I fear, my friends, lest all too far I have ventured in my action of to-day!

CH. What ails thee, Dêanira, Oeneus' child?

DÊ. I know not, but am haunted by a dread, Lest quickly I be found to have performed A mighty mischief, through bright hopes betrayed.

CH. Thou dost not mean thy gift to Heracles?

DÊ. Indeed I do. Now I perceive how fond Is eagerness, where actions are obscure.

CH. Tell, if it may be told, thy cause of fear.

DÊ. A thing is come to pass, which should I tell, Will strike you with strange wonder when you learn. For, O my friends, the stuff wherewith I dressed That robe, a flock of soft and milkwhite wool, Is shrivelled out of sight, not gnawn by tooth Of any creature here, but, self-consumed, Frittered and wasting on the courtyard-stones. To let you know the circumstance at full, I will speak on. Of all the Centaur-Thing, When labouring in his side with the fell point O' the shaft, enjoined me, I had nothing lost, But his vaticination in my heart Remained indelible, as though engraved With pen of iron upon brass. 'Twas thus:-- I was to keep this unguent closely hid In dark recesses, where no heat of fire Or warming ray might reach it, till with fresh Anointing I addressed it to an end. So I had done. And now this was to do, Within my chamber covertly I spread The ointment with piece of wool, a tuft Pulled from a home-bred sheep; and, as ye saw, I folded up my gift and packed it close In hollow casket from the glaring sun. But, entering in, a fact encounters me Past human wit to fathom with surmise. For, as it happened, I had tossed aside The bit of wool I worked with, carelessly, Into the open daylight, 'mid the blaze Of Helios' beam. And, as it kindled warm, It fell away to nothing, crumbled small, Like dust in severing wood by sawyers strewn. So, on the point of vanishing, it lay. But, from the place where it had lain, brake forth A frothy scum in clots of seething foam, Like the rich draught in purple vintage poured From Bacchus' vine upon the thirsty ground. And I, unhappy, know not toward what thought To turn me, but I see mine act is dire. For wherefore should the Centaur, for what end, Show kindness to the cause for whom he died? That cannot be. But seeking to destroy His slayer, he cajoled me. This I learn Too late, by sad experience, for no good. And, if I err not now, my hapless fate Is all alone to be his murderess. For, well I know, the shaft that made the wound Gave pain to Cheiron, who was more than man; And wheresoe'er it falls, it ravageth All the wild creatures of the world. And now This gory venom blackly spreading bane From Nessus' angry wound, must it not cause The death of Heracles? I think it must. Yet my resolve is firm, if aught harm him, My death shall follow in the self-same hour. She cannot bear to live in evil fame, Who cares to have a nature pure from ill.

CH. Horrid mischance must needs occasion fear. But Hope is not condemned before the event.

DÊ. In ill-advised proceeding not even Hope Remains to minister a cheerful mind.

CH. Yet to have erred unwittingly abates The fire of wrath; and thou art in this case.

DÊ. So speaks not he who hath a share of sin, But who is clear of all offence at home.

CH. 'Twere well to say no more, unless thou hast aught To impart to thine own son: for he is here, Who went erewhile to find his father forth.

HYLLUS _(re-entering)_. O mother, mother! I would to heaven one of three things were true: Either that thou wert dead, or, living, wert No mother to me, or hadst gained a mind Furnished with better thoughts than thou hast now!

DÊ. My son! what canst thou so mislike in me?

HYL. I tell thee thou this day hast been the death Of him that was thy husband and my sire.

DÊ. What word hath passed thy lips? my child, my child!

HYL. A word that must be verified. For who Can make the accomplished fact as things undone?

DÊ. Alas, my son! what saidst thou? Who hath told That I have wrought a deed so full of woe?

HYL. 'Twas I myself that saw with these mine eyes My father's heavy state:--no hearsay word.

DÊ. And where didst thou come near him and stand by?

HYL. Art thou to hear it? On, then, with my tale! When after sacking Eurytus' great city He marched in triumph with first-fruits of war,-- There is a headland, last of long Euboea, Surf-beat Cenaeum,--where to his father Zeus He dedicates high altars and a grove. There first I saw him, gladdened from desire. And when he now addressed him to the work Of various sacrifice, the herald Lichas Arrived from home, bearing thy fatal gift, The deadly robe: wherewith invested straight, As thou hadst given charge, he sacrificed The firstlings of the spoil, twelve bulls entire, Each after each. But the full count he brought Was a clear hundred of all kinds of head. Then the all-hapless one commenced his prayer In solemn gladness for the bright array. But presently, when from the holy things, And from the richness of the oak-tree core, There issued flame mingled with blood, a sweat Rose on his flesh, and close to every limb Clung, like stone-drapery from the craftsman's hand, The garment, glued unto his side. Then came The tearing pangs within his bones, and then The poison feasted like the venomed tooth Of murderous basilisk.--When this began, He shouted on poor Lichas, none to blame For thy sole crime, 'What guile is here, thou knave? What was thy fraud in fetching me this robe?' He, all-unknowing, in an evil hour Declared his message, that the gift was thine. Whereat the hero, while the shooting spasm Had fastened on the lungs, seized him by the foot Where the ankle turns i' the socket, and, with a thought, Hurl'd on a surf-vex'd reef that showed i' the sea: And rained the grey pulp from the hair, the brain Being scattered with the blood. Then the great throng Saddened their festival with piteous wail For one in death and one in agony. And none had courage to approach my sire,-- Convulsed upon the ground, then tossed i' the air With horrid yells and crying, till the cliffs Echoed round, the mountain-promontories Of Locris, and Euboea's rugged shore. Wearied at length with flinging on the earth, And shrieking oft with lamentable cry, Cursing the fatal marriage with thyself The all-wretched, and the bond to Oeneus' house, That prize that was the poisoner of his peace, He lifted a wild glance above the smoke That hung around, and 'midst the crowd of men Saw me in tears, and looked on me and said, 'O son, come near; fly not from my distress, Though thou shouldst be consumèd in my death, But lift and bear me forth; and, if thou mayest, Set me where no one of mankind shall see me. But if thy heart withhold thee, yet convey me Out of this land as quickly as ye may. Let me not die where I am now.' We then, Thus urgently commanded, laid him down Within our bark, and hardly to this shore Rowed him convulsed and roaring.--Presently, He will appear, alive or lately dead. Such, mother, is the crime thou hast devised And done against our sire, wherefore let Right And Vengeance punish thee!--May I pray so? I may: for thou absolv'st me by thy deed, Thou that hast slain the noblest of the Earth, Thy spouse, whose like thou ne'er wilt see again. [_Exit_ DÊANIRA.

CH. Why steal'st thou forth in silence? Know'st thou not Thy silence argues thine accuser's plea?

HYL. Let her go off. Would that a sudden flood Might sweep her far and swiftly from mine eye! Why fondle vainly the fair-sounding name Of mother, when her acts are all unmotherly? Let her begone for me: and may she find Such joy as she hath rendered to my sire! [_Exit_ HYLLUS

CHORUS. See where falls the doom, of old I 1 By the unerring Voice foretold,-- 'When twelve troublous years have rolled, Then shall end your long desire: Toil on toil no more shall tire The offspring of the Eternal Sire.' Lo! the destined Hour is come! Lo! it hath brought its burden home. For when the eyes have looked their last How should sore labour vex again? How, when the powers of will and thought are past, Should life be any more enthralled to pain?

And if Nessus' withering shroud, I 2 Wrought by destiny and craft, Steep him in a poisonous cloud. Steaming from the venomed shaft, Which to Death in hideous lair The many-wreathed Hydra bare, How shall he another day Feel the glad warmth of Helios' ray?-- Enfolded by the Monster-Thing Of Lerna, while the cruel sting Of the shagg'd Centaur's murderous-guileful tongue Breaks forth withal to do him painful wrong.

And she, poor innocent, who saw II 1 Checkless advancing to the gate A mighty harm unto her state,-- This rash young bridal without fear of law,-- Gave not her will to aught that caused this woe, But since it came through that strange mind's conceiving,-- That ruined her in meeting,--deeply grieving, She mourns with dewy tears in tenderest flow. The approaching hour appeareth great with woe: Some guile-born misery doth Fate foreshow.

The springs of sorrow are unbound, II 2 And such an agony disclose, As never from the hands of foes To afflict the life of Heracles was found. O dark with battle-stains, world-champion spear, That from Oechalia's highland leddest then This bride that followed swiftly in thy train, How fatally overshadowing was thy fear! But these wild sorrows all too clearly come From Love's dread minister[4], disguised and dumb.

CH. 1. Am I a fool, or do I truly hear Lament new-rising from our master's home? Tell!

CH. 2. Clearly from within a wailing voice Peals piteously. The house hath some fresh woe.

CH. 3. Mark! How strangely, with what cloud upon her brow, Yon aged matron with her tidings moves!

_Enter_ Nurse.

NURSE. Ah! mighty, O my daughters! was the grief Sprung from the gift to Heracles conveyed!

LEADER OF CH. What new thing is befallen? Why speak'st thou so?

NUR. Our Queen hath found her latest journey's end. Even now she is gone, without the help of feet.

CH. Not dead?

NUR. You know the whole.

CH. Dead! hapless Queen!

NUR. The truth hath twice been told.

CH. O tell us how! What was her death, poor victim of dire woe?

NUR. Most ruthless was the deed.

CH. Say, woman, say! What was the sudden end?

NUR. Herself she slew.

CH. What rage, what madness, clutched The mischief-working brand? How could her single thought Contrive the accomplishment of death on death?

NUR. Chill iron stopped the sources of her breath.

CH. And thou, poor helpless crone, didst see this done?

NUR. Yea, I stood near and saw.

CH. How was it? Tell!

NUR. With her own hand this violence was given.

CH. What do I hear?

NUR. The certainty of truth.

CH. A child is come, From this new bridal that hath rushed within, A fresh-born Fury of woe!

NUR. Too true. But hadst thou been at hand to see Her action, pity would have wrung thy soul.

CH. Could this be ventured by a woman's hand?

NUR. Ay, and in dreadful wise, as thou shalt hear. When all alone she had gone within the gate, And passing through the court beheld her boy Spreading the couch that should receive his sire, Ere he returned to meet him,--out of sight She hid herself, and fell at the altar's foot, And loudly cried that she was left forlorn; And, taking in her touch each household thing That formerly she used, poor lady, wept O'er all; and then went ranging through the rooms, Where, if there caught her eye the well-loved form Of any of her household, she would gaze And weep aloud, accusing her own fate And her abandoned lot, childless henceforth! When this was ended, suddenly I see her Fly to the hero's room of genial rest. With unsuspected gaze o'ershadowed near, I watched, and saw her casting on the bed The finest sheets of all. When that was done, She leapt upon the couch where they had lain And sat there in the midst. And the hot flood Burst from her eyes before she spake:--'Farewell, My bridal bed, for never more shalt thou Give me the comfort I have known thee give.' Then with tight fingers she undid her robe, Where the brooch lay before the breast, and bared All her left arm and side. I, with what speed Strength ministered, ran forth to tell her son The act she was preparing. But meanwhile, Ere we could come again, the fatal blow Fell, and we saw the wound. And he, her boy, Seeing, wept aloud. For now the hapless youth Knew that himself had done this in his wrath, Told all too late i' the house, how she had wrought Most innocently, from the Centaur's wit. So now the unhappy one, with passionate words And cries and wild embracings of the dead, Groaned forth that he had slain her with false breath Of evil accusation, and was left Orphaned of both, his mother and his sire. Such is the state within. What fool is he That counts one day, or two, or more to come? To-morrow is not, till the present day In fair prosperity have passed away. [_Exit_

CHORUS. Which shall come first in my wail, I 1 Which shall be last to prevail, Is a doubt that will never be done.

Trouble at home may be seen, I 2 Trouble is looked for with teen; And to have and to look for are one.

Would some fair wind II 1 But waft me forth to roam Far from the native region of my home, Ere death me find, oppressed with wild affright Even at the sudden sight Of him, the valiant son of Zeus most High! Before the house, they tell, he fareth nigh, A wonder beyond thought, With torment unapproachable distraught.

Hark! ... II 2 The cause then of my cry Was coming all too nigh: (Doth the clear nightingale lament for nought?) Some step of stranger folk is this way brought. As for a friend they love Heavy and slow with noiseless feet they move. Which way? which way? Ah me! behold him come. His pallid lips are dumb. Dead, or at rest in sleep? What shall I say? [HERACLES _is brought in on a litter, accompanied by_ HYLLUS _and an_ Old Man

HYL. Oh, woe is me! My father, piteous woe for thee! Oh, whither shall I turn my thought! Ah me!

OLD M. Hush! speak not, O my child, Lest torment fierce and wild Rekindle in thy father's rugged breast, And break this rest Where now his life is held at point to fall. With firm lips clenched refrain thy voice through all.

HYL. Yet tell me, doth he live, Old sir?

OLD M. Wake not the slumberer, Nor kindle and revive The terrible recurrent power of pain, My son!

HYL. My foolish words are done, But my full heart sinks 'neath the heavy strain.

HERACLES. O Father, who are these? What countrymen? Where am I? What far land Holds me in pain that ceaseth not? Ah me! Again that pest is rending me. Pain, pain!

OLD M. Now thou may'st know 'Twas better to have lurked in silent shade And not thus widely throw The slumber from his eyelids and his head.

HYL. I could not brook All speechless on his misery to look.

MONODY.

HER. O altar on the Euboean strand, High-heaped with offerings from my hand, What meed for lavish gifts bestowed From thy new sanctuary hath flowed! Father of Gods! thy cruel power Hath foiled me with an evil blight. Ah! would mine eyes had closed in night Ere madness in a fatal hour Had burst upon them with a blaze, No help or soothing once allays!

What hand to heal, what voice to charm, Can e'er dispel this hideous harm? Whose skill save thine, Monarch Divine? Mine eyes, if such I saw, Would hail him from afar with trembling awe. Ah! ah! O vex me not, touch me not, leave me to rest, To sleep my last sleep on Earth's gentle breast. You touch me, you press me, you turn me again, You break me, you kill me! O pain! O pain! You have kindled the pang that had slumbered still. It comes, it hath seized me with tyrannous will!

Where are ye, men, whom over Hellas wide This arm hath freed, and o'er the ocean-tide, And through rough brakes, from every monstrous thing? Yet now in mine affliction none will bring A sword to aid, a fire to quell this fire, O most unrighteous! nor to my desire Will come and quench the hateful life I hold With mortal stroke! Ah! is there none so bold?

OLD M. Son of our hero, this hath mounted past My feeble force to cope with. Take him thou! Fresher thine eye and more the hope thou hast Than mine to save him.

HYL. I support him now Thus with mine arm: but neither fleshly vest Nor inmost spirit can I lull to rest From torture. None may dream To wield this power, save he, the King supreme.

HER. Son! Where art thou to lift me and hold me aright? It tears me, it kills me, it rushes in might, This cruel, devouring, unconquered pain Shoots forth to consume me. Again! again! O Fate! O Athena!--O son, at my word Have pity and slay me with merciful sword!

Pity thy father, boy; with sharp relief Smite on my breast, and heal the wrathful grief Wherewith thy mother, God-abandoned wife, Hath wrought this ruin on her husband's life. O may I see her falling, even so As she hath thrown me, to like depth of woe! Sweet Hades, with swift death, Brother of Zeus, release my suffering breath!

CH. Horror hath caught me as I hear this, woe, Racking our mighty one with mightier pain.

HER. Many hot toils and hard beyond report, With sturdy thews and sinews I have borne, But no such labour hath the Thunderer's wife Or sour Eurystheus ever given, as this, Which Oeneus' daughter of the treacherous eye Hath fastened on my back, this amply-woven Net of the Furies, that is breaking me. For, glued unto my side, it hath devoured My flesh to the bone, and lodging in the lungs It drains the vital channels, and hath drunk The fresh life-blood, and ruins all my frame, Foiled in the tangle of a viewless bond. Yet me nor War-host, nor Earth's giant brood, Nor Centaur's monstrous violence could subdue, Nor Hellas, nor the Stranger, nor all lands Where I have gone, cleansing the world from harms. But a soft woman without manhood's strain Alone and weaponless hath conquered me. Son, let me know thee mine true-born, nor rate Thy mother's claim beyond thy sire's, but bring Thyself from out the chambers to my hand Her body that hath borne thee, that my heart May be assured, if lesser than my pain It will distress thee to behold her limbs With righteous torment agonized and torn. Nay, shrink not, son, but pity me, whom all May pity--me, who, like a tender girl, Am heard to weep aloud! This none could say He knew in me of old; for, murmuring not, I went with evil fortune, silent still. Now, such a foe hath found the woman in me! Ay, but come near; stand by me, and behold What cause I have for crying. Look but here! Here is the mystery unveiled. O see! Ye people, gaze on this poor quivering flesh, Look with compassion on my misery! Ah me! Ah! ah! Again! Even now the hot convulsion of disease Shoots through my side, and will not let me rest From this fierce exercise of wearing woe. Take me, O King of Night! O sudden thunderstroke. Smite me! O sire, transfix me with the dart Of thy swift lightning! Yet again that fang Is tearing; it hath blossomed forth anew, It soars up to the height!

O breast and back, O shrivelling arms and hands, ye are the same That crushed the dweller of the Némean wild, The lion unapproachable and rude, The oxherd's plague, and Hydra of the lake Of Lerna, and the twi-form prancing throng Of Centaurs,--insolent, unsociable, Lawless, ungovernable:--the tuskèd pest Of Erymanthine glades; then underground Pluto's three-headed cur--a perilous fear, Born from the monster-worm; and, on the verge Of Earth, the dragon, guarding fruits of gold. These toils and others countless I have tried, And none hath triumphed o'er me. But to-day, Jointless and riven to tatters, I am wrecked Thus utterly by imperceptible woe; I, proudly named Alcmena's child, and His Who reigns in highest heaven, the King supreme! Ay, but even yet, I tell ye, even from here, Where I am nothingness and cannot move, She who hath done this deed shall feel my power. Let her come near, that, mastered by my might, She may have this to tell the world, that, dying, As living, I gave punishment to wrong.

CH. O Hellas, how I grieve for thy distress! How thou wilt mourn in losing him we see!

HYL. My father, since thy silence gives me leave, Still hear me patiently, though in thy pain! For my request is just. Lend me thy mind Less wrathfully distempered than 'tis now; Else thou canst never know, where thou art keen With vain resentment and with vain desire

HER. Speak what thou wilt and cease, for I in pain Catch not the sense of thy mysterious talk

HYL. I come to tell thee of my mother's case, And her involuntary unconscious fault.

HER. Base villain! hast thou breathed thy mother's name, Thy father's murderess, in my hearing too!

HYL. Her state requires not silence, but full speech.

HER. Her faults in former time might well be told.

HYL. So might her fault to day, couldst thou but know.

HER. Speak, but beware base words disgrace thee not.

HYL. List! She is dead even now with new-given wound.

HER. By whom? Thy words flash wonder through my woe.

HYL. Her own hand slaughtered her, no foreign stroke.

HER. Wretch! to have reft this office from my hands.

HYL. Even your rash spirit were softened, if you knew.

HER. This bodes some knavery. But declare thy thought!

HYL. She erred with good intent. The whole is said.

HER. Good, O thou villain, to destroy thy sire!

HYL. When she perceived that marriage in her home, She erred, supposing to enchain thy love.

HER. Hath Trachis a magician of such might?

HYL. Long since the Centaur Nessus moved her mind To work this charm for heightening thy desire.

HER. O horror, thou art here! I am no more. My day is darkened, boy! Undone, undone! I see our plight too plainly. woe is me! Come, O my son! --thou hast no more a father,-- Call to me all the brethren of thy blood, And poor Alcmena, wedded all in vain Unto the Highest, that ye may hear me tell With my last breath what prophecies I know.

HYL. Thy mother is not here, but by the shore Of Tiryns hath obtained a dwelling-place; And of thy sons, some she hath with her there, And some inhabit Thebè's citadel. But we who are with thee, sire, if there be aught That may by us be done, will hear, and do.

HER. Then hearken thou unto this task, and show If worthily thou art reputed mine. Now is time to prove thee. My great father Forewarned me long ago that I should die By none who lived and breathed, but from the will Of one now dwelling in the house of death. And so this Centaur, as the voice Divine Then prophesied, in death hath slain me living. And in agreement with that ancient word I now interpret newer oracles Which I wrote down on going within the grove Of the hill-roving and earth-couching Selli,-- Dictated to me by the mystic tongue Innumerous, of my Father's sacred tree; Declaring that my ever instant toils Should in the time that new hath being and life End and release me. And I look'd for joy. But the true meaning plainly was my death.-- No labour is appointed for the dead.-- Then, since all argues one event, my son, Once more thou must befriend me, and not wait For my voice goading thee, but of thyself Submit and second my resolve, and know Filial obedience for thy noblest rule.

HYL. I will obey thee, father, though my heart Sinks heavily in approaching such a theme.

HER. Before aught else, lay thy right hand in mine.

HYL. Why so intent on this assurance, sire?

HER. Give it at once and be not froward, boy.

HYL. There is my hand: I will gainsay thee nought.

HER. Swear by the head of him who gave me life.

HYL. Tell me the oath, and I will utter it.

HER. Swear thou wilt do the thing I bid thee do.

HYL. I swear, and make Zeus witness of my troth.

HER. But if you swerve, pray that the curse may come.

HYL. It will not come for swerving:--but I pray.

HER. Now, dost thou know on Oeta's topmost height The crag of Zeus?

HYL. I know it, and full oft Have stood there sacrificing.

HER. Then even there, With thine own hand uplifting this my body, Taking what friends thou wilt, and having lopped Much wood from the deep-rooted oak and rough Wild olive, lay me on the gathered pile, And burn all with the touch of pine-wood flame. Let not a tear of mourning dim thine eye; But silent, with dry gaze, if thou art mine, Perform it. Else my curse awaits thee still To weigh thee down when I am lost in night.

HYL. How cruel, O my father, is thy tongue!

HER. 'Tis peremptory. Else, if thou refuse, Be called another's and be no more mine.

HYL. Alas that thou shouldst challenge me to this, To be thy murderer, guilty of thy blood!

HER. Not I, in sooth: but healer of my pain, And sole preserver from a life of woe.

HYL. How can it heal to burn thee on the pyre?

HER. If this act frighten thee, perform the rest.

HYL. Mine arms shall not refuse to carry thee.

HER. And wilt thou gather the appointed wood?

HYL. So my hand fire it not. In all but this, Not scanting labour, I will do my part.

HER. Enough. 'Tis well. And having thus much given Add one small kindness to a list so full.

HYL. How great soe'er it were, it should be done.

HER. The maid of Eurytus thou knowest, I ween.

HYL. Of Iolè thou speak'st, or I mistake.

HER. Of her. This then is all I urge, my son. When I am dead, if thou wouldst show thy duty, Think of thine oath to me, and, on my word, Make her thy wife: nor let another man Take her, but only thou; since she hath lain So near this heart. Obey me, O my boy! And be thyself the maker of this bond. To spurn at trifles after great things given, Were to confound the meed already won.

HYL. Oh, anger is not right, when men are ill! But who could bear to see thee in this mind?

HER. You murmur, as you meant to disobey.

HYL. How can I do it, when my mother's death And thy sad state sprang solely from this girl? Who, not possessed with furies, could choose this? Far better, father, for me too to die, Than to live still with my worst enemy.

HER. This youth withdraws his reverence in my death. But, if thou yield'st not to thy father's best, The curse from Heaven shall dog thy footsteps still.

HYL. Ah! thou wilt tell me that thy pain is come.

HER. Yea, for thou wak'st the torment that had slept.

HYL. Ay me! how cross and doubtful is my way!

HER. Because you will reject your father's word.

HYL. Must I be taught impiety from thee?

HER. It is not impious to content my heart.

HYL. Then you require this with an absolute will?

HER. And bid Heaven witness to my strong command.

HYL. Then I will do it, for the act is thine. I will not cast it off. Obeying thee, My sire, the Gods will ne'er reprove my deed.

HER. Thou endest fairly. Now, then, O my son, Add the performance swiftly, that, before Some spasm or furious onset of my pain Have seized me, ye may place me on the pyre. Come, loiter not, but lift me. Now my end Is near, the last cessation of my woe.

HYL. Since thy command is urgent, O my sire! We tarry not, but bear thee to the pyre.

HER. Stubborn heart, ere yet again Wakes the fierce rebound of pain, While the evil holds aloof, Thou, with bit of diamond proof, Curb thy cry, with forcèd will Seeming to do gladly still!

HYL. Lift him, men, and hate not me For the evil deeds ye see, Since the Heavens' relentless sway Recks not of the righteous way. He who gave life and doth claim From his seed a Father's name Can behold this hour of blame. Though the future none can tell, Yet the present is not well: Sore for him who bears the blow, Sad for us who feel his woe, Shameful to the Gods, we trow.

CH. Maidens from the palace-hall, Come ye forth, too, at our call! Mighty deaths beyond belief, Many an unknown form of grief, Ye have seen to-day; and nought But the power of Zeus hath wrought.

* * * * *

PHILOCTETES

THE PERSONS

ODYSSEUS. NEOPTOLEMUS. CHORUS _of Mariners_. PHILOCTETES. Messenger, _disguised as a Merchantman_. HERACLES, _appearing from the sky_.

SCENE. A desert shore of the Island of Lemnos.

It was fated that Troy should be taken by Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, assisted by the bow of Heracles in the hands of Philoctetes.

Now Philoctetes had been rejected by the army because of a trouble in his foot, which made his presence with them insufferable; and had been cast away by Odysseus on the island of Lemnos.

But when the decree of fate was revealed by prophecy, Odysseus undertook to bring Philoctetes back, and took with him Neoptolemus, whose ambition could only be gratified through the return of Philoctetes with the bow.

Philoctetes was resolutely set against returning, and at the opening of the drama Neoptolemus is persuaded by Odysseus to take him with guile.

But when Philoctetes appears, the youth's ingenuous nature is so wrought upon through pity and remorse, that his sympathy and native truthfulness at length overcome his ambition.

When the inward sacrifice is complete, Heracles appears from heaven, and by a few words changes the mind of Philoctetes, so that all ends well.

PHILOCTETES

ODYSSEUS. NEOPTOLEMUS.

ODYSSEUS. This coast of sea-girt Lemnos, where we stand, Is uninhabited, untrodden of men. And here, O noble son of noblest sire, Achilles-born Neoptolemus, I erewhile,-- Ordered by those who had command,--cast forth Trachinian Philoctetes, Poeas' son, His foot dark-dripping with a rankling wound; When with wild cries, that frighted holy rest, Filling the camp, he troubled every rite, That none might handle sacrifice, or pour Wine-offering, but his noise disturbed our peace. But why these words? No moment this for talk, Lest he discern my coming, and I lose The scheme, wherewith I think to catch him soon. Now most behoves thy service, to explore This headland for a cave with double mouth, Whose twofold aperture, on wintry days, Gives choice of sunshine, and in summer noons The breeze wafts slumber through the airy cell. Then, something lower down, upon the left, Unless 'tis dried, thine eye may note a spring. Go near now silently, and make me know If still he persevere, and hold this spot, Or have roamed elsewhere, that informed of this I may proceed with what remains to say, And we may act in concert.

NEOPTOLEMUS. Lord Odysseus, Thy foremost errand will not task me far. Methinks I see the cave whereof thou speakest.

OD. Where? let me see it. Above there, or below?

NEO. Yonder, above. And yet I hear no tread. [NEOPTOLEMUS _climbs up to the cave_

OD. Look if he be not lodged in slumber there.

NEO. I find no inmate, but an empty room.

OD. What? no provision for a dwelling-place?

NEO. A bed of leaves for some one harbouring here.

OD. Nought else beneath the roof? Is all forlorn?

NEO. A cup of wood, some untaught craftsman's skill, And, close at hand, these embers of a fire.

OD. That store is his. I read the token clear.

NEO. Oh! and these festering rags give evidence, Steeped as with dressing some malignant sore.

OD. The man inhabits here: I know it now. And sure he's not far off. How can he range, Whose limb drags heavy with an ancient harm? But he's gone, either to bring forage home, Or where he hath found some plant of healing power. Send therefore thine attendant to look forth, Lest unawares he find me. All our host Were not so fair a prize for him as I.

NEO. My man is going, and shall watch the path. What more dost thou require of me? Speak on.

OD. Son of Achilles, know that thou art come To serve us nobly, not with strength alone, But, faithful to thy mission, if so be, To do things strange, unwonted to thine ear.

NEO. What dost thou bid me?

OD. 'Tis thy duty now To entrap the mind of Poeas' son with words. When he shall ask thee, who and whence thou art, Declare thy name and father. 'Tis not that I charge thee to conceal. But for thy voyage, 'Tis homeward, leaving the Achaean host, With perfect hatred hating them, because They who had drawn thee with strong prayers from home, Their hope for taking Troy, allowed thee not Thy just demand to have thy father's arms, But, e'er thy coming, wrongly gave them o'er Unto Odysseus: and thereon launch forth With boundless execration against me. That will not pain me, but if thou reject This counsel, thou wilt trouble all our host, Since, if his bow shall not be ta'en, thy life Will ne'er be crowned through Troy's discomfiture. Now let me show, why thine approach to him Is safe and trustful as mine cannot be Thou didst sail forth, not to redeem thine oath, Nor by constraint, nor with the foremost band. All which reproaches I must bear: and he, But seeing me, while master of his bow, Will slay me, and my ruin will be thine. This point then craves our cunning, to acquire By subtle means the irresistible bow-- Thy nature was not framed, I know it well, For speaking falsehood, or contriving harm. Yet, since the prize of victory is so dear, Endure it--We'll be just another day But now, for one brief hour, devote thyself To serve me without shame, and then for aye Hereafter be the pearl of righteousness.

NEO. The thing that, being named, revolts mine ear, Son of Laërtes, I abhor to do 'Tis not my nature, no, nor, as they tell, My father's, to work aught by craft and guile. I'll undertake to bring him in by force, Not by deceit. For, sure, with his one foot, He cannot be a match for all our crew Being sent, my lord, to serve thee, I am loth To seem rebellious. But I rather choose To offend with honour, than to win by wrong.

OD. Son of a valiant sire, I, too, in youth, Had once a slow tongue and an active hand. But since I have proved the world, I clearly see Words and not deeds give mastery over men.

NEO. What then is thy command? To lie? No more?

OD. To entangle Philoctetes with deceit.

NEO. Why through deceit? May not persuasion fetch him?

OD. Never. And force as certainly will fail.

NEO. What lends him such assurance of defence?

OD. Arrows, the unerring harbingers of Death.

NEO. Then to go near him is a perilous thing.

OD. Unless with subtlety, as I have said.

NEO. And is not lying shameful to thy soul?

OD. Not if by lying I can save my soul.

NEO. How must one look in speaking such a word?

OD. Where gain invites, this shrinking is not good.

NEO. What gain I through his coming back to Troy?

OD. His arms alone have power to take Troy-town.

NEO. Then am not I the spoiler, as ye said?

OD. Thou without them, they without thee, are powerless.

NEO. If it be so, they must be sought and won.

OD. Yea, for in this two prizes will be thine.

NEO. What? When I learn them, I will not refuse.

OD. Wisdom and valour joined in one good name.

NEO. Shame, to the winds! Come, I will do this thing.

OD. Say, dost thou bear my bidding full in mind?

NEO. Doubt not, since once for all I have embraced it.

OD. Thou, then, await him here. I will retire, For fear my hated presence should be known, And take back our attendant to the ship. And then once more, should ye appear to waste The time unduly, I will send again This same man hither in disguise, transformed To the strange semblance of a merchantman; From dark suggestion of whose crafty tongue, Thou, O my son, shalt gather timely counsel. Now to my ship. This charge I leave to thee. May secret Hermes guide us to our end, And civic Pallas, named of victory, The sure protectress of my devious way.

CHORUS (_entering_). Strange in the stranger land, I 1 What shall I speak? What hide From a heart suspicious of ill? Tell me, O master mine! Wise above all is the man, Peerless in searching thought, Who with the Zeus-given wand Wieldeth a Heaven-sent power. This unto thee, dear son, Fraught with ancestral might, This to thy life hath come. Wherefore I bid thee declare, What must I do for thy need?

NEO. Even now methinks thou longest to espy Near ocean's marge the place where he doth lie. Gaze without fear. But when the traveller stern, Who from this roof is parted, shall return, Advancing still as I the signal give, To serve each moment's mission thou shalt strive.

CH. That, O my son, from of old I 2 Hath been my care, to take note What by thy beck'ning is told; Still thy success to promote. But for our errand to-day Behoves thee, master, to say Where is the hearth of his home; Or where even now doth he roam? O tell me, lest all unaware He spring like a wolf from his lair And I by surprise should be ta'en, Where doth he move or remain, Here lodging, or wandering away?

NEO. Thou seëst yon double doorway of his cell, Poor habitation of the rock.

CH. 2. But tell Where is the pain-worn wight himself abroad?

NEO. To me 'tis clear, that, in his quest for food, Here, not far off, he trails yon furrowed path. For, so 'tis told, this mode the sufferer hath Of sustenance, oh hardness! bringing low Wild creatures with wing'd arrows from his bow; Nor findeth healer for his troublous woe.

CH. I feel his misery. II 1 With no companion eye, Far from all human care, He pines with fell disease; Each want he hourly sees Awakening new despair. How can he bear it still? O cruel Heavens! O pain Of that afflicted mortal train Whose life sharp sorrows fill!

Born in a princely hall, II 2 Highest, perchance, of all, Now lies he comfortless Alone in deep distress, 'Mongst rough and dappled brutes, With pangs and hunger worn; While from far distance shoots, On airy pinion borne, The unbridled Echo, still replying To his most bitter crying.

NEO. At nought of this I marvel--for if I Judge rightly, there assailed him from on high That former plague through Chrysa's cruel sting[1]: And if to-day he suffer anything With none to soothe, it must be from the will Of some great God, so caring to fulfil The word of prophecy, lest he should bend On Troy the shaft no mortal may forfend, Before the arrival of Troy's destined hour, When she must fall, o'er-mastered by their power.

CH. 1. Hush, my son! III 1

NEO. Why so?

CH. 1. A sound Gendered of some mortal woe, Started from the neighbouring ground. Here, or there? Ah! now I know. Hark! 'tis the voice of one in pain, Travelling hardly, the deep strain Of human anguish, all too clear, That smites my heart, that wounds mine ear.

CH. 2. From far it peals. But thou, my son! III 2

NEO. What?

CH. 2. Think again. He moveth nigh: He holds the region: not with tone Of piping shepherd's rural minstrelsy, But belloweth his far cry, Stumbling perchance with mortal pain, Or else in wild amaze, As he our ship surveys Unwonted on the inhospitable main.

_Enter_ PHILOCTETES.

PHILOCTETES. Ho! What men are ye that to this desert shore, Harbourless, uninhabited, are come On shipboard? Of what country or what race Shall I pronounce ye? For your outward garb Is Grecian, ever dearest to this heart That hungers now to hear your voices' tune. Ah! do not fear me, do not shrink away From my wild looks: but, pitying one so poor, Forlorn and desolate in nameless woe, Speak, if with friendly purpose ye are come. Oh answer! 'Tis not meet that I should lose This kindness from your lips, or ye from mine.

NEO. Then know this first, O stranger, as thou wouldest, That we are Greeks.

PHI. O dear, dear name! Ah me! In all these years, once, only once, I hear it! My son, what fairest gale hath wafted thee? What need hath brought thee to the shore? What mission? Declare all this, that I may know thee well.

NEO. The sea-girt Scyros is my native home. Thitherward I make voyage:--Achilles' son, Named Neoptolemus.--I have told thee all.

PHI. Dear is that shore to me, dear is thy father O ancient Lycomedes' foster-child, Whence cam'st thou hither? How didst thou set forth?

NEO. From Troy we made our course in sailing hither.

PHI. How? Sure thou wast not with us, when at first We launched our vessels on the Troyward way?

NEO. Hadst thou a share in that adventurous toil?

PHI. And know'st thou not whom thou behold'st in me, Young boy?

NEO. How should I know him whom I ne'er Set eye on?

PHI. Hast not even heard my name, Nor echoing rumour of my ruinous woe?

NEO. Nay, I know nought of all thy questioning.

PHI. How full of griefs am I, how Heaven-abhorred, When of my piteous state no faintest sound Hath reached my home, or any Grecian land! But they, who pitilessly cast me forth, Keep silence and are glad, while this my plague Blooms ever, and is strengthened more and more. Boy, great Achilles' offspring, in this form Thou seest the man, of whom, methinks, erewhile Thou hast been told, to whom the Hercúlean bow Descended, Philoctetes, Poeas' son; Whom the two generals and the Ithacan king Cast out thus shamefully forlorn, afflicted With the fierce malady and desperate wound Made by the cruel basilisk's murderous tooth. With this for company they left me, child! Exposed upon this shore, deserted, lone. From seaward Chrysa came they with their fleet And touched at Lemnos. I had fallen to rest From the long tossing, in a shadowy cave On yonder cliff by the shore. Gladly they saw, And left me, having set forth for my need, Poor man, some scanty rags, and a thin store Of provender. Such food be theirs, I pray! Imagine, O my son, when they were gone, What wakening, what arising, then was mine; What weeping, what lamenting of my woe! When I beheld the ships, wherewith I sailed, Gone, one and all! and no man in the place, None to bestead me, none to comfort me In my sore sickness. And where'er I looked, Nought but distress was present with me still. No lack of that, for one thing!--Ah! my son, Time passed, and there I found myself alone Within my narrow lodging, forced to serve Each pressing need. For body's sustenance This bow supplied me with sufficient store, Wounding the feathered doves, and when the shaft, From the tight string, had struck, myself, ay me! Dragging this foot, would crawl to my swift prey. Then water must be fetched, and in sharp frost Wood must be found and broken,--all by me. Nor would fire come unbidden, but with flint From flints striking dim sparks, I hammered forth The struggling flame that keeps the life in me. For houseroom with the single help of fire Gives all I need, save healing for my sore. Now learn, my son, the nature of this isle. No mariner puts in here willingly. For it hath neither moorage, nor sea-port, For traffic or kind shelter or good cheer. Not hitherward do prudent men make voyage. Perchance one may have touched against his will. Many strange things may happen in long time. These, when they come, in words have pitied me, And given me food, or raiment, in compassion. But none is willing, when I speak thereof, To take me safely home. Wherefore I pine Now this tenth year, in famine and distress, Feeding the hunger of my ravenous plague. Such deeds, my son, the Atridae, and the might Of sage Odysseus, have performed on me. Wherefore may all the Olympian gods, one day, Plague them with stern requital for my wrong!

CH. Methinks my feeling for thee, Poeas' child, Is like that of thy former visitants.

NEO. I, too, a witness to confirm his words, Know them for verities, since I have found The Atridae and Odysseus evil men.

PHI. Art thou, too, wroth with the all-pestilent sons Of Atreus? Have they given thee cause to grieve?

NEO. Would that my hand might ease the wrath I feel! Then Sparta and Mycenae should be ware That Scyros too breeds valiant sons for war.

PHI. Brave youth! I love thee. Tell me the great cause Why thou inveighest against them with such heat?

NEO. O son of Poeas, hardly shall I tell What outrage I endured when I had come; Yet I will speak it. When the fate of death O'ertook Achilles--

PHI. Out, alas! no more! Hold, till thou first hast made me clearly know, Is Peleus' offspring dead?

NEO. Alas! he is, Slain by no mortal, felled by Phoebus' shaft: So men reported--

PHI. Well, right princely was he! And princely is he who slew him. Shall I mourn Him first, or wait till I have heard thy tale?

NEO. Methinks thou hast thyself enough to mourn, Without the burden of another's woe.

PHI. Well spoken. Then renew thine own complaint, And tell once more wherein they insulted thee.

NEO. There came to fetch me, in a gallant ship, Odysseus and the fosterer of my sire[2], Saying, whether soothly, or in idle show, That, since my father perished, it was known None else but I should take Troy's citadel. Such words from them, my friend, thou may'st believe, Held me not long from making voyage with speed, Chiefly through longing for my father's corse, To see him yet unburied,--for I ne'er Had seen him[3]. Then, besides, 'twas a fair cause, If, by my going, I should vanquish Troy. One day I had sailed, and on the second came To sad Sigeum with wind-favoured speed, When straightway all the host, surrounding me As I set foot on shore, saluted me, And swore the dead Achilles was in life, Their eyes being witness, when they looked on me. He lay there in his shroud: but I, unhappy, Soon ending lamentation for the dead, Went near to those Atridae, as to friends, To obtain my father's armour and all else That had been his. And then,--alas the while, That men should be so hard!--they spake this word: 'Seed of Achilles, thou may'st freely take All else thy father owned, but for those arms, Another wields them now, Laërtes' son.' Tears rushed into mine eyes, and in hot wrath I straightway rose, and bitterly outspake: 'O miscreant! What? And have ye dared to give Mine arms to some man else, unknown to me?' Then said Odysseus, for he chanced to be near, 'Yea, child, and justly have they given me these. I saved them and their master in the field.' Then in fierce anger all at once I launched All terms of execration at his head, Bating no word, being maddened by the thought That I should lose this heirloom,--and to him! He, at this pass, though not of wrathful mood, Stung by such utterance, made rejoinder thus: 'Thou wast not with us here, but wrongfully Didst bide afar. And, since thou mak'st so bold, I tell thee, never shalt thou, as thou sayest, Sail with these arms to Scyros.'--Thus reviled, With such an evil echo in mine ear, I voyage homeward, robbed of mine own right By that vile offset of an evil tree[4]. Yet less I blame him than the men in power. For every multitude, be it army or state, Takes tone from those who rule it, and all taint Of disobedience from bad counsel springs. I have spoken. May the Atridae's enemy Be dear to Heaven, as he is loved by me!

CH. Mother of mightiest Zeus, 1 Feeder of all that live, Who from thy mountainous breast Rivers of gold dost give! To thee, O Earth, I cried that shameful day, When insolence from Atreus' sons went forth Full on our lord: when they bestowed away His father's arms to crown Odysseus' worth; Thou, whom bull-slaughtering lions yoked bear, O mighty mother, hear!

PHI. Your coming is commended by a grief That makes you kindly welcome. For I feel A chord that vibrates to your voice, and tells, Thus have Odysseus and the Atridae wrought. Full well I know, Odysseus' poisoned tongue Shrinks from no mischief nor no guileful word That leads to bad achievement in the end. This moves not my main marvel, but if one Saw this and bore it,--Aias of the shield.

NEO. Ah, friend, he was no more. Had he but lived, This robbery had ne'er been wrought on me.

PHI. What? Is he too departed?

NEO. He is dead. The light no more beholds him.

PHI. Oh! alas! But Tydeus' offspring, and the rascal birth Laërtes bought of Sisyphus, they live: I know it. For their death were to be wished.

NEO. Yea, be assured, they live and flourish high Exalted in the host of Argive men.

PHI. And Nestor, my old friend, good aged man, Is he yet living? Oft he would prevent Their evils, by the wisdom of his thought.

NEO. He too is now in trouble, having lost Antilochus, the comfort of his age.

PHI. There, there! In one brief word thou hast revealed The mournful case of twain, whom I would last Have chosen to hear of as undone. Ah me! Where must one look? when these are dead, and he, Odysseus, lives,--and in a time like this, That craves their presence, and his death for theirs.

NEO. He wrestles cleverly; but, O my friend, Even ablest wits are ofttimes snared at last.

PHI. Tell me, I pray, what was become of him, Patroclus, whom thy father loved so well?

NEO. He, too, was gone. I'll teach thee in a word One truth for all. War doth not willingly Snatch off the wicked, but still takes the good.

PHI. True! and to prove thy saying, I will inquire The fate of a poor dastard, of mean worth, But ever shrewd and nimble with his tongue.

NEO. Whom but Odysseus canst thou mean by this?

PHI. I meant not him. But there was one Thersites, Who ne'er made conscience to stint speech, where all Cried 'Silence!' Is he living, dost thou know?

NEO. I saw him not, but knew he was alive.

PHI. He must be: for no evil yet was crushed. The Heavens will ever shield it. 'Tis their sport To turn back all things rancorous and malign From going down to the grave, and send instead The good and true. Oh, how shall we commend Such dealings, how defend them? When I praise Things god-like, I find evil in the Gods.

NEO. I, O thou child of a Trachinian sire, Henceforth will take good care, from far away To look on Troy and Atreus' children twain. Yea, where the trickster lords it o'er the just, And goodness languishes and rascals rule, --Such courses I will nevermore endure. But rock-bound Scyros henceforth shall suffice To yield me full contentment in my home. Now, to my vessel! And thou, Poeas' child, Farewell, right heartily farewell! May Heaven Grant thy desire, and rid thee of thy plague! Let us be going, that when God shall give Fair voyage, that moment we may launch away.

PHI. My son, are ye now setting forth?

NEO. Our time Bids us go near and look to sail erelong.

PHI. Now, by thy father, by thy mother,--nay, By all thy love e'er cherished in thy home, Suppliant I beg thee, leave me not thus lone, Forlorn in all my misery which thou seest, In all thou hast heard of here surrounding me! Stow me with other freightage. Full of care, I know, and burdensome the charge may prove. Yet venture! Surely to the noble mind All shame is hateful and all kindness blest. And shame would be thy meed, didst thou fail here But, doing this, thou shalt have glorious fame, When I return alive to Oeta's vale. Come, 'tis the labour not of one whole day. So thou durst take me, fling me where thou wilt O' the ship, in hold, prow, stern, or wheresoe'er I least may trouble those on board with me. Ah! by great Zeus, the suppliant's friend, comply, My son, be softened! See, where I am fall'n Thus on my knees before thee, though so weak, Crippled and powerless. Ah! forsake me not Thus far from human footstep. Take me, take me! If only to thy home, or to the town Of old Chalcodon[5] in Euboea.--From thence I have not far to Oeta, and the ridge Of Trachis, and Spercheius' lordly flood. So thou shalt bless my father with my sight. And yet long since I fear he may be gone. For oft I sent him suppliant prayers by men Who touched this isle, entreating him to fetch And bear me safely home with his own crew. But either he is dead, or else, methinks, It well may be, my messengers made light Of my concerns, and hastened onward home. But now in thee I find both messenger And convoy, thou wilt pity me and save. For, well thou knowest, danger never sleeps, And fear of dark reverse is always nigh. Mortals, when free, should look where mischief lurks, And in their happiest hour consider well Their life, lest ruin unsuspected come.

CH. Pity him, O my king! 2 Many a crushing woe He telleth, such as I pray None of my friends may know. And if, dear master, thou mislikest sore Yon cruel-hearted lordly pair, I would, Turning their plan of evil to his good, On swift ship bear him to his native shore, Meeting his heart's desire; and free thy path From fear of heavenly wrath.

NEO. Thou mak'st small scruple here; but be advised: Lest, when this plague on board shall weary thee, Thy voice should alter from this liberal tone.

CH. No, truly! Fear not thou shalt ever have Just cause to utter such reproach on me.

NEO. Then sure 'twere shame, should I more backward prove Than thou, to labour for the stranger's need. Come, if thou wilt, let us make voyage, and he, Let him set forth with speed. Our ship shall take him. He shall not be refused. Only may Heaven Lead safely hence and to our destined port!

PHI. O morning full of brightness! Kindest friend, Sweet mariners, how can I make you feel, In act, how dearly from my heart I love you! Ye have won my soul. Let us be gone, my son,-- First having said farewell to this poor cave, My homeless dwelling-place, that thou may'st know, How barely I have lived, how firm my heart! Methinks another could not have endured The very sight of what I bore. But I Through strong necessity have conquered pain.

CH. Stay: let us understand. There come two men A stranger, with a shipmate of thy crew. When ye have heard them, ye may then go in.

_Enter_ Messenger, _disguised as a merchantman_.

MERCHANTMAN. Son of Achilles, my companion here, Who with two more remained to guard thy ship, Agreed to help me find thee where thou wert, Since unexpectedly, through fortune's will, I meet thee, mooring by the self-same shore. For like a merchantman, with no great sail, Making my course from Ilion to my home, Grape-clustered Peparethos, when I heard The mariners declare that one and all Were of thy crew, I would not launch again, Without a word, till we had told our news.-- Methinks thou knowest nought of thine own case, What new devices of the Argive chiefs Surround thee; nor devices only now, But active deeds, no longer unperformed.

NEO. Well, stranger, for the kindness thou hast shown,-- Else were I base,--my heart must thank thee still. But tell me what thou meanest, that I may learn What new-laid plot thou bring'st me from the camp.

MER. Old Phoenix, Acamas and Demophon Are gone in thy pursuit with ships and men.

NEO. To bring me back with reasons or perforce?

MER. I know not. What I heard, I am here to tell.

NEO. How? And is this in act? Are they set forth To please the Atridae, Phoenix and the rest?

MER. The thing is not to do, but doing now.

NEO. What kept Odysseus back, if this be so, From going himself? Had he some cause for fear?

MER. He and the son of Tydeus, when our ship Hoist sail, were gone to fetch another man.

NEO. For whom could he himself be sailing forth?

MER. For some one,--but first tell me, whispering low Whate'er thou speakest,--who is this I see?

NEO. (_speaking aloud_). This, sir, is Philoctetes the renowned.

MER. (_aside to_ NEOPTOLEMUS). Without more question, snatch thyself away And sail forth from this land.

PHI. What saith he, boy? Through what dark traffic is the mariner Betraying me with whispering in thine ear?

NEO. I have not caught it, but whate'er he speaks He must speak openly to us and thee.

MER. Seed of Achilles, let me not offend The army by my words! Full many a boon, Being poor, I reap from them for service done.

NEO. The Atridae are my foes; the man you see Is my fast friend, because he hates them sore. Then, if you come in kindness, you must hide Nothing from him or me of all thou hast heard.

MER. Look what thou doest, my son!

NEO. I mark it well.

MER. Thou shalt be answerable.

NEO. Content: but speak.

MER. Then hear me. These two men whom I have named, Diomedes and Odysseus, are set forth Engaged on oath to bring this man by force If reasons fail. The Achaeans every one Have heard this plainly from Odysseus' mouth. He was the louder and more confident.

NEO. Say, for what cause, after so long a time, Can Atreus' sons have turned their thoughts on him, Whom long they had cast forth? What passing touch Of conscience moved them, or what stroke from Heaven, Whose wrath requites all wicked deeds of men?

MER. Methinks thou hast not heard what I will now Unfold to thee. There was a princely seer, A son of Priam, Helenus by name, Whom he for whom no word is bad enough, Crafty Odysseus, sallying forth alone One night, had taken, and in bonds displayed 'Fore all the Achaeans, a right noble prey. He, 'mid his other prophecies, foretold No Grecian force should sack Troy's citadel, Till with fair reasons they had brought this man From Lemnos isle, his lonely dwelling-place. When thus the prophet spake, Laërtes' son Straight undertook to fetch this man, and show him To all the camp:--he hoped, with fair consent: But else, perforce.--And, if he failed in this, Whoever would might smite him on the head. My tale is told, dear youth. I counsel speed To thee and to the friend for whom thou carest.

PHI. Ah me, unhappy! has that rascal knave Sworn to fetch me with reasons to their camp? As likely might his reasons bring me back, Like his begetter, from the house of death.

MER. You talk of what I know not. I will go Shipward. May God be with you for all good. [_Exit_

PHI. Is not this terrible, Laërtes' son Should ever think to bring me with soft words And show me from his deck to all their host? No! Sooner will I listen to the tongue Of the curs'd basilisk that thus hath maim'd me. Ay, but he'll venture anything in word Or deed. And now I know he will be here. Come, O my son, let us be gone, while seas And winds divide us from Odysseus' ship. Let us depart. Sure timely haste brings rest And quiet slumber when the toil is done.

NEO. Shall we not sail when this south-western wind Hath fallen, that now is adverse to our course?

PHI. All winds are fair to him who flies from woe.

NEO. Nay, but this head-wind hinders them no less.

PHI. No head-wind hinders pirates on their way, When violence and rapine lead them on.

NEO. Well, then, let us be going, if you will; When you have taken from within the cave What most you need and value.

PHI. Though my all Be little, there is that I may not lose.

NEO. What can there be that we have not on board?

PHI. A leaf I have found, wherewith I still the rage Of my sore plague, and lull it quite to rest.

NEO. Well, bring it forth.--What? Is there something more?

PHI. If any of these arrows here are fallen, I would not leave them for a casual prey.

NEO. How? Do I see thee with the marvellous bow?

PHI. Here in my hand. The world hath only one.

NEO. And may one touch and handle it, and gaze With reverence, as on a thing from Heaven?

PHI. Thou mayest, my son. This and whate'er of mine May stead thee, 'tis thy privilege to enjoy.

NEO. In very truth I long for it, but so, That longing waits on leave. Am I permitted?

PHI. Thou art, my son,--and well thou speakest,--thou art. Thou, that hast given me light and life, the joy Of seeing Mount Oeta and my father's home, With all I love there, and his aged head,-- Thou that hast raised me far above my foes Who triumphed! Thou may'st take it in thine hand, And,--when thou hast given it back to me,--may'st vaunt Alone of mortals for thine excellence To have held this in thy touch. I, too, at first, Received it as a boon for kindness done.

NEO. Well, go within.

PHI. Nay, I must take thee too. My sickness craves thee for its comforter. [PHILOCTETES _and_ NEOPTOLEMUS _go into the cave_

CHORUS. In fable I have heard, I 1 Though sight hath ne'er confirmed the word, How he who attempted once the couch supreme, To a whirling wheel by Zeus the all-ruler bound, Tied head and heel, careering ever round, Atones his impious unsubstantial dream. Of no man else, through eye or ear, Have I discerned a fate more full of fear Than yonder sufferer's of the cureless wound: Who did no violence, defrauded none:-- A just man, had he dwelt among the just Unworthily behold him thrust Alone to hear the billows roar That break around a rugged shore! How could he live, whose life was thus consumed with moan?

Where neighbour there was none: I 2 No arm to stay him wandering lone, Unevenly, with stumbling steps and sore; No friend in need, no kind inhabitant, To minister to his importunate want, No heart whereto his pangs he might deplore. None who, whene'er the gory flow Was rushing hot, might healing herbs bestow, Or cull from teeming Earth some genial plant To allay the anguish of malignant pain And soothe the sharpness of his poignant woe. Like infant whom the nurse lets go, With tottering movement here and there, He crawled for comfort, whensoe'er His soul-devouring plague relaxed its cruel strain.

Not fed with foison of all-teeming Earth II 1 Whence we sustain us, ever-toiling men, But only now and then With wingèd things, by his wing'd shafts brought low, He stayed his hunger from his bow. Poor soul, that never through ten years of dearth Had pleasure from the fruitage of the vine, But seeking to some standing pool, Nor clear nor cool, Foul water heaved to head for lack of heartening wine.

But now, consorted with the hero's child, II 2 He winneth greatness and a joyful change; Over the water wild Borne by a friendly bark beneath the range Of Oeta, where Spercheius fills Wide channels winding among lovely hills Haunted of Melian nymphs, till he espies The roof-tree of his father's hall, And high o'er all Shines the bronze shield of him, whose home is in the skies[6]. [NEOPTOLEMUS _comes out of the cave, followed by_ PHILOCTETES _in pain_

NEO. Prithee, come on! Why dost thou stand aghast, Voiceless, and thus astonied in thine air?

PHI. Oh! oh!

NEO. What?

PHI. Nothing. Come my son, fear nought.

NEO. Is pain upon thee? Hath thy trouble come?

PHI. No pain, no pain! 'Tis past; I am easy now. Ye heavenly powers!

NEO. Why dost thou groan aloud, And cry to Heaven?

PHI. To come and save. Kind Heaven! Oh, oh!

NEO. What is 't? Why silent? Wilt not speak? I see thy misery.

PHI. Oh! I am lost, my son! I cannot hide it from you. Oh! it shoots, It pierces. Oh unhappy! Oh! my woe! I am lost, my son, I am devoured. Oh me! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Pain! pain! Oh pain! oh pain! Child, if a sword be to thine hand, smite hard, Shear off my foot! heed not my life! Quick, come!

NEO. What hath so suddenly arisen, that thus Thou mak'st ado and groanest o'er thyself?

PHI. Thou knowest.

NEO. What know I?

PHI. O! thou knowest, my son!

NEO. I know not.

PHI. How? Not know? Ah me! Pain, pain!

NEO. Thy plague is a sore burden, heavy and sore.

PHI. Sore? 'Tis unutterable. Have pity on me!

NEO. What shall I do?

PHI. Do not in fear forsake me. This wandering evil comes in force again, Hungry as ere it fed.

NEO. O hapless one! Thrice hapless in thy manifold distress! What wilt thou? Shall I raise thee on mine arm?

PHI. Nay, but receiving from my hand the bow, As late thou didst desire me, keep it safe And guard it, till the fury of my pain Pass over me and cease. For when 'tis spent, Slumber will seize me, else it ne'er would end. I must sleep undisturbed. But if meanwhile They come,--by Heaven I charge thee, in no wise, Willingly nor perforce, let them have this! Else thou wilt be the slayer of us both; Of me thy suppliant, and of thyself.

NEO. Fear not my care. No hand shall hold these arms But thine and mine. Give, and Heaven bless the deed!

PHI. I give them; there, my son! But look to Heaven And pray no envy smite thee, nor such bane In having them, as fell on me and him Who bore them formerly.

NEO. O grant it, Gods! And grant us fair and happy voyage, where'er Our course is shaped and righteous Heaven shall guide.

PHI. Ah! but I fear, my son, thy prayer is vain: For welling yet again from depths within, This gory ooze is dripping. It will come! I know it will. O, foot, torn helpless thing, What wilt thou do to me? Ah! ah! It comes, It is at hand. 'Tis here! Woe's me, undone! I have shown you all. Stay near me. Go not far: Ah! ah! O island king, I would this agony Might cleave thy bosom through and through! Woe, woe! Woe! Ah! ye two commanders of the host, Agamemnon, Menelaüs, O that ye, Another ten years' durance in my room Might nurse this malady! O Death, Death, Death! I call thee daily--wilt thou never come? Will it not be?--My son, thou noble boy, If thou art noble, take and burn me there Aloft in yon all-worshipped Lemnian fire! Yea, when the bow thou keep'st was my reward, I did like service for the child of Heaven. How now, my son? What say'st? Art silent? Where--where art thou, boy?

NEO. My heart is full, and groaning o'er thy woes.

PHI. Nay, yet have comfort. This affliction oft Goes no less swiftly than it came. I pray thee, Stand fast and leave me not alone!

NEO. Fear nought. We will not stir.

PHI. Wilt thou remain?

NEO. Be sure of it.

PHI. I'll not degrade thee with an oath, my son.

NEO. Rest satisfied. I may not go without thee.

PHI. Thy hand, to pledge me that!

NEO. There, I will stay.

PHI. Now, now, aloft!

NEO. Where mean'st thou?

PHI. Yonder aloft!

NEO. Whither? Thou rav'st. Why starest thou at the sky?

PHI. Now, let me go.

NEO. Where?

PHI. Let me go, I say!

NEO. I will not.

PHI. You will kill me. Let me go!

NEO. Well, thou know'st best I hold thee not.

PHI. O Earth, I die. receive me to thy breast! This pain Subdues me utterly, I cannot stand.

NEO. Methinks he will be fast in slumber soon That head sinks backward, and a clammy sweat Bathes all his limbs, while from his foot hath burst A vein, dark bleeding. Let us leave him, friends, In quietness, till he hath fallen to sleep.

CHORUS Lord of the happiest life, I Sleep, thou that know'st not strife, That know'st not grief, Still wafting sure relief, Come, saviour now! Thy healing balm is spread Over this pain worn head, Quench not the beam that gives calm to his brow.

Look, O my lord, to thy path, Either to go or to stay How is my thought to proceed? What is our cause for delay? Look! Opportunity's power, Fitting the task to the hour, Giveth the race to the swift.

NEO. He hears not. But I see that to have ta'en His bow without him were a bootless gain He must sail with us. So the god hath said Heaven hath decreed this garland for his head: And to have failed with falsehood were a meed Of shameful soilure for a shameless deed.

CH. God shall determine the end-- II But for thine answer, friend, Waft soft words low! All sick men's sleep, we know, Hath open eye; Their quickly ruffling mind Quivers in lightest wind, Sleepless in slumber new danger to spy.

Think, O my lord, of thy path, Secretly look forth afar, What wilt thou do for thy need? How with the wise wilt thou care? If toward the nameless thy heart Chooseth this merciful part, Huge are the dangers that drift.

The wind is fair, my son, the wind is fair, The man is dark and helpless, stretched in night. (O kind, warm sleep that calmest human care!) Powerless of hand and foot and ear and sight, Blind, as one lying in the house of death. (Think well if here thou utterest timely breath.) This, O my son, is all my thought can find, Best are the toils that without frightening bind.

NEO. Hush! One word more were madness. He revives. His eye hath motion. He uplifts his head.

PHI. Fair daylight following sleep, and ye, dear friends, Faithful beyond all hope in tending me! I never could have dreamed that thou, dear youth, Couldst thus have borne my sufferings and stood near So full of pity to relieve my pain. Not so the worthy generals of the host;-- This princely patience was not theirs to show. Only thy noble nature, nobly sprung, Made light of all the trouble, though oppressed With fetid odours and unceasing cries. And now, since this my plague would seem to yield Some pause and brief forgetfulness of pain, With thine own hand, my son, upraise me here, And set me on my feet, that, when my strength After exhaustion shall return again, We may move shoreward and launch forth with speed.

NEO. I feel unhoped-for gladness when I see Thy painless gaze, and hear thy living breath, For thine appearance and surroundings both Were deathlike. But arise! Or, if thou wilt, These men shall raise thee. For they will not shrink From toil which thou and I at once enjoin.

PHI. Right, right, my son! But lift me thine own self, As I am sure thou meanest. Let these be, Lest they be burdened with the noisome smell Before the time. Enough for them to bear The trouble on board.

NEO. I will; stand up, endure!

PHI. Fear not. Old habit will enable me.

NEO. O me! What shall I do? Now 'tis my turn to exclaim!

PHI. What canst thou mean? What change is here, my son?

NEO. I know not how to shift the troublous word. 'Tis hopeless.

PHI. What is hopeless? Speak not so, Dear child!

NEO. But so my wretched lot hath fallen.

PHI. Ah! Can it be, the offence of my disease Hath moved thee not to take me now on board?

NEO. All is offence to one who hath forced himself From the true bent to an unbecoming deed.

PHI. Nought misbecoming to thyself or sire Doest thou or speak'st, befriending a good man.

NEO. My baseness will appear. That wrings my soul.

PHI. Not in thy deeds. But for thy words, I fear me!

NEO. O Heaven! Must double vileness then be mine Both shameful silence and most shameful speech?

PHI. Or my discernment is at fault, or thou Mean'st to betray me and make voyage without me.

NEO. Nay, not without thee, there is my distress! Lest I convey thee to thy bitter grief.

PHI. How? How, dear youth? I do not understand.

NEO. Here I unveil it. Thou art to sail to Troy, To join the chieftains and the Achaean host.

PHI. What do I hear? Ah!

NEO. Grieve not till you learn.

PHI. Learn what? What wilt thou make of me? What mean'st thou?

NEO. First to release thee from this plague, and then With thee to go and take the realm of Troy.

PHI. And is this thine intent?

NEO. 'Tis so ordained Unchangeably. Be not dismayed! 'Tis so.

PHI. Me miserable! I am betrayed, undone! What guile is here? My bow! give back my bow!

NEO. I may not. Interest, and duty too, Force me to obey commandment.

PHI. O thou fire, Thou terror of the world! Dark instrument Of ever-hateful guile!--What hast thou done? How thou hast cheated me! Art not ashamed To look on him that sued to thee for shelter? O heart of stone, thou hast stolen my life away With yonder bow!--Ah, yet I beg of thee, Give it me back, my son, I entreat thee, give! By all thy father worshipped, rob me not Of life!--Ah me! Now he will speak no more, But turns away, obdúrate to retain it. O ye, my comrades in this wilderness, Rude creatures of the rocks, O promontories, Creeks, precipices of the hills, to you And your familiar presence I complain Of this foul trespass of Achilles' son. Sworn to convey me home, to Troy he bears me. And under pledge of his right hand hath ta'en And holds from me perforce my wondrous bow, The sacred gift of Zeus-born Heracles, Thinking to wave it midst the Achaean host Triumphantly for his. In conquering me He vaunts as of some valorous feat, and knows not He is spoiling a mere corse, an empty dream, The shadow of a vapour. In my strength He ne'er had vanquished me. Even as I am, He could not, but by guile. Now, all forlorn, I am abused, deceived. What must I do? Nay, give it me. Nay, yet be thy true self! Thou art silent. I am lost. O misery! Rude face of rock, back I return to thee And thy twin gateway, robbed of arms and food, To wither in thy cave companionless:-- No more with these mine arrows to destroy Or flying bird or mountain-roving beast. But, all unhappy! I myself must be The feast of those on whom I fed, the chase Of that I hunted, and shall dearly pay In bloody quittance for their death, through one Who seemed all ignorant of sinful guile. Perish,--not till I am certain if thy heart Will change once more,--if not, my curse on thee!

CH. What shall we do, my lord? We wait thy word Or to sail now, or yield to his desire.

NEO. My heart is pressed with a strange pity for him, Not now beginning, but long since begun.

PHI. Ay, pity me, my son! by all above, Make not thy name a scorn by wronging me!

NEO. O! I am troubled sore. What must I do? Would I had never left mine island home!

PHI. Thou art not base, but seemest to have learnt Some baseness from base men. Now, as 'tis meet, Be better guided--leave me mine arms, and go.

NEO. (_to Chorus_). What shall we do?

_Enter_ ODYSSEUS.

ODYSSEUS. What art thou doing, knave? Give me that bow, and haste thee back again.

PHI. Alas! What do I hear? Odysseus' voice?

OD. Be sure of that, Odysseus, whom thou seest.

PHI. Oh, I am bought and sold, undone! 'Twas he That kidnapped me, and robbed me of my bow.

OD. Yea. I deny it not. Be sure, 'twas I.

PHI. Give back, my son, the bow; release it!

OD. That, Though he desire it, he shall never do. Thou too shalt march along, or these shall force thee.

PHI. They force me! O thou boldest of bad men! They force me?

OD. If thou com'st not willingly.

PHI. O Lemnian earth and thou almighty flame, Hephaestos' workmanship, shall this be borne, That he by force must drag me from your care?

OD. 'Tis Zeus, I tell thee, monarch of this isle, Who thus hath willed. I am his minister.

PHI. Wretch, what vile words thy wit hath power to say! The gods are liars when invoked by thee.

OD. Nay, 'tis their truth compels thee to this voyage.

PHI. I will not have it so.

OD. I will. Thou shalt.

PHI. Woe for my wretchedness! My father, then, Begat no freeman, but a slave in me.

OD. Nay, but the peer of noblest men, with whom Thou art to take and ravage Troy with might.

PHI. Never,--though I must suffer direst woe,-- While this steep Lemnian ground is mine to tread!

OD. What now is thine intent?

PHI. Down from the crag This head shall plunge and stain the crag beneath.

OD. (_to the Attendants_.) Ay, seize and bind him. Baffle him in this.

PHI. Poor hands, for lack of your beloved string, Caught by this craven! O corrupted soul! How thou hast undermined me, having taken To screen thy quest this youth to me unknown, Far worthier of my friendship than of thine, Who knew no better than to obey command. Even now 'tis manifest he burns within With pain for his own error and my wrong. But, though unwilling and mapt for ill, Thy crafty, mean, and cranny spying soul Too well hath lessoned him in sinful lore. Now thou hast bound me, O thou wretch, and thinkest To take me from this coast, where thou didst cast me Outlawed and desolate, a corpse 'mongst men. Oh! I curse thee now, as ofttimes in the past: But since Heaven yields me nought but bitterness, Thou livest and art blithe, while 'tis my pain To live on in my misery, laughed to scorn By thee and Atreus' sons, those generals twain Whom thou art serving in this chase. But thou With strong compulsion and deceit was driven Troyward, whilst I, poor victim, of free will Took my seven ships and sailed there, yet was thrown Far from all honour,--as thou sayest, by them, But, as they turn the tale, by thee.--And now Why fetch me hence and take me? To what end? I am nothing, dead to you this many a year. How, O thou Heaven-abhorred! am I not now Lame and of evil smell? how shall ye vaunt Before the gods drink-offering or the fat Of victims, if I sail among your crew? For this, as ye professed, was the chief cause Why ye disowned me. Perish!--So ye shall, For the wrong done me, if the Heavens be just. And that they are, I know. Else had ye ne'er Sailed on this errand for an outcast wretch, Had they not pricked your heart with thoughts of me. Oh, if ye pity me, chastising powers, And thou, the Genius of my land, revenge, Revenge this crime on all their heads at once! My life is pitiable; but if I saw Their ruin, I would think me well and strong.

CH. How full of bitterness is his resolve, Wrathfully spoken with unbending will!

OD. I might speak long in answer, did the time Give scope, but now one thing is mine to say. I am known to vary with the varying need; And when 'tis tried, who can be just and good, My peer will not be found for piety. But though on all occasions covetous Of victory, this once I yield to thee, And willingly. Unhand him there. Let go! Leave him to stay. What further use of thee, When we have ta'en these arms? Have we not Teucer, Skilled in this mystery? Yea, I may boast Myself thine equal both in strength and aim To wield them. Fare thee well, then! Thou art free To roam thy barren isle. We need thee not. Let us be going! And perchance thy gift May bring thy destined glory to my brow.

PHI. What shall I do? Alas, shalt thou be seen Graced with mine arms amongst Achaean men?

OD. No more! I am going.

PHI. O Achilles' child! Wilt thou, too, vanish? Must I lose thy voice?

OD. Come on, and look not, noble though thou be, Lest thou undo our fortune.

PHI. Mariners, Must ye, too, leave me thus disconsolate? Will ye not pity me?

CH. Our captain's here. Whate'er he saith to thee, that we too speak.

NEO. My chief will call me weakling, soft of heart; But go not yet, since our friend bids you stay. Till we have prayed, and all be ready on board. Meanwhile, perchance, he may conceive some thought That favours our design. We two will start; And ye, be swift to speed forth at our call. [_Exit_

MONODY.

PHI. O cavern of the hollow rock, I 1 Frosty and stifling in the seasons' change! How I seem fated never more to range From thy sad covert, that hath felt the shock Of pain on pain, steeped with my wretchedness. Now thou wilt be my comforter in death! Grief haunted harbour, choked with my distress! Tell me, what hope is mine of daily food, Who will be careful for my good? I fail. Ye cowering creatures of the sky, Oh, as ye fly, Snatch me, borne upward on the blast's sharp breath!

CH. 1. Thou child of misery! No mightier power hath this decreed, But thine own will and deed Hath bound thee thus in grief, Since, when kind Heaven had sent relief And shown the path of wisdom firm and sure, Thou still hast chosen this evil to endure.

PHI. O hapless life, sore bruised with pain! I 2 No more with living mortal may I dwell, But ever pining in this desert cell With lonely grief, all famished must remain And perish; for what food is mine to share, When this strong arm no longer wields my bow, Whose fleet shafts flew to smite the birds of air I was o'erthrown by words, words dark and blind, Low-creeping from a traitorous mind! O might I see him, whose unrighteous thought This ruin wrought, Plagued for no less a period with like woe!

CH. 2. Not by our craft thou art caught, But Destiny divine hath wrought The net that holds thee bound. Aim not at us the sound Of thy dread curse with dire disaster fraught. On others let that light! 'Tis our true care Thou should'st not scorn our love in thy despair.

PHI. Now, seated by the shore II 1 Of heaving ocean hoar, He mocks me, waving high The sole support of my precarious being, The bow which none e'er held but I. O treasure of my heart, torn from this hand, That loved thy touch,--if thou canst understand, How sad must be thy look in seeing Thy master destined now no more, Like Heracles of yore, To wield thee with an archer's might! But in the grasp of an all-scheming wight, O bitter change! thou art plied; And swaying ever by his side, Shalt view his life of dark malignity, Teeming with guileful shames, like those he wrought on me.

CH. 3. Nobly to speak for the right Is manly and strong; But not with an envious blight To envenom the tongue; He to serve all his friends of the fleet, One obeying a many-voiced word, Through the minist'ring craft of our lord Hath but done what was meet.

PHI. Come, legions of the wild, II 2 Of aspect fierce or mild, Fowl from the fields of air, And beasts that roam with bright untroubled gaze, No longer bounding from my lair Fly mine approach! Now freely without fear Ye may surround my covert and come near, Treading the savage rock-strewn ways. The might I had is no more mine, Stolen with those arms divine. This fort hath no man to defend. Come satisfy your vengeful jaws, and rend These quivering tainted limbs! Already hovering death bedims My fainting sense. Who thus can live on air, Tasting no gift of earth that breathing mortals share?

CH. 4. Ah! do not shrink from thy friend, If love thou reverest, But know 'tis for thee to forfend The fate which thou fearest. The lot thou hast here to deplore, Is sad evermore to maintain, And hardship in sickness is sore, But sorest in pain.

PHI. Kindest of all that e'er before III Have trod this shore, Again thou mind'st me of mine ancient woe! Why wilt thou ruin me? What wouldst thou do?

CH. 5. How mean'st thou?

PHI. If to Troy, of me abhorred Thou e'er hast hoped to lead me with thy lord.

CH. 6. So I judge best.

PHI. Begone at once, begone!

CH. 7. Sweet is that word, and swiftly shall be done! Let us be gone, each to his place on board. [The Chorus _make as if they were going_

PHI. Nay, by dear Zeus, to whom all suppliants moan Leave me not yet!

CH. 8. Keep measure in thy word.

PHI. Stay, by Heaven, stay!

CH. 9. What wilt thou say?

PHI. O misery! O cruel power That rul'st this hour! I am destroyed. Ah me! O poor torn limb, what shall I do with thee Through all my days to be? Ah, strangers, come, return, return!

CH. 10. What new command are we to learn Crossing thy former mind?

PHI. Ah! yet be kind. Reprove not him, whose tongue, with grief distraught, Obeys not, in dark storms, the helm of thought!

CH. 11. Come, poor friend, the way we call.

PHI. Never, learn it once for all! Not though he, whom Heaven obeys, Blast me with fierce lightning's blaze! Perish Troy, and all your host, That have chosen, to their cost, To despise and cast me forth, Since my wound obscured my worth! Ah, but, strangers, if your sense Hath o'er-mastered this offence, Yield but one thing to my prayer!

CH. 12. What wouldst thou have?

PHI. Some weapon bare, Axe or sword or sharpened dart, Bring it to content my heart.

CH. 13. What is thy new intent?

PHI. To sever point by point This body, joint from joint. On bloody death my mind is bent.

CH. 14. Wherefore?

PHI. To see my father's face.

CH. 15. Where upon earth?

PHI. He hath no place Where sun doth shine, but in the halls of night. O native country, land of my delight, Would I were blest one moment with thy sight! Why did I leave thy sacred dew And loose my vessels from thy shore, To join the hateful Danaän crew And lend them succour? Oh, I am no more!

LEADER OF CH. Long since thou hadst seen me nearing yonder ship, Had I not spied Odysseus and the son Of great Achilles hastening to our side.

OD. Wilt thou not tell me why thou art hurrying This backward journey with reverted speed?

NEO. To undo what I have wrongly done to-day.

OD. Thy words appal me. What is wrongly done?

NEO. When in obeying thee and all the host--

OD. Thou didst what deed that misbecame thy life?

NEO. I conquered with base stratagem and fraud--

OD. Whom? What new plan is rising in thy mind?

NEO. Not new. But to the child of Poeas here--

OD. What wilt thou do? I quake with strange alarm.

NEO. From whom I took these weapons, back again----

OD. O Heaven! thou wilt not give them! Mean'st thou this?

NEO. Yea, for I have them through base sinful means.

OD. I pray thee, speak'st thou thus to anger me?

NEO. If the truth anger thee, the truth is said.

OD. Achilles' son! What word is fallen from thee?

NEO. Must the same syllables be thrice thrown forth?

OD. Once was too much. Would they had ne'er been said!

NEO. Enough. Thou hast heard my purpose clearly told.

OD. I know what power shall thwart thee in the deed.

NEO. Whose will shall hinder me?

OD. The Achaean host And I among them.

NEO. Thou'rt sharp-witted, sure! But little wit or wisdom show'st thou here.

OD. Neither thy words nor thy design is wise.

NEO. But if 'tis righteous, that is better far.

OD. How righteous, to release what thou hast ta'en By my device?

NEO. I sinned a shameful sin, And I will do mine utmost to retrieve it.

OD. How? Fear'st thou not the Achaeans in this act?

NEO. In doing right I fear not them nor thee.

OD. I call thy power in question.

NEO. Then I'll fight, Not with Troy's legions, but with thee.

OD. Come on! Let fortune arbitrate.

NEO. Thou seest my hand Feeling the hilt.

OD. And me thou soon shalt see Doing the like and dallying not!--And yet I will not touch thee, but will go and tell The army, that shall wreak this on thy head. [_Exit_

NEO. Thou show'st discretion: which if thou preserve, Thou may'st maintain a path exempt from pain. Ho! son of Poeas, Philoctetes, come And leave thy habitation in the rock.

PHI. What noise again is troubling my poor cave? Why do ye summon me? What crave ye, sirs? Ha! 'tis some knavery. Are ye come to add Some monster evil to my mountainous woe?

NEO. Fear not, but hearken to what now I speak.

PHI. I needs must fear thee, whose fair words erewhile Brought me to bitter fortune.

NEO. May not men Repent and change?

PHI. Such wast thou in thy talk, When thou didst rob me of my bow,--so bright Without, so black within.

NEO. Ah, but not now, Assure thee! Only let me hear thy will, Is 't constant to remain here and endure, Or to make voyage with us?

PHI. Stop, speak no more! Idle and vain will all thine utterance be.

NEO. Thou art so resolved?

PHI. More firmly than I say.

NEO. I would I might have brought thee to my mind, But since my words are out of tune, I have done.

PHI. Thou wert best. No word of thine can touch my soul Or win me to thy love, who by deceit Hast reft my life away. And then thou com'st To school me,--of noblest father, basest son! Perish, the Atridae first of all, and then Laërtes' child, and thou!

NEO. Curse me no more, But take this hallowed weapon from my hand.

PHI. What words are these? Am I again deceived?

NEO. No, by the holiest name of Zeus on high!

PHI. O voice of gladness, if thy speech be true!

NEO. The deed shall prove it. Only reach thy hand, And be again sole master of thy bow. [ODYSSEUS _appears_

OD. But I make protest, in the sight of Heaven, For Atreus' sons, and all the Achaean host.

PHI. Dear son, whose voice disturbs us? Do I hear Odysseus?

OD. Ay, and thou behold'st him nigh, And he shall force thee to the Trojan plain, Howe'er Achilles' offspring make or mar.

PHI. This shaft shall bear thee sorrow for that boast.

NEO. Let it not fly, by Heaven!

PHI. Dear child, let go Mine arm!

NEO. I will not. [_Exit_ ODYSSEUS

PHI. Ah! Why hast thou robbed My bow of bringing down mine enemy?

NEO. This were ignoble both for thee and me.

PHI. One thing is manifest, the first o' the host Lying forerunners of the Achaean band, Are brave with words, but cowards with the steel.

NEO. Well, now the bow is thine. Thou hast no cause For blame or anger any more 'gainst me.

PHI. None. Thou hast proved thy birthright, dearest boy. Not from the loins of Sisyphus thou earnest, But from Achilles, who in life was held Noblest of men alive, and now o' the dead.

NEO. It gladdens me that thou shouldst speak in praise Both of my sire and me. But hear me tell The boon for which I sue thee.--Mortal men Must bear such evils as high Heaven ordains; But those afflicted by self-chosen ills, Like thine to-day, receive not from just men Or kind indulgence or compassionate thought. And thou art restive grown, and wilt not hearken, But though one counsel thee with kind'st intent, Wilt take him for a dark malignant foe. Yet, calling Zeus to witness for my soul, Once more I will speak. Know this, and mark it well: Thou bear'st this sickness by a heavenly doom, Through coming near to Chrysa's sentinel, The lurking snake, that guards the sky-roofed fold[7]. And from this plague thou ne'er shall find reprieve While the same Sun god rears him from the east And droops to west again, till thou be come Of thine own willing mind to Troia's plain, Where our physicians, sons of Phoebus' child[8], Shall soothe thee from thy sore, and thou with me And with this bow shalt take Troy's citadel. How do I know this? I will tell thee straight We have a Trojan captive, Helenus, Both prince and prophet, who hath clearly told This must be so, yea, and ere harvest time This year, great Troy must fall, else if his words Be falsified, who will may slay the seer. Now, since thou know'st of this, yield thy consent; For glorious is the gain, being singled forth From all the Greeks as noblest, first to come To healing hands, and then to win renown Unrivalled, vanquishing all tearful Troy.

PHI. Oh how I hate my life! Why must it keep This breathing form from sinking to the shades? How can I prove a rebel to his mind Who thus exhorts me with affectionate heart? And yet, oh misery! must I give way? Then how could I endure the light of heaven? With whom could I exchange a word? Ay me! Eyes that have seen each act of my sad life, How could ye bear it, to behold the sons Of Atreus, my destroyers, comrades now And friends! Laërtes' wicked son, my friend! And less I feel the grief of former wrong Than shudder with expectance of fresh harm They yet may work on me. For when the mind Hath once been mother of an evil brood, It nurses nought but evils. Yea, at thee I marvel. Thou should'st ne'er return to Troy, Nor suffer me to go, when thou remember'st What insult they have done thee, ravishing Thy father's rights from thee. And wilt thou then Sail to befriend them, pressing me in aid? Nay, do not, son; but, even as thou hast sworn, Convey me home, and thou, in Scyros dwelling, Leave to their evil doom those evil men. So thou shalt win a twofold gratitude From me and from my father, and not seem, Helping vile men, to be as vile as they.

NEO. 'Tis fairly spoken. Yet I would that thou Relying on my word and on Heaven's aid, Would'st voyage forth from Lemnos with thy friend.

PHI. Mean'st thou to Troy, and to the hateful sons Of Atreus, me, with this distressful limb?

NEO. Nay, but to those that will relieve the pain Of thy torn foot and heal thee of thy plague.

PHI. Thy words are horrible. What mean'st thou, boy?

NEO. The act I deem the noblest for us both.

PHI. Wilt thou speak so? Where is thy fear of Heaven?

NEO. Why should I fear, when I see certain gain?

PHI. Gain for the sons of Atreus, or for me?

NEO. Methinks a friend should give thee friendly counsel.

PHI. Friendly, to hand me over to my foes?

NEO. Ah, be not hardened in thy misery!

PHI. I know thou wilt ruin me by what thou speakest.

NEO. Not I. The case is dark to thee, I see.

PHI. I know the Atreidae cast me on this rock.

NEO. But how, if they should save thee afterward?

PHI. They ne'er shall make me see Troy with my will.

NEO. Hard is my fortune, then, if by no sleight Of reasoning I can draw thee to my mind. For me, 'twere easiest to end speech, that thou Might'st live on as thou livest in hopeless pain.

PHI. Then leave me to my fate!--But thou hast touched My right hand with thine own, and given consent To bear me to my home. Do this, dear son! And do not linger to take thought of Troy. Enough that name hath echoed in my groans.

NEO. If thou wilt, let us be going.

PHI. Nobly hast thou said the word.

NEO. Lean thy steps on mine.

PHI. As firmly as my foot will strength afford.

NEO. Ah! but how shall I escape Achaean anger?

PHI. Do not care!

NEO. Ah! but should they spoil my country!

PHI. I to shield thee will be there.

NEO. How to shield me, how to aid me?

PHI. With the shafts of Heracles I will scare them.

NEO. Give thy blessing to this isle, and come in peace.

HERACLES _appears from above._

HERACLES. First, son of Poeas, wait till thou hast heard The voice of Heracles, and weighed his word. Him thou beholdest from the Heavenly seat Come down, for thee leaving the blest retreat, To tell thee all high Zeus intends, and stay Thy purpose in the journey of to-day. Then hear me, first how after my long toils By strange adventure I have found and won Immortal glory, which thine eyes perceive; And the like lot, I tell thee, shall be thine, After these pains to rise to glorious fame. Sailing with this thy comrade to Troy-town, First thou shalt heal thee from thy grievous sore, And then, being singled forth from all the host As noblest, thou shalt conquer with that bow Paris, prime author of these years of harm, And capture Troy, and bear back to thy hall The choicest guerdon, for thy valour's meed, To Oeta's vale and thine own father's home. But every prize thou tak'st be sure thou bear Unto my pyre, in memory of my bow. This word, Achilles' offspring, is for thee No less. For, as thou could'st not without him, So, without thee, he cannot conquer Troy. Then, like twin lions hunting the same hill, Guard thou him, and he thee! and I will send Asclepius Troyward to relieve thy pain. For Ilion now a second time must fall Before the Herculean bow. But, take good heed, Midst all your spoil to hold the gods in awe. For our great Father counteth piety Far above all. This follows men in death, And fails them not when they resign their breath.

PHI. Thou whom I have longed to see, Thy dear voice is law to me.

NEO. I obey with gladdened heart.

HER. Lose no time: at once depart! Bright occasion and fair wind Urge your vessel from behind.

PHI. Come, let me bless the region ere I go. Poor house, sad comrade of my watch, farewell! Ye nymphs of meadows where soft waters flow Thou ocean headland, pealing thy deep knell, Where oft within my cavern as I lay My hair was moist with dashing south-wind's spray, And ofttimes came from Hermes' foreland high Sad replication of my storm-vext cry; Ye fountains and thou Lycian water sweet,-- I never thought to leave you, yet my feet Are turning from your paths,--we part for aye. Farewell! and waft me kindly on my way, O Lemnian earth enclosed by circling seas, To sail, where mighty Fate my course decrees, And friendly voices point me, and the will Of that heroic power, who doth this act fulfil.

CH. Come now all in one strong band; Then, ere loosing from the land, Pray we to the nymphs of sea Kind protectresses to be, Till we touch the Trojan strand.

* * * * *

OEDIPUS AT COLONOS

THE PERSONS

OEDIPUS, _old and blind._ ANTIGONE, _his daughter, a young girl._ ISMENE, _his daughter, a young girl._ CHORUS _of Village Guardians._ _An Athenian._ THESEUS, _King of Athens._ CREON, _Envoy from Thebes._ POLYNICES, _the elder son of Oedipus._ _Messenger._

SCENE. Colonos.

Oedipus had remained at Thebes for some time after his fall. But he was afterwards banished by the command of Creon, with the consent of his own sons. Their intention at first was to lay no claim to the throne. But by-and-by ambition prevailed with Eteocles, the younger- born, and he persuaded Creon and the citizens to banish his elder brother. Polynices took refuge at Argos, where he married the daughter of Adrastus, and levied an army of auxiliaries to support his pretensions to the throne of Thebes. Before going into exile Oedipus had cursed his sons.

Antigone after a while fled forth to join her father and support him in his wanderings. Ismenè also once brought him secret intelligence.

Years have now elapsed, and the Delphian oracle proclaims that if Oedipus dies in a foreign land the enemies of Thebes shall overcome her.

In ignorance of this fact, Oedipus, now aged as well as blind, and led by his daughter Antigone, appears before the grove of the Eumenides, at Colonos, in the neighbourhood of Athens. He has felt an inward intimation, which is strengthened by some words of the oracle received by him long since at Delphi, that his involuntary crimes have been atoned for, and that the Avenging Deities will now receive him kindly and make his cause their own.

After some natural hesitation on the part of the village-councillors of Colonos, Oedipus is received with princely magnanimity by Theseus, who takes him under the protection of Athens, and defends him against the machinations of Creon.

Thus the blessing of the Gods, which Oedipus carried with him, is secured to Athens, and denied to Thebes. The craft of Creon and the prayers of Polynices alike prove unavailing. Then the man of many sorrows, whose essential nobleness has survived them all, passes away mysteriously from the sight of men.

The scene is laid at Colonos, a suburb of Athens much frequented by the upper classes, especially the Knights (see Thuc. viii. 67); and before the sacred grove of the Eumenides, or Gentle Goddesses, a euphemistic title for the Erinyes, or Goddesses of Vengeance.

OEDIPUS AT COLONOS

OEDIPUS. ANTIGONE.

OEDIPUS. Antigone, child of the old blind sire, What land is here, what people? Who to-day Shall dole to Oedipus, the wandering exile, Their meagre gifts? Little I ask, and less Receive with full contentment; for my woes, And the long years ripening the noble mind, Have schooled me to endure.--But, O my child, If thou espiest where we may sit, though near Some holy precinct, stay me and set me there, Till we may learn where we are come. 'Tis ours To hear the will of strangers and to obey.

ANTIGONE. Woe-wearied father, yonder city's wall That shields her, looks far distant; but this ground Is surely sacred, thickly planted over With olive, bay and vine, within whose bowers Thick-fluttering song-birds make sweet melody. Here then repose thee on this unhewn stone. Thou hast travelled far to-day for one so old.

OED. Seat me, my child, and be the blind man's guard.

ANT. Long time hath well instructed me in that.

OED. Now, canst thou tell me where we have set our feet?

ANT. Athens I know, but not the nearer ground.

OED. Ay, every man that met us in the way Named Athens.

ANT. Shall I go, then, and find out The name of the spot?

OED. Yes, if 'tis habitable.

ANT. It is inhabited. Yet I need not go. I see a man even now approaching here.

OED. How? Makes he towards us? Is he drawing nigh?

ANT. He is close beside us. Whatsoe'er thou findest Good to be spoken, say it. The man is here.

_Enter an_ Athenian.

OED. O stranger, learning from this maid, who sees Both for herself and me, that thou art come With timely light to clear our troubled thought--

ATHENIAN. Ere thou ask more, come forth from where thou sittest! Ye trench on soil forbidden human tread.

OED. What soil? And to what Power thus consecrate?

ATH. None may go near, nor dwell there. 'Tis possessed By the dread sisters, children of Earth and Night.

OED. What holy name will please them, if I pray?

ATH. 'All seeing Gentle Powers' the dwellers here Would call them. But each land hath its own rule.

OED. And gently may they look on him who now Implores them, and will never leave this grove!

ATH. What saying is this?

OED. The watchword of my doom.

ATH. Yet dare I not remove thee, till the town Have heard my purpose and confirm the deed.

OED. By Heaven, I pray thee, stranger, scorn me not, Poor wanderer that I am, but answer me.

ATH. Make clear thy drift. Thou'lt get no scorn from me.

OED. Then, pray thee, tell me how ye name the place Where now I sit.

ATH. The region all around Is sacred. For 'tis guarded and possessed By dread Poseidon, and the Titan mind That brought us fire--Prometheus. But that floor Whereon thy feet are resting, hath been called The brazen threshold of our land, the stay Of glorious Athens, and the neighbouring fields Are fain to honour for their patron-god Thee, O Colonos, first of Knights, whose name [_Pointing to a statue_ They bear in brotherhood and own for theirs. Such, friend, believe me, is this place, not praised In story, but of many a heart beloved.

OED. Then is the land inhabited of men?

ATH. By men, who name them from Colonos there.

OED. Have they a lord, or sways the people's voice?

ATH. Lord Theseus, child of Aegeus, our late king.

OED. Will some one of your people bring him hither?

ATH. Wherefore? What urgent cause requires his presence?

OED. He shall gain mightily by granting little.

ATH. Who can gain profit from the blind?

OED. The words These lips shall utter, shall be full of sight.

ATH. Well, thou look'st nobly, but for thy hard fate. This course is safe. Thus do. Stay where I found thee, Till I go tell the neighbour townsmen here Not of the city, but Colonos. They Shall judge for thee to abide or to depart. [_Exit_

OED. Tell me, my daughter, is the man away?

ANT. He is gone, father. I alone am near. Speak what thou wilt in peace and quietness.

OED. Dread Forms of holy Fear, since in this land Your sanctuary first gave my limbs repose, Be not obdurate to my prayer, nor spurn The voice of Phoebus, who that fateful day, When he proclaimed my host of ills to come, Told me of rest after a weary time, Where else but here? 'When I should reach my bourne, And find repose and refuge with the Powers Of reverend name, my troubled life should end With blessing to the men who sheltered me, And curses on their race who banished me and sent me wandering forth.' Whereof he vouched me Sure token, or by earthquake, or by fire From heaven, or thundrous voices. And I know Some aëry message from your shrine hath drawn me With wingèd whisper to this grove. Not else Had ye first met me coming, nor had I Sate on your dread unchiselled seat of stone, With dry cold lips greeting your sober shrine. Then give Apollo's word due course, and give Completion to my life, if in your sight These toils and sorrows past the human bound Seem not too little. Kindly, gentle powers, Offspring of primal darkness, hear my prayer! Hear it, Athenai, of all cities queen, Great Pallas' foster-city! Look with ruth On this poor shadow of great Oedipus, This fading semblance of his kingly form.

ANT. Be silent now. There comes an aged band With jealous looks to know thine errand here.

OED. I will be silent, and thine arm shall guide My footstep under covert of the grove Out of the path, till I make sure what words These men will utter. Warily to observe Is the prime secret of the prudent mind. [_Exeunt_

CHORUS (_entering_). Keep watch! Who is it? Look! 1 Where is he? Vanished! Gone! Oh where? Most uncontrolled of men! Look well, inquire him out, Search keenly in every nook! --Some wanderer is the aged wight, A wanderer surely, not a native here. Else never had he gone within The untrodden grove Of these--unmarried, unapproachable in might, --Whose name we dare not breathe, But pass their shrine Without a look, without a word, Uttering the unheard voice of reverential thought. But now, one comes, they tell, devoid of awe, Whom, peering all around this grove I find not, where he abideth.

OED. (_behind_). Behold me! For I 'see by sound,' As mortals say.

CH. Oh, Oh! With horror I see him, with horror hear him speak.

OED. Pray you, regard me not as a transgressor!

CH. Defend us, Zeus! Who is that aged wight?

OED. Not one of happiest fate, Or enviable, O guardians of this land! 'Tis manifest; else had I not come hither Led by another's eyes, not moored my bark On such a slender stay.

CH. Alas! And are thine eyes 2 Sightless? O full of misery, As thou look'st full of years! But not, if I prevail, Shalt thou bring down this curse. Thou art trespassing. Yet keep thy foot From stumbling in that verdant, voiceless dell, Where running water as it fills The hallowed bowl, Mingles with draughts[1] of honey. Stranger, hapless one! Avoid that with all care. Away! Remove! Distance impedes the sound. Dost hear, Woe-burdened wanderer? If aught thou carest to bring Before our council, leave forbidden ground, And there, where all have liberty, Speak,--but till then, avaunt thee!

OED. Daughter, what must I think, or do?

ANT. My sire! We must conform us to the people's will, Yielding ere they compel.

OED. Give me thy hand.

ANT. Thou hast it.

OED. --Strangers, let me not Be wronged, when I have trusted you And come from where I stood!

CH. Assure thee, from this seat No man shall drag thee off against thy will.

OED. Farther?

CH. Advance thy foot.

OED. Yet more?

CH. Assist him onward Maiden, thou hast thy sight.

ANT. Come, follow, this way follow with thy darkened steps, Father, the way I am leading thee.

CH. Content thee, sojourning in a strange land, O man of woe! To eschew whate'er the city holds in hate, And honour what she loves!

OED. Then do thou lead me, child, Where with our feet secure from sin We may be suffered both to speak and hear. Let us not war against necessity.

CH. There! From that bench of rock Go not again astray.

OED. Even here?

CH. Enough, I tell thee.

OED. May I sit?

CH. Ay, crouch thee low adown Crooking thy limbs, upon the stone.

ANT. Father, this task is mine-- Sink gently down into thy resting-place,

OED. Woe is me!

ANT. Supporting on this loving hand Thy reverend aged form.

OED. Woe, for my cruel fate! [OEDIPUS _is seated_

CH. Now thou unbendest from thy stubborn ways, O man of woe! Declare, what mortal wight thou art, That, marked by troublous fortune, here art led. What native country, shall we learn, is thine?

OED. O strangers, I have none! But do not--

CH. What dost thou forbid, old sir?

OED. Do not, oh, do not ask me who I am, Nor probe me with more question.

CH. What dost thou mean?

OED. My birth is dreadful.

CH. Tell it forth.

OED. What should I utter, O my child? Woe is me!

CH. Thy seed, thy father's name, stranger, pronounce!

OED. Alas! What must I do? My child!

ANT. Since no resource avails thee, speak!

OED. I will. I cannot hide it further.

CH. Ye are long about it. Haste thee!

OED. Know ye of one Begotten of Laius?

CH. Horror! Horror! Oh!

OED. Derived from Labdacus?

CH. O Heaven!

OED. Fate-wearied Oedipus?

CH. Art thou he?

OED. Fear not my words.

CH. Oh! Oh!

OED. Unhappy me!

CH. Oh!

OED. Daughter, what is coming?

CH. Away! Go forth. Leave ye the land. Begone!

OED. And where, then, is the promise thou hast given?

CH. No doom retributive attends the deed That wreaks prevenient wrong. Deceit, matched with deceit, makes recompense Of evil, not of kindness. Get thee forth! Desert that seat again, and from this land Unmooring speed thee away, lest on our state Thou bring some further bale!

MONODY.

ANT. O strangers, full of reverent care! Since ye cannot endure my father here, Aged and blind, Because ye have heard a rumour of the deeds He did unknowingly,--yet, we entreat you. Strangers, have pity on me, the hapless girl, Who pray for mine own sire and for none else, --Pray, looking in your eyes with eyes not blind. As if a daughter had appeared to you. Pleading for mercy to the unfortunate. We are in your hands as in the hand of God, Helpless. O then accord the unhoped for boon! By what is dear to thee, thy veriest own, I pray thee,--chattel or child, or holier name! Search through the world, thou wilt not find the man Who could resist the leading of a God.

CH. Daughter of Oedipus, be well assured We view with pity both thy case and his, But fear of Heavenly wrath confines our speech To that we have already said to you.

OED. What profit lives in fame and fair renown By unsubstantial rumour idly spread? When Athens is extolled with peerless praise For reverence, and for mercy!--She alone The sufferer's shield, the exile's comforter! What have I reaped hereof? Ye have raised me up From yonder seat, and now would drive me forth Fearing a name! For there is nought in me Or deeds of mine to make you fear. My life Hath more of wrong endured than of wrong done, Were it but lawful to disclose to you Wherefore ye dread me,--not my sin but theirs, My mother's and my sire's. I know your thought. Yet never can ye fasten guilt on me, Who, though I had acted with the clear'st intent, Were guiltless, for my deed requited wrong. But as it was, all blindly I went forth On that dire road, while they who planned my death Planned it with perfect knowledge. Therefore, sirs, By Heaven I pray you, as ye have bid me rise, Protect your suppliant without fail; and do not In jealous reverence for the blessed Gods Rob them of truest reverence, but know this:-- God looks upon the righteousness of men And their unrighteousness, nor ever yet Hath one escaped who wrought iniquity. Take part, then, with the Gods, nor overcloud The golden fame of Athens with dark deeds; But as ye have pledged your faith to shelter me, Defend me and rescue, not rejecting me Through mere abhorrence of my ruined face. For on a holy mission am I come, Sent with rich blessings for your neighbours here. And when the head and sovereign of your folk Is present, ye shall learn the truth at full. Till then, be gracious to me, and not perverse.

CH. Thy meaning needs must strike our hearts with awe, Old wanderer! so weighty are the words That body it forth. Therefore we are content The Lord of Athens shall decide this case.

OED. And where is he who rules this country, sirs?

CH. He keeps his father's citadel. But one Is gone to fetch him, he who brought us hither.

OED. Think you he will consider the blind man, And come in person here to visit him?

CH. Be sure he will,--when he hath heard thy name.

OED. And who will carry that?

CH. 'Tis a long road; But rumour from the lips of wayfarers Flies far and wide, so that he needs must hear; And hearing, never doubt but he will come. So noised in every land hath been thy name, Old sovereign,--were he sunk in drowsiness, That sound would bring him swiftly to thy side.

OED. Well, may he come to bless his city and me! When hath not goodness blessed the giver of good?

ANT. O Heavens! What shall I say, what think, my father?

OED. Daughter Antigone, what is it?

ANT. I see A woman coming toward us, mounted well On a fair Sicilian palfrey, and her face With brow-defending hood of Thessaly Is shadowed from the sun. What must I think? Is it she or no? Can the eye so far deceive? It is. 'Tis not. Unhappy that I am, I know not.--Yes, 'tis she. For drawing near She greets me with bright glances, and declares Beyond a doubt, Ismene's self is here.

OED. What say'st thou, daughter?

ANT. That I see thy child, My sister. Soon her voice will make thee sure.

_Enter_ ISMENE.

ISMENE. Father and sister!--names for ever dear! Hard hath it been to find you, yea, and hard I feel it now to look on you for grief.

OED. Child, art thou here?

ISM. Father! O sight of pain!

OED. Offspring and sister!

ISM. Woe for thy dark fate!

OED. Hast thou come, daughter?

ISM. On a troublous way.

OED. Touch me, my child!

ISM. I give a hand to both.

OED. To her and me?

ISM. Three linked in one sad knot.

OED. Child, wherefore art thou come?

ISM. In care for thee.

OED. Because you missed me?

ISM. Ay, and to bring thee tidings, With the only slave whom I could trust.

OED. And they, Thy brethren, what of them? Were they not there To take this journey for their father's good?

ISM. Ask not of them. Dire deeds are theirs to day.

OED. How in all points their life obeys the law Of Egypt, where the men keep house and weave Sitting within doors, while the wives abroad Provide with ceaseless toil the means of life. So in your case, my daughters, they who should Have ta'en this burden on them, bide at home Like maidens, while ye take their place, and lighten My miseries by your toil. Antigone, E'er since her childhood ended, and her frame Was firmly knit, with ceaseless ministry Still tends upon the old man's wandering, Oft in the forest ranging up and down Fasting and barefoot through the burning heat Or pelting rain, nor thinks, unhappy maid, Of home or comfort, so her father's need Be satisfied. And thou, that camest before, Eluding the Cadmeans, and didst tell me What words Apollo had pronounced on me. And when they banished me, stood'st firm to shield me, What news, Ismene, bring'st thou to thy sire To day? What mission sped thee forth? I know Thou com'st not idly, but with fears for me.

ISM. Father, I will not say what I endured In searching out the place that sheltered thee. To tell it o'er would but renew the pain. But of the danger now encompassing Thine ill starred sons,--of that I came to speak. At first they strove with Creon and declared The throne should be left vacant and the town Freed from pollution,--paying deep regard In their debate to the dark heritage Of ruin that o'ershadowed all thy race. Far different is the strife which holds them now, Since some great Power, joined to their sinful mind, Incites them both to seize on sovereign sway. Eteocles, in pride of younger years, Robbed elder Polynices of his right, Dethroned and banished him. To Argos then Goes exiled Polynices, and obtains Through intermarriage a strong favouring league, Whose word is, 'Either Argos vanquishes The seed of Cadmus or exalts their fame' This, father, is no tissue of empty talk, But dreadful truth, nor can I tell where Heaven Is to reveal his mercy to thy woe.

OED. And hadst thou ever hoped the Gods would care For mine affliction, and restore my life?

ISM. I hope it now since this last oracle.

OED. What oracle hath been declared, my child?

ISM. That they shall seek thee forth, alive or dead, To bring salvation to the Theban race.

OED. Who can win safety through such help as mine?

ISM. 'Tis said their victory depends on thee.

OED. When shrunk to nothing, am I indeed a man?

ISM. Yea, for the Gods uphold thee, who then destroyed.

OED. Poor work, to uphold in age who falls when young!

ISM. Know howsoe'er that Creon will be here For this same end, ere many an hour be spent.

OED. For what end, daughter? Tell me in plain speech.

ISM. To set thee near their land, that thou may'st be Beyond their borders, but within their power.

OED. What good am I, thus lying at their gate?

ISM. Thine inauspicious burial brings them woe.

OED. There needs no oracle to tell one that.

ISM. And therefore they would place thee near their land, Where thou may'st have no power upon thyself.

OED. Say then, shall Theban dust o'ershadow me?

ISM. The blood of kindred cleaving to thy hand, Father, forbids thee.

OED. Never, then, henceforth, Shall they lay hold on me!

ISM. If that be true, The brood of Cadmus shall have bale.

OED. What cause Having appeared, will bring this doom to pass?

ISM. Thy wrath, when they are marshalled at thy tomb.

OED. From whom hast thou heard this?

ISM. Sworn messengers Brought such report from Delphi's holy shrine.

OED. Hath Phoebus so pronounced my destiny?

ISM. So they declare who brought the answer back.

OED. Did my sons hear?

ISM. They know it, both of them.

OED. Villains, who, being informed of such a word, Turned not their thoughts toward me, but rather chose Ambition and a throne!

ISM. It wounds mine ear To hear it spoken, but the news I bring Is to that stern effect.

OED. Then I pray Heaven The fury of their fate-appointed strife May ne'er be quenched, but that the end may come According to my wish upon them twain To this contention and arbitrament Of battle which they now assay and lift The threatening spear! So neither he who wields The sceptred power should keep possession still, Nor should his brother out of banishment Ever return:--who, when their sire--when I Was shamefully thrust from my native land, Checked not my fall nor saved me, but, for them, I was driven homeless and proclaimed an exile. Ye will tell me 'twas in reason that the State Granted this boon to my express desire. Nay; for in those first hours of agony, When my heart raged, and it seemed sweetest to me To die the death, and to be stoned with stones, No help appeared to yield me that relief. But after lapse of days, when all my pain Was softened, and I felt that my hot spirit Had run to fierce excess of bitterness In wreaking mine offence--then, then the State Drove me for ever from the land, and they, Their father's sons, who might have saved their father, Cared not to help him, but betrayed by them, For lack of one light word, I wandered forth To homeless banishment and beggary. But these weak maidens to their nature's power Have striven to furnish me with means to live And dwell securely, girded round with love. My sons have chosen before their father's life A lordly throne and sceptred sovereignty. But never shall they win me to their aid, Nor shall the Theban throne for which they strive Bring them desired content. That well I know, Comparing with my daughter's prophecies Those ancient oracles which Phoebus once Spake in mine ear. Then let them send to seek me Creon, or who is strongest in their State. For if ye, strangers, will but add your might To the protection of these awful Powers, The guardians of your soil, to shelter me, Ye shall acquire for this your State a saviour Mighty to save, and ye shall vex my foes.

CH. Thou art worthy of all compassion, Oedipus, Thyself and these thy daughters. Now, moreover Since thou proclaim'st thyself our country's saviour I would advise thee for the best.

OED. Kind sir, Be my good guide. I will do all thou biddest.

CH. Propitiate then these holy powers, whose grove Received thee when first treading this their ground.

OED. What are the appointed forms? Advise me, sirs.

CH. First see to it that from some perennial fount Clean hands provide a pure drink-offering.

OED. And when I have gotten this unpolluted draught?

CH. You will find bowls, formed by a skilful hand, Whose brims and handles you must duly wreathe.

OED. With leaves or flocks of wool, or in what way?

CH. With tender wool ta'en from a young ewe-lamb.

OED. Well, and what follows to complete the rite?

CH. Next, make libation toward the earliest dawn.

OED. Mean'st thou from those same urns whereof thou speakest?

CH. From those three vessels pour three several streams, Filling the last to the brim.

OED. With what contents Must this be filled? Instruct me.

CH. Not with wine, But water and the treasure of the bee.

OED. And when leaf-shadowed Earth has drunk of this, What follows?

CH. Thou shalt lay upon her then From both thy hands a row of olive-twigs-- Counting thrice nine in all--and add this prayer--

OED. That is the chief thing,--that I long to hear.

CH. As we have named them Gentle, so may they From gentle hearts accord their suppliant aid;-- Be this thy prayer, or whoso prays for thee, Spoken not aloud, but so that none may hear; And in departing, turn not. This being done, I can stand by thee without dread. But else, I needs must fear concerning thee.

OED. My daughters, Have ye both heard our friends who inhabit here?

ANT. Yea, father; and we wait for thy command.

OED. I cannot go. Two losses hinder me, Two evils, want of strength and want of sight. Let one of you go and perform this service. One soul, methinks, in paying such a debt May quit a million, if the heart be pure. Haste, then, to do it. Only leave me not Untended. For I cannot move alone Nor without some one to support me and guide.

ISM. I will be ministrant. But let me know Where I must find the place of offering.

CH. Beyond this grove. And, stranger maid, if aught Seem wanting, there is one at hand to show it.

ISM. Then to my task. Meantime, Antigone, Watch by our sire. We must not make account Of labour that supplies a parent's need. [_Exit_

CH. Thy long since slumbering woe I would not wake again, I 1 But yet I long to learn.

OED. What hidden lore?

CH. The pain That sprang against thy life with spirit-mastering force.

OED. Ah, sirs, as ye are kind, re-open not that source Of unavoided shame.

CH. Friend, we would hear the tale Told truly, whose wide voice doth hourly more prevail.

OED. Misery!

CH. Be not loth!

OED. O bitterness!

CH. Consent. For all thou didst require we gave to thy content.

OED. Oh, strangers, I have borne an all-too-willing brand, I 2 Yet not of mine own choice.

CH. Whence? We would understand.

OED. Nought knowing of the curse she fastened on my head Thebè in evil bands bound me.

CH. Thy mother's bed, Say, didst thou fill? mine ear still echoes to the noise.

OED. 'Tis death to me to hear, but, these, mine only joys, Friends, are my curse.

CH. O Heaven!

OED. The travail of one womb Hath gendered all you see, one mother, one dark doom.

CH. How? Are they both thy race, and-- II 1

OED. Sister branches too, Nursed at the self-same place with him from whom they grew.

CH. O horror!

OED. Ay, not one, ten thousand charged me then!

CH. O sorrow!

OED. Never done, an ever-sounding strain.

CH. O crime!

OED. By me ne'er wrought.

CH. But how?

OED. The guerdon fell. Would I had earned it not from those I served too well.

CH. But, hapless, didst thou slay-- II 2

OED. What seek ye more to know?

CH. Thy father?

OED. O dismay! Ye wound me, blow on blow.

CH. Thy hand destroyed him.

OED. Yes. Yet lacks there not herein A plea for my redress.

CH. How canst thou clear that sin?

OED. I'll tell thee. For the deed, 'twas proved mine,--Oh 'tis true! Yet by Heaven's law I am freed:--I wist not whom I slew.

CH. Enough. For lo! where Aegeus' princely son, Theseus, comes hither, summoned at thy word.

_Enter_ THESEUS.

THESEUS. From many voices in the former time Telling thy cruel tale of sight destroyed I have known thee, son of Laius, and to-day I know thee anew, in learning thou art here. Thy raiment, and the sad change in thy face, Proclaim thee who thou art, and pitying thee, Dark-fated Oedipus, I fain would hear What prayer or supplication thou preferrest To me and to my city, thou and this Poor maid who moves beside thee. Full of dread Must be that fortune thou canst name, which I Would shrink from, since I know of mine own youth, How in strange lands a stranger as thou art I bore the brunt of perilous circumstance Beyond all others; nor shall any man, Like thee an alien from his native home, Find me to turn my face from succouring him. I am a man and know it. To-morrow's good Is no more mine than thine or any man's.

OED. Thy noble spirit, Theseus, in few words Hath made my task of utterance brief indeed. Thou hast told aright my name and parentage And native city. Nought remains for me But to make known mine errand, and our talk Is ended.

THE. Tell me plainly thy desire.

OED. I come to offer thee this woe-worn frame, As a free boon,--not goodly in outward view. A better gift than beauty is that I bring.

THE. What boon dost thou profess to have brought with thee?

OED. Thou shalt know by and by,--not yet awhile.

THE. When comes the revelation of thine aid?

OED. When I am dead, and thou hast buried me.

THE. Thou cravest the last kindness. What's between Thou dost forget or else neglect.

OED. Herein One word conveys the assurance of the whole.

THE. You sum up your petition in brief form.

OED. Look to it. Great issues hang upon this hour.

THE. Mean'st thou in this the fortune of thy sons Or mine?

OED. I mean the force of their behest Compelling my removal hence to Thebes.

THE. So thy consent were sought, 'twere fair to yield.

OED. Once I was ready enough. They would not then.

THE. Wrath is not wisdom in misfortune, man!

OED. Nay, chide not till thou knowest.

THE. Inform me, then! I must not speak without just grounds.

OED. O Theseus, I am cruelly harassed with wrong heaped on wrong.

THE. Mean'st thou that prime misfortune of thy birth?

OED. No. That hath long been rumoured through the world.

THE. What, then, can be thy grief? If more than that, 'Tis more than human.

OED. Here is my distress:-- I am made an outcast from my native land By mine own offspring. And return is barred For ever to the man who slew his sire.

THE. How then should they require thee to go near, And yet dwell separate?

OED. The voice of Heaven Will drive them to it.

THE. As fearing what reverse Prophetically told?

OED. Destined defeat By Athens in the Athenian land.

THE. What source Of bitterness 'twixt us and Thebes can rise?

OED. Dear son of Aegeus, to the Gods alone Comes never Age nor Death. All else i' the world Time, the all subduer, merges in oblivion. Earth and men's bodies weaken, fail, and perish. Faith withers, breach of faith springs up and glows And neither men nor cities that are friends Breathe the same spirit with continuing breath. Love shall be turned to hate, and hate to love With many hereafter, as with some to-day. And though, this hour, between great Thebes and thee No cloud be in the heaven, yet moving Time Enfolds a countless brood of days to come, Wherein for a light cause they shall destroy Your now harmonious league with severing war, Even where my slumbering form, buried in death, Coldly shall drink the life blood of my foes, If Zeus be Zeus, and his son Phoebus true. I would not speak aloud of mysteries. Then let me leave where I began. Preserve Thine own good faith, and thou shalt never say, Unless Heaven's promise fail me, that for nought Athens took Oedipus to dwell with her.

CH. My lord, long since the stranger hath professed Like augury of blessings to our land.

THE. And who would dare reject his proffered good? Whose bond with us of warrior amity Hath ne'er been sundered,--and to day he comes A God-sent suppliant, whose sacred hand Is rich with gifts for Athens and for me. In reverent heed whereof I ne'er will scorn The boon he brings, but plant him in our land. And if it please our friend to linger here, Ye shall protect him:--if to go with me Best likes thee, Oedipus,--ponder, and use Thy preference. For my course shall join with thine.

OED. Ye Heavens, reward such excellence!

THE. How, then? Is it thy choice now to go home with me?

OED. Yea, were it lawful. But in this same spot--

THE. What wouldst thou do? I'll not withstand thy will.

OED. I must have victory o'er my banishers.

THE. Thy dwelling with us, then, is our great gain?

OED. Yes, if thou fail me not, but keep thy word.

THE. Nay, fear not me! I will aye be true to thee.

OED. I will not bind thee, like a knave, with oaths.

THE. Oaths were no stronger than my simple word.

OED. What will ye do, then?

THE. What is that thou fearest?

OED. They will come hither.

THE. Thy guards will see to that.

OED. Beware, lest, if you leave me--

THE. Tell not me, I know my part.

OED. Terror will have me speak.

THE. Terror and I are strangers.

OED. But their threats! Thou canst not know--

THE. I know that none shall force Thee from this ground against thy will. Full oft Have threatening words in wrath been voluble, Yet, when the mind regained her place again, The threatened evil vanished. So to-day Bold words of boastful meaning have proclaimed Thy forcible abduction by thy kin. Yet shall they find (I know it) the voyage from Thebes, On such a quest, long and scarce navigable. Whate'er my thought, if Phoebus sent thee forth, I would bid thee have no fear. And howsoe'er, My name will shield thee from all injury.

CHORUS. Friend! in our land of conquering steeds thou art come I 1 To this Heaven-fostered haunt, Earth's fairest home, Gleaming Colonos, where the nightingale In cool green covert warbleth ever clear, True to the clustering ivy and the dear Divine, impenetrable shade, From wildered boughs and myriad fruitage made, Sunless at noon, stormless in every gale. Wood-roving Bacchus there, with mazy round, And his nymph nurses range the unoffended ground.

And nourished day by day with heavenly dew I 2 Bright flowers their never-failing bloom renew, From eldest time Dêo and Cora's crown Full-flowered narcissus, and the golden beam Of crocus, while Cephisus' gentle stream In runnels fed by sleepless springs Over the land's broad bosom daily brings His pregnant waters, never dwindling down. The quiring Muses love to seek the spot And Aphroditè's golden car forsakes it not.

Here too a plant, nobler than e'er was known II 1 On Asian soil, grander than yet hath grown In Pelops' mighty Dorian isle, unsown, Free, self-create, the conquering foeman's fear, The kind oil-olive, silvery-green, Chief nourisher of childish life, is seen To burgeon best in this our mother-land. No warrior, young, nor aged in command, Shall ravage this, or scathe it with the spear; For guardian Zeus' unslumbering eye Beholds it everlastingly, And Athens' grey-eyed Queen, dwelling for ever near.

Yet one more praise mightier than all I tell II 2 O'er this my home, that Ocean loves her well, And coursers love her, children of the wave To grace these roadways Prince Poseidon first Framed for the horse, that else had burst From man's control, the spirit taming bit And the trim bark, rowed by strong arms, doth flit O'er briny seas with glancing motion brave Lord of the deep! by that thy glorious gift Thou hast established our fair town For ever in supreme renown-- The Sea nymphs' plashing throng glide not more smoothly swift.

ANT. O land exalted thus in blessing and praise, Now is thy time to prove these brave words true.

OED. What hath befallen, my daughter?

ANT. Here at hand, Not unaccompanied, is Creon, father.

OED. Dear aged friends, be it yours now to provide My safety and the goal of my desire!

CH. It shall be so. Fear nought. I am old and weak, But Athens in her might is ever young.

_Enter_ CREON.

CREON. Noble inhabiters of Attic ground I see as 'twere conceived within your eyes At mine approach some new engendered fear Nay, shrink not, nor let fall one fretful word. I bring no menace with me, for mine age Is feeble, and the state whereto I come Is mighty,--none in Hellas mightier,-- That know I well. But I am sent to bring By fair persuasion to our Theban plain The reverend form of him now present here. Nor came this mission from one single will, But the commands of all my citizens Are on me, seeing that it becomes my birth To mourn his sorrows most of all the state Thou, then, poor sufferer, lend thine ear to me And come. All Cadmus' people rightfully Invite thee with one voice unto thy home, I before all,--since I were worst of men, Were I not pained at thy misfortunes, sir, --To see thee wandering in the stranger's land Aged and miserable, unhoused, unfed, Singly attended by this girl, whose fall To such a depth of undeservèd woe I could not have imagined! Hapless maid! Evermore caring for thy poor blind head, Roving in beggary, so young, with no man To marry her,--a mark for all mischance. O misery, what deep reproach I have laid On thee and me and our whole ill-starred race! But who can hide evil that courts the day? Thou, therefore, Oedipus, without constraint, (By all the Gods of Cadmus' race I pray thee) Remove this horror from the sight of men By coming to the ancestral city and home Of thy great sires,--bidding a kind farewell To worthiest Athens, as is meet. But Thebes, Thy native land, yet more deserves thy love.

OED. Thou unabashed in knavery, who canst frame For every cause the semblance of a plea Pranked up with righteous seeming, why again Would'st thou contrive my ruin, and attempt To catch me where I most were grieved being caught? Beforetime, when my self-procurèd woes Were plaguing me, and I would fain have rushed To instant banishment, thou wouldst not then Grant this indulgence to my keen desire. But when I had fed my passion to the full, And all my pleasure was to live at home, Then 'twas thy cue to expel and banish me, Nor was this name of kindred then so dear. Now once again, when thou behold'st this city And people joined in friendly bands with me, Thou wouldst drag me from my promised resting-place, Hiding hard policy with courtly show. Strange kindness, to love men against their will! Suppose, when thou wert eager in some suit, No grace were granted thee, but all denied, And when thy soul was sated, then the boon Were offered, when such grace were graceless now; --Poor satisfaction then were thine, I ween! Even such a gift thou profferest me to-day, Kind in pretence, but really full of evil. These men shall hear me tell thy wickedness. Thou comest to take me, not unto my home, But to dwell outlawed at your gate, that so Your Thebè may come off untouched of harm From her encounter with Athenian men. Ye shall not have me thus. But you shall have My vengeful spirit ever in your land Abiding for destruction,--and my sons Shall have this portion in their father's ground, To die thereon. Know I not things in Thebes Better than thou? Yea, for 'tis mine to hear Safer intelligencers,--Zeus himself, And Phoebus, high interpreter of Heaven. Thou bring'st a tongue suborned with false pretence, Sharpened with insolence;--but in shrewd speech Thou shalt find less of profit than of bane. This thou wilt ne'er believe. Therefore begone! Let me live here. For even such life as mine Were not amiss, might I but have my will.

CR. Which of us twain, believ'st thou, in this talk Hath more profoundly sinned against thy peace?

OED. If thou prevail'st with these men present here Even as with me, I shall be well content.

CR. Unhappy man, will not even Time bring forth One spark of wisdom to redeem thine age?

OED. Thou art a clever talker. But I know No just man who in every cause abounds With eloquent speech.

CR. 'Tis not to abound in speech, When one speaks fitting words in season.

OED. Oh! As if thy words were few and seasonable!

CR. Not in the dotard's judgement.

OED. Get thee gone! I speak their mind as well--and dog not me Beleaguering mine appointed dwelling-place!

CR. These men shall witness--for thy word is naught; And for thy spiteful answer to thy friends, If once I seize thee--

OED. Who shall seize on me Without the will of my protectors here?

CR. Well, short of that, thou shalt have pain, I trow.

OED. What hast thou done, that thou canst threaten thus?

CR. One of thy daughters I have sent in charge. This other, I myself will quickly take.

OED. Oh, cruel!

CR. Soon thou'lt have more cause to cry.

OED. Hast thou my child?

CR. I will have both ere long.

OED. Dear friends, what will ye do? Will ye forsake me? Will you not drive the offender from your land?

CH. Stranger, depart at once! Thou hast done wrong, And wrong art doing.

CR. (_to attendants_). Now then, lead her away By force, if she refuse to go with you.

ANT. Ah me! unhappy! Whither shall I flee? What aid of God or mortal can I find?

CH. What dost thou, stranger?

CR. I will lay no hand On him, but on my kinswoman.

OED. Alas! Lords of Colonos, will ye suffer it?

CH. Thou art transgressing, stranger.

CR. Nay, I stand Within my right.

CH. How so?

CR. I take mine own.

OED. Athens to aid!

CH. Stranger, forbear! What dost thou? Let go, or thou shalt try thy strength with us.

CR. Unhand me!

CH. Not while this intent is thine.

CR. If you harm me, you will have war with Thebes.

OED. Did I not tell you this would come?

CH. Release The maid with speed.

CR. Command where you have power.

CH. Leave hold, I say!

CR. Away with her, say I!

CH. Come hither, neighbours, come! My city suffers violence. Wrongful men Are hurting her with force. Come hither to me!

ANT. Unhappy, I am dragged away,--O strangers!

OED. Where art thou, O my child?

ANT. I go away Against my will.

OED. Reach forth thy hands, my daughter!

ANT. I cannot.

CR. Off with her!

OED. Alas, undone! [_Exit_ ANTIGONE, _guarded_

CR. Thou shalt not have these staves henceforth to prop Thy roaming to and fro. Take thine own way! Since thou hast chosen to thwart thy nearest kin,-- Beneath whose orders, though a royal man, I act herein,--and thine own native land. The time will surely come when thou shalt find That in this deed and all that thou hast done In opposition to their friendly will, Thou hast counselled foolishly against thy peace, Yielding to anger, thy perpetual bane. [_Going_

CH. Stranger, stand where thou art!

CR. Hands off, I say!

CH. Thou shalt not go, till thou restore the maids.

CR. Soon, then, my city shall retain from you A weightier cause of war. I will lay hands Not on the maidens only.

CH. What wilt thou do?

CR. Oedipus I will seize and bear away.

CH. Great Heaven forfend!

CR. It shall be done forthwith, Unless the ruler of this land prevent me.

OED. O shameless utterance! Wilt thou lay thy hold On me?

CR. Be silent! Speak no more!

OED. No more? May these dread Goddesses not close my lips To this one prayer of evil against thee, Thou villain, who, when I have lost mine eyes, Bereavest me of all that I had left To make my darkness light! Therefore I pray, For this thy wrongful act, may He in heaven Whose eye sees all things, Helios, give to thee Slowly to wither in an age like mine!

CR. Men of this land, bear witness to his rage!

OED. They see us both, and are aware that I Repay thee but with words for deeds of wrong.

CR. No longer will I curb my wrath. Though lonely And cumbered by mine age, I will bear off This man!

OED. Me miserable!

CH. How bold thou art, If standing here thou think'st to do this thing!

CR. I do.

CH. Then Athens is to me no city.

CR. Slight men prevail o'er strength in a just cause.

OED. Hear ye his words?

CH. He shall not make them good. Be witness, Zeus!

CR. Zeus knows more things than thou.

OED. Is not this violence?

CR. Violence you must bear.

CH. Come, chieftain of our land! Come hither with all speed. They pass the bound.

_Enter_ THESEUS.

THE. Wherefore that shouting? Daunted by what fear Stayed ye me sacrificing to the God[2] Who guards this deme Colonos? Let me know What cause so hastened my reluctant foot.

OED. Dear friend (I know thy voice addressing us), One here hath lately done me cruel wrong.

THE. Who is the wrong-doer, say, and what the deed?

OED. This Creon, whom thou seest, hath torn away Two children that were all in all to me.

THE. Can this be possible?

OED. Thou hear'st the truth.

THE. Then one of you run to the altar-foot Hard by, and haste the people from the rite, Horsemen and footmen at the height of speed To race unto the parting of the roads Where travellers from both gorges wont to meet. Lest there the maidens pass beyond our reach And I be worsted by this stranger's might And let him laugh at me. Be swift! Away! --For him, were I as wroth as he deserves, He should not go unpunished from my hand. But now he shall be ruled by the same law He thought to enforce. Thou goest not from this ground Till thou hast set these maids in presence here; Since by thine act thou hast disgraced both me And thine own lineage and thy native land, Who with unlicensed inroad hast assailed An ancient city, that hath still observed Justice and equity, and apart from law Ratifies nothing; and, being here, hast cast Authority to the winds, and made thine own Whate'er thou wouldst, bearing it off perforce,-- Deeming of me forsooth as nothing worth, And of my city as one enslaved to foes Or void of manhood. Not of Thebe's will Come such wild courses. It is not her way To foster men in sin, nor would she praise Thy doing, if she knew that thou hast robbed Me and the gods, dragging poor suppliant wights From their last refuge at thy will--I would not, Had I perchance set foot within thy land, Even were my cause most righteous, have presumed, Without consent of him who bore chief sway, To seize on any man, but would have known How men should act who tread on foreign soil. Thou bring'st disgrace on thine own mother state All undeservedly, and the lapse of years Hath left thee aged, but not wise--Again I bid those maids now to be brought with speed, Unless thou would'st be made a sojourner In Athens by compulsion. This I speak Not with my lips alone, but from my will.

CH. Stranger, dost thou perceive? Thy parentage Is owned as noble, but thine evil deeds Are blazoned visibly.

CR. Great Aegeus' son! Not as misprising this thy city's strength In arms, or wisdom in debate, I dared This capture, but in simple confidence Thy citizens would not so envy me My blood relations, as to harbour them Against my will,--nor welcome to their hearths A man incestuous and a parricide, The proved defiler of his mother's bed Such was the mount of Ares that I knew, Seat of high wisdom, planted in their soil, That suffers no such lawless runaways To haunt within the borders of your realm. Relying on that I laid my hands upon This quarry, nor had done so, were it not That bitterly he cursed myself and mine. That moved me to requital, since even Age Still bears resentment, till the power of death Frees men from anger, as from all annoy. Being sovereign here thou wilt do thy pleasure. I, Though I have justice on my side, am weak Through being alone. Yet if you meddle with me, Old as I am, you'll find me dangerous.

OED. O boldness void of shame! Whom dost thou think Thy obloquy most harms, this agèd head Or thine, who hast thus let pass thy lips the crimes I have borne unwittingly. So Heaven was pleased To wreak some old offence upon our race. Since in myself you will find no stain of sin For which such ruinous error 'gainst myself And mine own house might be the recompense. Tell me, I pray thee, if a word from Heaven Came to my father through the oracle That he should die by his son's hand,--what right Hast thou to fasten that reproach on me, The child not yet begotten of my sire, An unborn nothing, unconceived? Or if, Born as I was to misery, I encountered And killed my father in an angry fray, Nought knowing of what I did or whom I slew, What reason is't to blame the unwitting deed? And, oh, thou wretch! art not ashamed to force me To speak that of my mother, thine own sister, Which I will speak, for I will not keep silence, Since thou hast been thus impious with thy tongue. She was my mother, oh, the bitter word! Though neither knew it, and having borne me, she Became the mother of children to her son, An infamous birth! Yet this I know, thy crime Of speech against us both is voluntary. But all involuntary was my deed In marriage and is this mine utterance now. No,--that shall not be called a bosom-sin, Nor shall my name be sullied with the deed, Thy tongue would brand on me, against my sire. For answer me one question. If to-day, Here, now, one struck at thee a murderous stroke,-- At thee, the righteous person,--wouldst thou ask If such assailant were thy sire, or strike Forthwith? Methinks, as one who cares to live, You would strike before you questioned of the right, Or reasoned of his kindred whom you slew. Such was the net that snared me: such the woes Heaven drew me to fulfil. My father's spirit, Came he to life, would not gainsay my word. But thou, to whom, beneath the garb of right, No matter is too dreadful or too deep For words, so rail'st on me, in such a presence. Well thou dost flatter the great name of Theseus, And Athens in her glory stablished here, But midst thy fulsome praises thou forgettest How of all lands that yield the immortal Gods Just homage of true piety, this land Is foremost. Yet from hence thou would'st beguile Me, the aged suppliant. Nay, from hence thou would'st drag Myself with violence, and hast reft away My children. Wherefore I conjure these powers, With solemn invocation and appeal, To come and take my part, that thou may'st know What men they are who guard this hallowed realm.

CH. My lord, the stranger deserves well. His fate Is grievous, but the more demands our aid.

THE. Enough of words. The captors and their prey Are hasting;--we, they have wronged, are standing still.

CR. I am powerless here. What dost thou bid me do?

THE. Lead us the way they are gone. I too must be Thine escort, that if hereabout thou hast Our maidens, thou mayest show them to my sight. But if men flee and bear them, we may spare Superfluous labour. Others hotly urge That business, whom those robbers shall not boast Before their Gods to have 'scaped out of this land. Come, be our guide! Thou hast and hast not. Fortune Hath seized thee seizing on thy prey. So quickly Passes the gain that's got by wrongful guile. Nay, thou shalt have no helper. Well I wot Thou flew'st not to this pitch of truculent pride Alone, or unsupported by intrigue; But thy bold act hath some confederate here. This I must look into, nor let great Athens Prove herself weaker than one single man. Hast caught my drift? Or is my voice as vain Now, as you thought it when you planned this thing?

CR. I will gainsay nought of what thou utterest here. But once in Thebes, I too shall know my course.

THE. Threaten, but go! Thou, Oedipus, remain In quietness and perfect trust that I, If death do not prevent me, will not rest Till I restore thy children to thy hand.

CHORUS. Soon shall the wheeling foes I 1 Clash with the din of brazen-throated War. Would I were there to see them close, Be the onset near or far! Whether at Daphnè's gorge to Phoebus dear, Or by the torch-lit shore Where kind maternal powers for evermore Guard golden mysteries of holy fear To nourish mortal souls Whose voice the seal of silent awe controls Imprinted by the Eumolpid minister. There, on that sacred way, Shall the divinest head Of royal Theseus, rouser of the fray, And those free maids, in their two squadrons led, Meet in the valorous fight That conquers for the right.

Else, by the snow-capped rock, I 2 Passing to westward, they are drawing nigh The tract beyond the pasture high Where Oea feeds her flock. The riders ride, the rattling chariots flee At racing speed.--'Tis done! He shall be vanquished. Our land's chivalry Are valiant, valiant every warrior son Of Theseus.--On they run? Frontlet and bridle glancing to the light, Forward each steed is straining to the fight, Forward each eye and hand Of all that mounted band, Athena's knighthood, champions of her name And his who doth the mighty waters tame, Rhea's son that from of old Doth the Earth with seas enfold.

Strive they? Or is the battle still to be? II 1 An eager thought in me Is pleading, 'Soon must they restore The enduring maid, whose kinsmen vex her sore!' To-day shall Zeus perform his will. The noble cause wins my prophetic skill. Oh! had I wings, and like a storm-swift dove Poised on some aery cloud might there descry The conflict from above, Scouring the region with mine eye!

Sovran of Heaven, all-seeing Zeus, afford II 2 Unto this nation's lord Puissance to crown the fair emprise, Thou, and all-knowing Pallas, thy dread child! Apollo, huntsman of the wild, --Thou and thy sister, who doth still pursue Swift many-spotted stags,--arise, arise, With love we pray you, be our champions true! Yea, both together come To aid our people and our home!

LEADER OF CH. Ah! wanderer friend, thou wilt not have to accuse Thy seer of falsehood. I behold the maids This way once more in safe protection brought.

OED. Where? Is it true? How say you?

ANT. Father, father! Oh that some God would give thee once to see The man whose royal virtue brings us hither!

OED. My daughters, are ye there?

ANT. Saved by the arm Of Theseus and his most dear ministers.

OED. Come near me, child, and let your father feel The treasure he had feared for ever gone.

ANT. Not hard the boon which the heart longs to give.

OED. Where are ye, where?

ANT. Together we draw near.

OED. Loved saplings of a solitary tree!

ANT. A father's heart hides all.

OED. Staves of mine age!

ANT. Forlorn supporters of an ill-starred life!

OED. I have all I love; nor would the stroke of death Be wholly bitter, with you standing by. Press close to either side of me, my children; Grow to your sire, and ye shall give me rest From mine else lonely, hapless, wandering life. And tell your tale as briefly as ye may, Since at your age short speaking is enough.

ANT. Here is our saviour. He shall tell thee all, And shorten labour both for us and thee.

OED. Think it not strange, dear friend, that I prolong The unhoped-for greeting with my children here. Full well I know, the joy I find in them Springs from thee only, and from none beside. Thou, thou alone hast saved them. May the Gods Fulfil my prayer for thee and for thy land! Since only in Athens, only here i' the world, Have I found pious thought and righteous care, And truth in word and deed. From a full heart And thankful mind I thus requite thy love, Knowing all I have is due to none but thee. Extend to me, I pray thee, thy right hand, O King, that I may feel thee, and may kiss, If that be lawful, thy dear head! And yet What am I asking? How can one like me Desire of thee to touch an outlawed man, On whose dark life all stains of sin and woe Are fixed indelibly? I will not dare-- No, nor allow thee!--None but only they Who have experience of such woes as mine May share their wretchedness. Thou, where thou art Receive my salutation, and henceforth Continue in thy promised care of me As true as to this moment thou hast proved.

THE. I marvel not at all if mere delight In these thy daughters lengthened thy discourse, Or led thee to address them before me. That gives me not the shadow of annoy. Nor am I careful to adorn my life With words of praise, but with the light of deeds. And thou hast proof of this. For I have failed In nought of all I promised, agèd King! Here stand I with thy children in full life Unharmed in aught the foe had threatened them. And now why vaunt the deeds that won the day, When these dear maids will tell them in thine ear? But let me crave thy counsel on a thing That crossed me as I came. Small though it seem When told, 'tis worthy of some wonder, too. Be it small or great, men should not let things pass.

OED. What is it, O son of Aegeus? Let me hear, I am wholly ignorant herein.

THE. We are told One, not thy townsman, but of kin to thee, Hath come in unawares, and now is found Kneeling at great Poseidon's altar, where I sacrificed, what time ye called me hither.

OED. What countryman, and wherefore suppliant there?

THE. One thing alone I know. He craves of thee Some speech, they say, that will not hold thee long.

OED. His kneeling there imports no trivial suit.

THE. All he desires, they tell me, is to come, Have speech with thee, and go unharmed away.

OED. Who can he be that kneels for such a boon?

THE. Think, if at Argos thou a kinsman hast Who might desire to obtain so much of thee.

OED. Dear friend! Hold there! No more!

THE. What troubles thee?

OED. Ask it not of me!

THE. What? Speak plainly forth.

OED. Thy words have shown me who the stranger is.

THE. And who is he that I should say him nay?

OED. My son, O King,--hateful to me, whose tongue Least of the world I could endure to hear.

THE. What pain is there in hearing? Canst thou not Hear, and refuse to do what thou mislikest?

OED. My Lord, I have come to loathe his very voice. I pray thee, urge me not to yield in this.

THE. Think that the God must be considered too, The right of suppliants may compel thy care.

ANT. Father, give ear, though I be young that speak. Yield to the scruple of the King, who claims This reverence for his people's God, and yield To us who beg our brother may come near. Take heart! He will not force thee from thy will. What harm can come of hearkening? Wisdom's ways Reveal themselves through words. He is thy son. Whence, were his heartless conduct against thee Beyond redemption impious, O my sire, Thy vengeance still would be unnatural. Oh let him!--Others have had evil sons And passionate anger, but the warning voice Of friends hath charmed their mood. Then do not thou Look narrowly upon thy present griefs, But on those ancient wrongs thou didst endure From father and from mother. Thence thou wilt learn That evil passion ever ends in woe. Thy sightless eyes are no light argument To warn thee through the feeling of thy loss. Relent and hear us! 'Tis a mere disgrace To beg so long for a just boon. The King Is kind to thee. Be generous in return.

OED. Child, your dear pleading to your hard request Hath won me. Let this be as ye desire. Only, my lord, if he is to come near, Let no man's power molest my liberty.

THE. I need no repetition, aged friend, Of that request. Vaunt will I not, but thou Be sure, if Heaven protect me, thou art free.

CHORUS. Who, loving life, hath sought I 1 To outlive the appointed span, Shall be arraigned before my thought For an infatuate man. Since the added years entail Much that is bitter,--joy Flies out of ken, desire doth fail, The longed-for moments cloy. But when the troublous life, Be it less or more, is past, With power to end the strife Comes rescuing Death at last. Lo! the dark bridegroom waits! No festal choir Shall grace his destined hour, no dance, no lyre!

Far best were ne'er to be, I 2 But, having seen the day, Next best by far for each to flee As swiftly as each may, Yonder from whence he came: For once let Youth be there With her light fooleries, who shall name The unnumbered brood of Care? No trial spared, no fall! Feuds, battles, murders, rage, Envy, and last of all, Despised, dim, friendless age! Ay, there all evils, crowded in one room, Each at his worst of ill, augment the gloom.

Such lot is mine, and round this man of woe, II --As some grey headland of a northward shore Bears buffets of all-wintry winds that blow,-- New storms of Fate are bursting evermore In thundrous billows, borne Some from the waning light, Some through mid-noon, some from the rising morn, Some from the realm of Night.

ANT. Ah! Who comes here? Sure 'tis the Argive man Approaching hitherward, weeping amain. And, father, it is he!

OED. Whom dost thou mean?

ANT. The same our thoughts have dwelt on all this while, Polynices. He is here.

POLYNICES. What shall I do? I stand in doubt which first I should lament, My own misfortune or my father's woe, Whom here I find an outcast in his age With you, my sisters, in the stranger land, Clothed in such raiment, whose inveterate filth Horridly clings, wasting his reverend form, While the grey locks over the eye-reft brow Wave all unkempt upon the ruffling breeze. And likewise miserable appears the store He bears to nourish that time-wasted frame. Wretch that I am! Too late I learn the truth, And here give witness to mine own disgrace, Which is as deep as thy distress. Myself Declare it. Ask not others of my guilt. But seeing that Zeus on his almighty throne Keeps Mercy in all he doth to counsel him, Thou, too, my father, let her plead with thee! The evil that is done may yet be healed; It cannot be augmented. Art thou silent? O turn not from me, father! Speak but once! Wilt thou not answer, but with shame dismiss me Voiceless, nor make known wherefore thou art wroth? O ye his daughters, one with me in blood, Say, will not ye endeavour to unlock The stern lips of our unrelenting sire? Let him not thus reject in silent scorn Without response the suppliant of Heaven!

ANT. Thyself, unhappy one, say why thou camest. Speech ofttimes, as it flows, touching some root Of pity or joy, or even of hate, hath stirred The dumb to utterance.

POL. I will tell my need:-- First claiming for protector the dread God From whose high altar he who rules this land Hath brought me under safe-guard of his power, Scatheless to speak and hear and go my way. His word, I am well assured, will be made good, Strangers, by you, and by my sisters twain, And by our sire.--Now let me name mine errand. I am banished, father, from our native land, Because, being elder-born, I claimed to sit Upon thy sovereign throne. For this offence Eteocles, thy younger son, exíled me, Not having won the advantage in debate Or trial of manhood, but through guileful art Gaining the people's will. Whereof I deem Thy Fury the chief author; and thereto Prophetic voices also testify. For when I had come to Dorian Argolis, I raised, through marriage with Adrastus' child, An army bound in friendly league with me, Led by the men who in the Apian land Hold first pre-eminence and honour in war, With whose aid levying all that mighty host Of seven battalions, I have deeply sworn Either to die, or drive from Theban ground Those who such wrongs have wrought. So far, so well. But why come hither? Father, to crave thine aid With earnest supplication for myself And for my firm allies, who at this hour, Seven leaders of seven bands embattled there, Encompass Thebè's plain. Amphiaráus, Foremost in augury, foremost in war, First wields his warlike spear. Next, Oeneus' son, Aetolian Tydeus; then Etéoclus Of Argive lineage; fourth, Hippomedon, Sent by his father Tálaüs, and the fifth Is Capancus, who brags he will destroy Thebè with desolating fire. The sixth, Parthonopaeus, from the Arcadian glen Comes bravely down, swift Atalanta's child, Named from his mother's lingering maidenhood Ere she conceived him. And the seventh am I, Thy son, or if not thine, but the dire birth Of evil Destiny, yet named thy son, Who lead this dauntless host from Argolis Against the Theban land. Now one and all We pray thee on our knees, conjuring thee As thou dost love these maids and thine own life, My father, to forgive me, ere I go To be revenged upon my brother there Who drave me forth and robbed me of my throne. If aught in prophecy deserves belief, 'Tis certain, whom thou favourest, those shall win. Now by the wells whereof our fathers drank And by the Gods they worshipped, hear our prayer, Grant this petition: since alike in woe, Alike in poverty and banishment, Partakers of one destiny, thou and I Cringe to the stranger for a dwelling place. Whilst he at home, the tyrant, woe is me, Laughs at us both in soft luxurious pride. Whose might, so thou wilt favour my design, I will lightly scatter in one little hour; And plant thee in thy Theban palace home Near to myself, hurling the usurper forth. All this with thy consent I shall achieve, But without thee, I forfeit life and all.

CH. For his sake who hath brought him, Oedipus, Say what is meet, and let him go in peace.

OED. Ay, were it not the lord of all this land Theseus, that brought him to me and desired He might hear words from me,--never again Had these tones fallen upon his ear. But now That boon is granted him: he shall obtain, Ere he depart, such utterance of my tongue, As ne'er shall give him joy,--ne'er comfort thee, Villain, who when possessed of the chief power Which now thy brother holds o'er Theban land, Didst banish me, thy father, who stand here, To live in exile, clothed with such attire, That moves thy tears now that thine own estate Is fallen into like depth of struggling woe. But tears are bootless. Howsoe'er I live, I must endure, and hold thee still my murderer. 'Tis thou hast girt me round with misery, 'Tis thou didst drive me forth, and driven by thee I beg my bread, a wandering sojourner. Yea, had these daughters not been born to me To tend me, I were dead, for all thou hast done. They have rescued, they have nursed me. They are men, Not women, in the strength of ministry. Ye are another's, not my sons--For this The eye of Destiny pursues thee still Eager to light on thee with instant doom If once that army move toward the town Of ancient Thebes,--the _town_, no dearer name, 'City' or 'Country' shall beseem thy lip Till ye both fall, stained with fraternal gore Long since I launched that curse against you twain Which here again I summon to mine aid, That ye may learn what duty children owe To a parent, nor account it a light thing That ye were cruel sons to your blind sire. These maidens did not so. Wherefore my curse Prevails against thy prayer for Thebe's throne, If ancient Zeus, the eternal lawgiver, Have primal Justice for his counsellor. Begone, renounced and fatherless for me, And take with thee, vilest of villanous men, This imprecation:--Vain be thine attempt In levying war against thy father's race, Frustrate be thy return to Argos' vale: Die foully by a fratricidal hand And foully slay him who hath banished thee! Further, I bid the horror breathing gloom Tartarean, of the vault that holds my sire, To banish thee from that last home: I invoke The Spirits who haunt this ground, and the fierce God Who hath filled you both with this unnatural hate.-- Go now with all this in thine ears, and tell The people of Cadmus and thy firm allies In whom thou trustest, what inheritance Oedipus hath divided to his sons.

CH. 'Tis pity for thee, prince, to have come at all; And now we bid thee go the way thou camest.

POL. Alas! Vain enterprise, and hope undone! Oh, my poor comrades! To what fatal end I led you forth from Argos, woe is me! I may not tell it you,--no, nor return. In silence I must go to meet my doom. Daughters of this inexorable sire, Since now ye have heard his cruel curse on me, Ah! in Heaven's name, my sisters, do not you Treat me despitefully, but if, one day, Our father's execration is fulfilled And ye shall be restored to Theban ground, Grace me with funeral honours and a tomb! So shall this ample praise which ye receive For filial ministration, in that day Be more than doubled through your care for me.

ANT. Brother, I beg thee, listen to my prayer!

POL. Dearest Antigone, speak what thou wilt.

ANT. Turn back thy host to Argos with all speed, And ruin not thyself and Thebè too.

POL. Impossible. If once I shrink for fear, No longer may I lead them to the war.

ANT. But why renew thy rage? What benefit Comes to thee from o'erturning thine own land?

POL. 'Tis shameful to remain in banishment, And let my brother mock my right of birth.

ANT. Then seest thou not how true unto their aim Our father's prophecies of mutual death Against you both are sped?

POL. He speaks his wish. 'Tis not for me to yield.

ANT. O me, unhappy! But who that hears the deep oracular sound Of his dark words, will dare to follow thee?

POL. They will not hear of danger from my mouth. Wise generals tell of vantage, not of bale.

ANT. Art thou then so resolved, O brother mine?

POL. I am. Retard me not! I must attend To my dark enterprise, blasted and foiled Beforehand by my father's angry curse. But as for you, Heaven prosper all your way, If ye will show this kindness in my death, For nevermore in life shall ye befriend me! Nay, cling to me no longer. Fare ye well. Ye will behold my living form no more.

ANT. O misery!

POL. Bewail me not.

ANT. And who That saw thee hurrying forth to certain death Would not bewail thee, brother?

POL. If Fate wills, Why, I must die.

ANT. Nay, but be ruled by me.

POL. Give me not craven counsel.

ANT. Woe is me, To lose thee!

POL. Heaven hath power to guide the event Or thus or otherwise. Howe'er it prove, I pray that ye may ne'er encounter ill. All men may know, ye merit nought but good. [_Exit. The sky is overcast--a storm is threatened_

CHORUS. New trouble, strange trouble, deep laden with doom, I 1 From the sight-bereft stranger seems dimly to loom! Or peers Fate through the gloom? She will move toward her mark or through shining or shade; Since no purpose of Gods ever idly was made. Time sees the fulfilment, who lifteth to-day What was lowly, and trampleth the lofty to clay. Thunder! Heavens! what a sound!

OED. My children! Would but some one in the place Haste hither Theseus, noblest among men!

ANT. Wherefore, my father? What is thy desire?

OED. These winged thunders of the Highest will soon Bear me away to the Unseen. Send quickly!

CHORUS. Again, yonder crash through the fire-startled air I 2 Wing'd from Zeus, rushes down, till my thin locks of hair, Stiff with fear, upward stare. My soul shrinks and cowers, for yon gleam from on high Darts again! Ne'er in vain hath it leapt from the sky, But flies forth amain to what task Zeus hath given. I fear the unknown fatal edict of Heaven! Lightning glares all around!

OED. My daughters, the divinely promised end Here unavoidably descends on me.

ANT. How dost thou know it? By what certain sign?

OED. I know it perfectly. Let some one go With speed to bring the lord of Athens hither.

CHORUS. Great Heaven, how above me, beside me, around, II 1 Peals redoubled the soul-thrilling sound! O our God, to this land, to our mother, if aught Thou wouldst send with some darkness of destiny fraught, Smile gently once more! With the good let me bear What of fortune soe'er,-- Taste no cup, touch no food, the doomed sinner may share. Zeus, to thee, Lord, I cry!

OED. Is the King coming? Will he find me alive, My daughters, and with reason undisturbed?

ANT. Say wherefore dost thou crave with such desire The clearness of an undistracted mind?

OED. I would fully render from a grateful soul The boon I promised, when I gained my suit.

CHORUS (_looking towards Athens_). Come, my chief! come with speed! Or, if haply at hand, II 2 On the height where the curved altars stand, Thou art hallowing with oxen in sacrifice slain Yonder shrine of Poseidon, dread lord of the main, Hie thee hither! Be swift! The blind stranger intends To thee, to thy friends, To thy city, for burdens imposed, just amends. Haste thee, King! Hear our cry!

_Enter_ THESEUS.

THE. Why sounds again from hence your joint appeal, Wherein the stranger's voice is loudly heard? Is it some lightning-bolt new-fallen from Zeus, Or cloud-born hail that is come rattling down? From Heavens so black with storm nought can surprise.

OED. Prince, thou art come to my desire. Some God Hath happily directed this thy way.

THE. What is befallen? Son of Laius, tell!

OED. My path slopes downward, and before my death I would confirm to Athens and to thee My promised boon.

THE. What sign dost thou perceive That proves thine end so near?

OED. The Gods themselves With herald voices are proclaiming it, Nought failing of the fore-appointed signs.

THE. What are these tokens, aged monarch, say?

OED. The loud continual thunder, and the darts That flash in volleys from the unconquered hand.

THE. I may not doubt thee; for thy speech, I feel, Hath ample witness of prophetic power. What must I do?

OED. I will instruct thee now, Aegeus' great son! in rites that shall remain An ageless treasure to thy countrymen. I will presently, with no man guiding me, Conduct thee to the spot, where I must die. This is thy secret, not to be revealed To any one of men, or where 'tis hid Or whereabout it lies. So through all time This neighbouring[3] mound shall yield thee mightier aid Than many a shield and help of alien spears. More shalt thou learn, too sacred to divulge, When yonder thou art come thyself alone. Since to none other of these citizens Nor even unto the children of my love May I disclose it. 'Tis for thee to keep Inviolate while thou livest, and when thy days Have ending, breathe it to the foremost man Alone, and he in turn unto the next Successively. So shalt thou ever hold Athens unravaged by the dragon brood[4]. Cities are numberless, and any one May lightly insult even those who dwell secure. For the eye of Heaven though late yet surely sees When, casting off respect, men turn to crime. Erechtheus' heir! let that be far from thee! A warning needless to a man so wise! Now go we--for this leading of the God Is urgent--to the place, nor loiter more. This way, my children! follow me! For I Am now your guide, as ye were mine. Come on! Nay, touch me not, but leave me of myself To find the holy sepulchre, wherein This form must rest beneath Athenian soil. Come this way! Come! This way are leading me Guide Hermes and the Queen of realms below. O Light, all dark to me! In former time Bright seemed thy shining! Now thy latest ray Sheds vital influence o'er this frame. I go To hide the close of my disastrous life With Hades. Kind Athenian friend, farewell! May'st thou, thy followers, and this glorious land Be happy, and in your endless happiness Remember him who blessed you in his death. [_Exeunt_

CHORUS. Prince of the Powers Unseen, 1 Durst we with prayers adore Thee and thy viewless Queen, Your aid, Aidôneus, would our lips implore! By no harsh-sounding doom Let him we love descend, With calm and cloudless end, In deep Plutonian dwelling evermore To abide among the people of the tomb! Long worn with many an undeservèd woe, Just Gods will give thee glory there below.

Dread Forms, who haunt this floor, 2 And thou, the Unconquered Beast, That hugely liest at rest By the dim shining adamantine door, --Still from thy cavernous lair Gnarling, so legends tell, A tameless guard of Hell,-- Mayest thou this once thy vigilance forbear, And leave large room for him now entering there. Hear us, great Son of Darkness and the Deep; On thee we call, God of the dreamless sleep!

_Enter_ Messenger.

MESS. Athenian citizens, my briefest tale Were to say singly, Oedipus is gone; But to describe the scene enacted yonder Craves no brief speech, nor was the action brief.

CH. Then he is gone! Poor man!

MESS. Know it once for all, He hath left eternally the light of day.

CH. Poor soul! What? Ended he with peace divine?

MESS. Ay, there is the main marvel. How he moved From hence, thou knowest, for thou too wert here, And saw'st that of his friends none guided him, But he they loved was leader to them all. Now, when he came to the steep pavement, rooted With adamant foundation deep in Earth, On one of many paths he took his stand Near the stone basin, where Peirithoüs And Theseus graved their everlasting league. There, opposite the mass of Laurian ore, Turned from the hollow pear-tree and the tomb Of marble, he sate down, and straight undid His travel-soiled attire, then called aloud On both his children, and bade some one fetch Pure water from a running stream. And they, Hasting together to the neighbouring hill Of green Demeter, goddess of the Spring, Brought back their sire's commission speedily, And bathed, and clothed him with the sacred robe. When he was satisfied, and nothing now Remained undone of all he bade them do, The God of darkness thundered, and the maids Stood horror-stricken on hearing; then together Fell at their father's knees and wept and wailed Loudly and long with beating of the breast. He, when that sound of sorrow pierced his ear, Caressed them in his arms and said:--'My daughters, From this day forth you have no more a father. All that was mine is ended, and no longer Shall ye continue your hard ministry Of labour for my life.--And yet, though hard, Not unendurable, since all the toil Was rendered light through love, which ye can never Receive on earth so richly, as from him Bereaved of whom ye now shall live forlorn.' Such was the talk, mingled with sobs and crying, As each clung fast to each. But when they came To an end of weeping and those sounds were stilled, First all was silent; then a sudden voice Hurried him onward, making each man's hair Bristle on end with force of instant fear. Now here, now there, not once but oftentimes, A God called loudly, 'Oedipus, Oedipus! Why thus delay our going? This long while We are stayed for and thou tarriest. Come away!' He, when he knew the summons of the God, Gave word for royal Theseus to go near; And when he came, said: 'Friend for ever kind, Reach thy right hand, I pray thee (that first pledge) To these my children:--daughters, yours to him!-- And give thy sacred word that thou wilt never Betray these willingly: but still perform All that thou mayest with true thought for their good.' He, with grand calmness like his noble self, Promised on oath to keep this friendly bond. And when he had done so, Oedipus forthwith Stroking his children with his helpless hands Spake thus:--'My daughters, you must steel your hearts To noble firmness, and depart from hence, Nor ask to see or hear forbidden things. Go, go at once! Theseus alone must stay Sole rightful witness of these mysteries.' Those accents were the last we all might hear. Then, following the two maids, with checkless tears And groans we took our way. But by and by, At distance looking round, we saw,--not him, Who was not there,--but Theseus all alone Holding his hand before his eyes, as if Some apparition unendurable Had dazed his vision. In a little while, We marked him making reverence in one prayer To the Earth, and to the home of Gods on high. But by what fate He perished, mortal man, Save Theseus, none can say. No lightning-flash From heaven, no tempest rising from the deep, Caused his departure in that hour, but either Some messenger from heaven, or, from beneath, The lower part of Earth, where comes no pain, Opening kindly to receive him in. Not to be mourned, nor with a tearful end Of sickness was he taken from the Earth, But wondrously, beyond recorded fate. If any deem my words unwise, I care not In that man's judgement to be counted wise.

CH. Where are those maidens and their escort? Say.

MESS. They are not far off, but here. The voice of weeping Betokens all too plainly their approach.

ANT. Alas! How manifold, the inheritance of woe Drawn from the troubled fountain of our birth! Indelible, ineradicable grief! For him erewhile We had labour infinite and unrelieved, And now in his last hour we have to tell Of sights and sorrows beyond thought.

CH. How then?

ANT. Friends, ye might understand.

CH. Speak. Is he gone?

ANT. Gone! Even as heart could wish, had wishes power. How else, when neither war, nor the wide sea Encountered him, but viewless realms enwrapt him, Wafted away to some mysterious doom? Whence on our hearts a horror of night is fallen. Woe 's me! For whither wandering shall we find Hard livelihood, by land or over sea?

ISM. I know not. Let dark Hades take me off To lie in death with mine age honoured sire! Death were far better than my life to be.

CH. Noblest of maidens, ye must learn to bear Meekly the sending of the Gods. Be not On fire with grief. Your state is well assured.

ANT. If to be thus is well, then may one long For evil to return. Things nowise dear Were dear to me, whiles I had him to embrace. O father! loved one! that art wearing now The eternal robe of darkness underground, Old as thou wert, think not this maid and I Will cease from loving thee!

CH. He met his doom.

ANT. He met the doom he longed for.

CH. How was that?

ANT. In the strange land where he desired to die He died. He rests in shadow undisturbed; Nor hath he left a tearless funeral. For these mine eyes, father, unceasingly Mourn thee with weeping, nor can I subdue This ever-mounting sorrow for thy loss. Ah me! Would thou hadst not desired to die Here among strangers, but alone with thee There, in the desert, I had seen thee die!

ISM. Unhappy me! What destiny, dear girl, Awaits us both, bereaved and fatherless?

CH. His end was fortunate. He rests in peace. Dear maidens, then desist from your complaint. Sorrow is swift to overtake us all.

ANT. Thither again, dear girl, let us go speedily!

ISM. Say, for what end?

ANT. Desire possesses me--

ISM. Whereof?

ANT. To see the darksome dwelling-place--

ISM. Of whom?

ANT. Woe is me! Of him, our sire!

ISM. But how Can this be lawful? Seest thou not?

ANT. How say'st thou? Why this remonstrance?

ISM. Seest thou not, again, He hath no grave and no man buried him.

ANT. Take me but where he lies. Then slay me there.

ISM. Ah! woe is me, doubly unfortunate, Forlorn and destitute, whither henceforth For wretched comfort must we go?

CH. Fear nought, Dear maidens!

ISM. Where shall we find refuge?

CH. Here, Long since, your refuge is secure.

ANT. How so?

CH. No harm shall touch you.

ANT. I know that.

CH. What then Further engrosseth thee?

ANT. How to get home I know not.

CH. Seek not for it.

ANT. Weariness O'erweighs me.

CH. Hath it not before oppressed thee?

ANT. Before, it vexed me; now it overwhelms.

CH. A mighty sea of misery is your lot.

ANT. Woe is me! O Zeus! And whither must we go? Unto what doom doth my Fate drive me now?

CH. Children, lament no longer. 'Tis not well To mourn 'mongst those with whom the honoured dead Hath left the heirloom of his benison.

_Enter_ THESEUS.

ANT. Theseus, behold us falling at thy feet.

THE. What boon, my children, are ye bent to obtain?

ANT. Our eyes would see our father's burial-place.

THE. 'Tis not permitted to go near that spot.

ANT. O Athens' sovereign lord, what hast thou said?

THE. Dear children, 'twas your father's spoken will That no man should approach his resting-place, Nor human voice should ever violate The mystery of the tomb wherein he lies. He promised, if I truly kept this word, My land would evermore be free from harm. The power which no man may transgress and live, The oath of Zeus, bore witness to our troth.

ANT. His wishes are enough. Then, pray thee, send An escort to convey us to our home, Primeval Thebes, if so we may prevent The death that menaces our brethren there.

THE. That will I; and in all that I may do To prosper you and solace him beneath,-- Who even now passes to eternity,-- I must not falter. Come, lament no more. His destiny hath found a perfect end.

* * * * *

NOTES

SOME PROPER NAMES

AIDONEUS, Hades or Pluto. ARES, The War-God, a destructive Power. DEO, Demeter. ERINYES, the Furies. HELIOS, The Sun-God. RHEA, the Mother of the Gods. THEBE, the town of Thebes personified.

ANTIGONE.

1 P. 6, l. 126. _The serpent._ The dragon, the emblem of Thebes.

2 l. 130. _Idly caparisoned._ Reading [Greek: huperopliais].

3 P. 7, l. 140. _Self-harnessed helper._ An allusion to the [Greek: seiraphoros], or side trace-horse, in a chariot-race.

4 P. 13, l. 342. _Children of the steed._ Mules are so-called by Homer.

5 P. 30, l. 955. _Dryas' hasty son._ Lycurgus. See Homer, _Iliad_, vi.

6 l. 971. _Phineus' two sons._ Idothea, the second wife of Phineus, persecuted his two sons by Cleopatra, a daughter of Boreas, whom he had repudiated and immured. The Argonauts saw them in the condition here described.

7 P. 34, l. 1120. _The all-gathering bosom wide._ The plain of Eleusis, where mysteries were held in honour of Dêo or Demeter.

8 P. 39, l. 1301. Reading [Greek: *oxuthêktô ... peri*xiphei].

9 l. 1303. _The glorious bed of buried Megareus._ Megareus, son of Creon and Eurydice, sacrificed himself for Thebes by falling into a deep cave called the Dragon's Lair.

AIAS.

1 P. 48, l. 172. _Her blood-stained temple._ In some of her temples Artemis was worshipped with sacrifices of bulls, and, according to an old tradition, also with human sacrifices.

2 P. 49. l. 190. _The brood of Sisyphus._ Amongst his enemies, Odysseus was reputed to be the offspring of Sisyphus and not of Laertes.

3 P. 59, l. 574. _Named of the shield._ Eurysakes means Broadshield.

4 P. 71, l. 1011. _Who smiles no more._ Compare a fragment of the _Teucer_ of Sophocles (519, Nauck),

'How vain then, O my son, How vain was my delight in thy proud fame, While I supposed thee living! The fell Fury From her dark shroud beguiled me with sweet lies.'

KING OEDIPUS.

1 P. 86, l. 36. _That stern songstress._ The Sphinx. See also 'minstrel hound.'

2 P. 96, l. 402. _Will hunt | Pollution forth._ The party cry of 'driving out the pollution' was raised against the Alcmaeonidae and other families in Athens, who were supposed to lie under a traditional curse.

3 P. 99. l. 525. _Who durst declare it._ [Greek: Tou pros d' ephanthê]. Though the emphatic order of words is unusual, this seems more forcible than the var. [Greek: toupos d' ephanthe].

4 P. 102, l. 625. [CR. _You'll ne'er relent nor listen to my plea._] A line has here been lost in the original.

5 P. 113, l. 1025. _Your purchase or your child?_ Oedipus is not to be supposed to have weighed the import of the Corinthian shepherd's words, 'Nor I nor he,' &c., _supra_.

6 P. 128. l. 1526. _His envied fortune mounted beaming._ Reading [Greek: en zêlô politôn] (with 2 MSS) and [Greek: epiphlegôn] from my conjecture.

ELECTRA.

1 P. 131, l. 6. _The wolf-slaying God._ Apollo Lyceius, from _Lycos_, a wolf.

2 P. 140, l. 363. _Ne'er be it mine,_ &c. Reading [Greek: toume mê *lupoun monon | boskêma].

3 P. 143, l. 451. _That lingers on my brow._ A somewhat forced interpretation of [Greek: tênde liparê tricha]. Possibly [Greek: tênd' alamprunton tricha]: 'And this--unkempt and poor--yet give it to him.'

4 P. 144, l. 504. _Chariot course of Pelops, full of toil._ Pelops won his bride Hippodameia by bribing Myrtilus, his charioteer; whom, in order to conceal his fault, he flung into the sea.

5 P. 150, l. 722. _That pulled the side-rope._ See on Ant., p. 7, l. 140.

6 l. 151. _In letting loose again the left-hand rein._ The near horse (see above) knows his business, and, when the slackening of the rein shows that the goal is cleared, makes eagerly for the direct downward course. But if he is let go an instant too soon, he brings the car into contact with the stone.

7 l. 746. _Caught in the reins._ In an ancient chariot-race, the reins were often passed round the body of the charioteer, so as to give more purchase. See this described in the _Hippolytus_ of Euripides.

8 P. 154, l. 837. _One in a woman's toils | was tangled._ Amphiaraus, betrayed by Eriphyle for a necklace.

9 P. 160, l. 1085. _Through homeless misery._ I read [Greek: aiôn' aoikon] for [Greek: aiôna koinon] of the MSS.

10 l. 1086. _Purging the sin and shame._ I read [Greek: kathagnisasa] for the impossible [Greek: kathoplisasa].

11 P. 172, l. 1478. _Thou hast been taking,_ &c. Otherwise, reading with the MSS [Greek: zôn tois thanousin ounek' antaudas isa], _At point to die, thou art talking with the dead._

TRACHINIAN MAIDENS.

1 P. 180, l. 104. _Bride of battle-wooing._ 'Dêanira' signifies 'Cause of strife to heroes.'

2 P. 185, l. 303. _Ne'er may I see thee._ The Spartan captives from Pylos had lately been at Athens, and some of them were reputed descendants of Hyllus, the son of Dêanira.

3 P. 195, l. 654. _Frees him for ever._ His last contest brings his final deliverance.

4 P. 201, l. 860. _From Love's dread minister,_ i.e. from Aphrodite, working through the concealed and silent Iole.

PHILOCTETES.

1 P. 222, l. 194. _Through Chrysa's cruel sting._ Chrysa was an island near the Troad, sacred to a goddess of the name. Her precinct was guarded by a serpent, whose bite, from which Philoctetes suffered, was incurable. See below p. 254, l. 1327.

2 P. 226, l. 344. _The fosterer of my sire._ Phoenix, the tutor of Achilles.

3 P. 227, l. 351. _For I ne'er | Had seen him._ The legend which makes Achilles go to Troy from Scyros is probably ignored.

4 l. 384. _Vile offset of an evil tree._ Alluding to the supposed birth of Odysseus. See on Ai., l. 190, p. 60 [sic. should be p. 49].

5 P. 230, l. 489. _Of old Chalcodon._ One of the former generation, a friend and neighbour of Poeas the father of Philoctetes.

6 P. 237, l. 729. _Of him, whose home is in the skies._ Heracles, imagined as transfigured on Mount Oeta.

7 P. 254, l. 1328. _The sky-roofed fold._ The open precinct that was sacred to the goddess, merely surrounded by a wall. See above, note on p. 222, l. 194.

8 P. 255, l. 1333. _Phoebus' child._ Asclepius.

OEDIPUS AT COLONOS.

1 P. 265, l. 158. _Mingles with draughts,_ &c. Where libations are mixed of water and honey.

2 P. 288, l. 888. _The God._ Poseidon. See above, p. 282 [sic. should be p. 262], l. 55.

3 P. 306, l. 1525. _neighbouring._ [Greek: geitonôn] (the participle).

4 l. 1534. _The dragon-brood._ The Cadmeian race at Thebes, sprung from the dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus.

N.B.--For other questionable points the student is referred to the small edition of _Sophocles_, by Campbell and Abbott (2 vols., Clarendon Press, 1900).

Oxford: HORACE HART, Printer to the University.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Seven Plays in English Verse, by Sophocles