Part 24

ISMENE. Grievous thy words, yet I must own them true.

OEDIPUS. Then may the gods ne’er quench their fatal feud, And mine be the arbitrament of the fight, For which they now are arming, spear to spear; That neither he who holds the scepter now May keep this throne, nor he who fled the realm Return again. They never raised a hand, When I their sire was thrust from hearth and home, When I was banned and banished, what recked they? Say you ’twas done at my desire, a grace Which the state, yielding to my wish, allowed? Not so; for, mark you, on that very day When in the tempest of my soul I craved Death, even death by stoning, none appeared To further that wild longing, but anon, When time had numbed my anguish and I felt My wrath had all outrun those errors past, Then, then it was the city went about By force to oust me, respited for years; And then my sons, who should as sons have helped, Did nothing: and, one little word from them Was all I needed, and they spoke no word, But let me wander on for evermore, A banished man, a beggar. These two maids Their sisters, girls, gave all their sex could give, Food and safe harborage and filial care; While their two brethren sacrificed their sire For lust of power and sceptred sovereignty. No! me they ne’er shall win for an ally, Nor will this Theban kingship bring them gain; That know I from this maiden’s oracles, And those old prophecies concerning me, Which Phoebus now at length has brought to pass. Come Creon then, come all the mightiest In Thebes to seek me; for if ye my friends, Championed by those dread Powers indigenous, Espouse my cause; then for the State ye gain A great deliverer, for my foemen bane.

CHORUS. Our pity, Oedipus, thou needs must move, Thou and these maidens; and the stronger plea Thou urgest, as the savior of our land, Disposes me to counsel for thy weal.

OEDIPUS. Aid me, kind sirs; I will do all you bid.

CHORUS. First make atonement to the deities, Whose grove by trespass thou didst first profane.

OEDIPUS. After what manner, stranger? Teach me, pray.

CHORUS. Make a libation first of water fetched With undefiled hands from living spring.

OEDIPUS. And after I have gotten this pure draught?

CHORUS. Bowls thou wilt find, the carver’s handiwork; Crown thou the rims and both the handles crown—

OEDIPUS. With olive shoots or blocks of wool, or how?

CHORUS. With wool from fleece of yearling freshly shorn.

OEDIPUS. What next? how must I end the ritual?

CHORUS. Pour thy libation, turning to the dawn.

OEDIPUS. Pouring it from the urns whereof ye spake?

CHORUS. Yea, in three streams; and be the last bowl drained To the last drop.

OEDIPUS. And wherewith shall I fill it, Ere in its place I set it? This too tell.

CHORUS. With water and with honey; add no wine.

OEDIPUS. And when the embowered earth hath drunk thereof?

CHORUS. Then lay upon it thrice nine olive sprays With both thy hands, and offer up this prayer.

OEDIPUS. I fain would hear it; that imports the most.

CHORUS. That, as we call them Gracious, they would deign To grant the suppliant their saving grace. So pray thyself or whoso pray for thee, In whispered accents, not with lifted voice; Then go and look back. Do as I bid, And I shall then be bold to stand thy friend; Else, stranger, I should have my fears for thee.

OEDIPUS. Hear ye, my daughters, what these strangers say?

ANTIGONE. We listened, and attend thy bidding, father.

OEDIPUS. I cannot go, disabled as I am Doubly, by lack of strength and lack of sight; But one of you may do it in my stead; For one, I trow, may pay the sacrifice Of thousands, if his heart be leal and true. So to your work with speed, but leave me not Untended; for this frame is all too week To move without the help of guiding hand.

ISMENE. Then I will go perform these rites, but where To find the spot, this have I yet to learn.

CHORUS. Beyond this grove; if thou hast need of aught, The guardian of the close will lend his aid.

ISMENE. I go, and thou, Antigone, meanwhile Must guard our father. In a parent’s cause Toil, if there be toil, is of no account. [Exit ISMENE]

CHORUS. (Str. 1) Ill it is, stranger, to awake Pain that long since has ceased to ache, And yet I fain would hear—