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Part V
Part V
Strophe
Chor. O Love, in every battle victor owned;
Love, now assailing wealth and lordly state,
Now on a girl`s soft cheek,
Slumbering the livelong night;
Now wandering o`er the sea,
And now in shepherd`s folds;
The Undying Ones have no escape from thee,
Nor men whose lives are measured as a day;
And who has thee is mad.
Antistrophe
Thou makest vile the purpose of the just,
To his own fatal harm;
Thou stirrest up this fierce and deadly strife,
Of men of nearest kin;
The glowing eyes of bride beloved and fair
Reign, crowned with victory,
And dwell on high among the powers that rule,
Equal with holiest laws;
For Aphrodite, she whom none subdues,
Sports in her might divine.
I, even I, am borne
Beyond the bounds of right;
I look on this, and cannot stay
The fountain of my tears.
For, lo! I see her, see Antigone
Wind her sad, lonely way
To that dread chamber where is room for all.
Antig. Yes! O ye men of this my fatherland,
Ye see me on my way,
Life`s last long journey, gazing on the sun,
His last rays watching, now and nevermore;
Alone he leads me, who has room for all,
Hades, the Lord of Death,
To Acheron`s dark shore,
With neither part nor lot in marriage rites,
No marriage hymn resounding in my ears,
But Acheron shall claim me as his bride.
Chor. And hast thou not all honour, worthiest praise,
Who goest to the home that hides the dead,
Not smitten by the sickness that decays,
Nor by the sword`s sharp edge,
But of thine own free will, in fullest life,
To Hades tak`st thy way?
Antig. I heard of old her pitiable end,
Where Sipylus rears high its lofty crag,
The Phrygian daughter of a stranger land,
Whom Tantalus begot;
Whom growth of rugged rock,
Clinging as ivy clings,
Subdued, and made its own:
And now, so runs the tale,
There, as she melts in shower,
The snow abideth aye,
And still bedews yon cliffs that lie below
Those brows that ever weep.
With fate like hers doth Fortune bring me low.
Chor. Godlike in nature, godlike, too, in birth,
Was she of whom thou tell`st,
And we are mortals, born of mortal seed.
And, lo! for one who liveth but to die,
To gain like doom with those of heavenly race
Is great and strange to hear.
Antig. Ye mock me, then. Alas! Why wait ye not?
By all our fathers` Gods, I ask of you,
Why wait ye not till I have passed away,
But flout me while I live?
O city that I love, O men that dwell,
That city`s wealthiest lords,
O Dirke, fairest fount,
O grove of Thebes, that boasts her chariot host,
I take you all to witness, look and see,
How, with no friends to weep,
By what stern laws condemned,
I go to that strong dungeon of the tomb,
For burial new and strange.
Oh, miserable me!
Whom neither mortal men nor spirits own,
Nor those that live, nor those that fall asleep.
Chor. Forward and forward still to farthest verge
Of daring hast thou gone,
And now, O child, thou fallest heavily
Where Right erects her throne;
Surely thou payest to the uttermost
Thy father`s debt of guilt.
Antig. Ah! thou hast touched the quick of all my grief,
The thrice-told tale of all my father`s woe,
The fate which dogs us all,
The race of Labdacus of ancient fame.
Woe for the curses dire
Of that defiled bed,
With foulest incest stained,
Whence I myself have sprung, most miserable.
And now, I go to them,
To sojourn in the grave,
Bound by a curse, unwed;
Ah, brother, thou didst find
Thy marriage fraught with ill,
And in thy death hast smitten down my life.
Chor. Acts reverent and devout
May claim devotion`s name,
But power, in one who cares to keep his power,
May never be defied;
And thee thy stubborn mood,
Self-chosen, layeth low.
Antig. Unwept, without a friend,
Unwed, and whelmed in woe,
I journey on the road that open lies.
No more shall it be mine (O misery!)
To look upon the holy eye of day,
And yet, of all my friends,
Not one bewails my fate,
No kindly tear is shed.
Enter Creon
Creon. And know ye not, if men can vantage gain
By songs and wailings at the hour of death,
That they will never stop? Lead, lead her on,
And, as I said, without delay immure
In yon cavernous tomb, and then depart.
Leave her, or lone and desolate to die,
Or, living, in the tomb to find her home.
Our hands are clean in all that touches her;
But she no more shall sojourn here with us.
Antig. [turning towards the cavern] O tomb, my bridal chamber, vaulted
home,
Guarded right well for ever, where I go
To join mine own, of whom, of all that die,
As most in number Persephassa owns;
And I, of all the last and lowest, wend
My way below, life`s little span unfilled.
And yet I go, and feed myself with hopes
That I shall meet them, by my father loved,
Dear to my mother, well-beloved of thee,
Thou dearest brother: I, with these my hands,
Washed each dear corpse, arrayed you, poured the stream,
In rites of burial. And in care for thee,
Thy body, Polynices, honouring,
I gain this recompense. And yet `twas well;
I had not done it had I come to be
A mother with her children, - had not dared,
Though `twere a husband dead that mouldered there,
Against my country`s will to bear this toil,
and dost thou ask what law constrained me thus?
I answer, had I lost a husband dear,
I might have had another; other sons
By other spouse, if one were lost to me;
But when my father and my mother sleep
In Hades, then no brother more can come.
And therefore, giving thee the foremost place,
I seemed in Creon`s eyes, O brother dear,
To sin in boldest daring. So himself,
He leads me, having taken me by force,
Cut off from marriage bed and marriage feast,
Untasting wife`s true joy, or mother`s bliss,
With infant at her breast, but all forlorn,
Bereaved of friends, in utter misery,
Alive, I tread the chambers of the dead.
What law of Heaven have I transgressed against?
What use for me, ill-starred one, still to look
To any God for succour, or to call
On any friend for aid? For holiest deed
I bear this charge of rank unholiness.
If acts like these the Gods on high approve,
We, taught by suffering, own that we have sinned;
But if they sin [looking at Creon], I pray they suffer not
Worse evils than the wrongs they do to me.
Chor. Still do the same wild blasts
Vex her poor storm-tossed soul.
Creon. Therefore shall these her guards
Weep sore for this delay.
Antig. Ah me! this word of thine
Tells of death drawing nigh.
Creon. I cannot bid thee hope
That other fate is thine.
Antig. O citadel of Thebes, my native land,
Ye Gods of old renown,
I go, and linger not.
Behold me. O ye senators of Thebes,
The last, love scion of the kingly race,
What things I suffer, and from whom they come,
Revering still where reverence most is due.
[Guards lead Antigone away.
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