|
Part VI
Part VI
Strophe I
Chor. So Danae`s form endured of old,
In brazen palace hid,
To lose the light of heaven,
And in her tomblike chamber was enclosed,
And yet high honour came to her, O child,
And on her flowed the golden shower of Zeus.
But great and dread the might of Destiny:
Nor tempest-storm, nor war,
Nor tower, nor dark-hulled ships
That sweep the sea, escape.
Antistrophe I
Bitter and sharp in mood,
The son of Dryas, king
Of yon Edonian tribes,
By Dionysus` hands,
Was shut in prison cave,
And so his frenzy wild and soul o`erbold
Waste slowly evermore.
And he was taught that he, with ribald tongue
In what wild frenzy, had attacked the Gods.
For fain had he the Maenad throng brought low,
And that bright flashing fire,
And roused the wrath of Muses sweet in song.
Strophe II
And by Kyanean waters` double sea
Are shores of Bosphorus, and Thracian isle,
As Salmydessus known, inhospitable,
Where Ares, God of all the region round,
Saw the accursed wound
That smote with blindness Phineus` twin-born sons
By a fierce stepdame`s hand, -
Dark wound, upon the dark-doomed eyeballs struck,
Not with the stroke of sword,
But blood-stained hands, on point of spindle sharp.
Antistrophe II
And they in misery, miserable fate
Lamenting, waste away,
Born of a mother wedded to a curse.
And she who claimed descent
From men of ancient fame,
The old Erechteid race,
Daughter of Boreas, in far distant caves
Amid her father`s woods,
Was reared, a child of Gods,
Swift moving as the steed, o`er lofty crag,
And yet, my child, on her
Bore down the Destinies,
Whose years are infinite.
Enter Teiresias, guided by a boy
Teir. Princess of Thebes, we come as travellers joined,
One seeing for both, for still the blind must use
A guide`s assistance to direct his steps.
Creon. And what new thing, Teiresias, brings thee here?
Teir. That I will tell thee, and do thou obey
The seer who speaks.
Creon. Of old I was not wont
To differ from thy judgment.
Teir. Therefore, well
And safely dost thou steer our good ship`s course.
Creon. I, from experience, bear my witness still
Of good derived from thee.
Teir. Bethink thee, them,
Thou walkest now upon a razor`s edge.
Creon. What means this? Lo! I shudder at thy speech.
Teir. Soon shalt thou know, as I unfold the signs
Of my dread art. For sitting, as of old,
Upon my ancient seat of augury,
Where every bird has access, lo! I hear
Strange cry of winged creatures, shouting shrill,
In clamour sharp and savage, and I knew
That they were tearing each the other`s breast
With bloody talons, for their whirring wings
Made that quite clear; and straightway I, in fear,
Made trial of the sacrifice that lay
On fiery altar. But the living flame
Shone not from out the offering; then there oozed
Upon the ashes, trickling from the bones,
A moisture, and it bubbled, and it spat,
And, lo! the gall was scattered to the air,
And forth from out the fat that wrapped them round,
The thigh joints fell. Such omens of decay
From strange mysterious rites I learnt from him,
This boy, who now stands here, for he is still
A guide to me, as I to others am.
And all this evil falls upon the state,
From out thy counsels; for our altars all,
Our sacred hearths, are full of food for dogs
And birds unclean, the flesh of that poor wretch
Who fell, the son of Cedipus. And so
The Gods no longer hear our solemn prayers,
Nor own the flame that burns the sacrifice;
Nor do the birds give cry of omen good,
But feed on carrion of a human corpse.
Think thou on this, my son: to err, indeed,
Is common unto all, but having erred,
He is no longer reckless or unblest,
Who, having fallen into evil, seeks
For healing, nor continues still unmoved.
Self-will must bear the guilt of stubbornness:
Yield to the dead, and outrage not a corpse.
What gain is it a fallen foe to slay?
Good counsel give I, planning good for thee;
And of all joys the sweetest is to learn
From one who speaketh well, should that bring gain.
Creon. Old man, as archers aiming at their mark,
So ye shoot forth your venomed darts at me;
I know your augur`s skill, and by your arts
Long since am tricked and sold. Yes, gain your gains,
Get precious bronze from Sardis, Indian gold,
That corpse ye shall not hide in any tomb.
Not though the eagles, birds of Zeus, should bear
Their carrion morsels to their master`s throne,
Not even fearing this pollution dire,
Will I consent to burial. Well I know
That man is powerless to pollute the Gods.
But many fall, Teiresias, dotard old,
A shameful fall, who gloze their shameful words,
For lucre`s sake, with surface show of good.
Teir. Ah, me! Does no man know, does none consider...
Creon. Consider what? What trite poor saw is this?
Teir. How far good counsel heaped-up wealth excels?
Creon. By just so far methinks the greatest hurt
Is sheer unwisdom.
Teir. Thou, at least, hast grown
From head to foot all full of that disease.
Creon. Loath am I with a prophet evil words
To bandy to and fro.
Teir. And yet thou dost so,
Saying that I utter speech that is not true.
Creon. The race of seers is ever fond of gold.
Teir. And that of tyrants loves the gain that comes
Of filthy lucre.
Creon. Art thou ignorant, then,
That what thou say`st, thou speak`st of those that rule?
Teir. I know it. `Twas from me thou hadst the state,
By me preserved.
Creon. Wise art thou as a seer,
But too much given to wrong and injury.
Teir. Thou wilt provoke me in my wrath to speak
Of things best left unspoken.
Creon. Speak them out!
Only take heed thou speak them not for gain.
Teir. And dost thou, then, already judge me thus?
Creon. Know that my judgment is not bought and sold.
Teir. Know, then, and know it well, that thou shalt see
Not many winding circuits of the sun,
Before thou giv`st a quittance for the dead,
A corpse by thee begotten; for that thou
Hast trampled to the ground what stood on high,
And foully placed within a charnel-house
A living soul. And now thou keep`st from them,
The Gods below, the corpse of one unblest,
Unwept, unhallowed. Neither part nor lot
Hast thou in them, nor have the Gods who rule
The worlds above, but at thy hands they meet
This outrage. And for this they wait for thee,
The sure though slow avengers of the grave,
The dread Erinyes of the Gods above,
In these same evils to be snared and caught.
Search well if I say this as one who sells
His soul for money. Yet a little while,
And in thy house men`s wailing, women`s cry,
Shall make it plain. And every city stirs
Itself in arms against thee, owning those
Whose limbs the dogs have buried, or fierce wolves,
Or winged birds have brought the accursed taint
To city`s altar-hearth. Doom like to this,
Sure darting as an arrow to its mark,
I launch at thee (for thou dost grieve me sore),
An archer aiming at the very heart,
And thou shalt not escape its fiery sting.
And now, O boy, lead thou me home again,
And let him vent his spleen on younger men,
And learn to keep his tongue more orderly,
With better thoughts than this his present mood.
[Exit.
Chor. The man has gone, O king, predicting woe,
And well we know, since first our raven hair
Was mixed with gray, that never yet his words
Were uttered to our state and failed of truth.
Creon. I know it too, `tis that that troubles me.
To yield is hard, but, holding out, to smite
One`s soul with sorrow, this is harder still.
Chor. Much need is there, O Creon, at this hour,
Of wisest counsel.
Creon. What, then, should I do?
Tell me and I will hearken.
Chor. Go thou first,
Release the maiden from her cavern tomb,
And give a grave to him who lies exposed.
Creon. Is this thy counsel? Dost thou bid me yield?
Chor. Without delay, O king, for, lo! they come,
The God`s swift-footed ministers of ill,
And in an instant lay the wicked low.
Creon. Ah, me! `tis hard; and yet I bend my will
To do thy bidding. With necessity
We must not fight at such o`erwhelming odds.
Chor. Go, then, and act! Commit it not to others.
Creon. E`en as I am I`ll go. Come, come, my men,
Present or absent, come, and in your hands
Bring axes. Come to yonder eminence,
And I, since now my judgment leans that way,
Who myself bound her, now myself will loose.
Too much I fear lest it should wisest prove
To end my life, maintaining ancient laws.
[Exit.
Strophe I
Chor. O thou of many names,
Of that Cadmeian maid
The glory and the joy,
Child of loud-thundering Zeus,
Who watchest over fair Italia,
And reign`st o`er all the bays that open wide,
Which Deo claims on fair Eleusis` coast:
Bacchus, who dwell`st in Thebes,
The mother city of thy Bacchant train,
Among Ismenus` stream that glideth on,
And with the dragon`s brood;
Antistrophe I
Thee, o`er the double peak of yonder height,
The flashing blaze beholds,
Where nymphs of Corycus
Go forth in Bacchic dance,
And by Castalia`s stream;
And thee the ivied slopes of Nysa`s hills,
And vine-clad promontory,
While words of more than mortal melody
Shout out the well-known name,
Send forth, the guardian lord
Of all the streets of Thebes.
Strophe II
Above all cities thou,
With her, thy mother, whom the thunder slew,
Dost look on it with love;
And now, since all the city bendeth low
Beneath the sullen plague,
Come thou with cleansing tread
O`er the Parnassian slopes,
Or o`er the moaning straits.
Antistrophe II
O thou, who lead`st the band
Of stars still breathing fire,
Lord of the hymns that echo in the night,
Offspring of highest Zeus,
Appear, we pray thee, with thy Naxian train,
Of Thyian maidens, frenzied, passionate,
Who all night long, in maddening chorus, sing
Thy praise, their lord, Iacchus.
Enter Messenger
Mess. Ye men of Cadmus and Amphion`s house,
I know no life of mortal man which I
Would either praise or blame. It is but chance
That raiseth up, and chance that bringeth low,
The man who lives in good or evil plight,
And none foretells a man`s appointed lot.
For Creon, in my judgment, men might watch
With envy and with wonder, having saved
This land of Cadmus from the bands of foes;
And, having ruled with fullest sovereignty,
He lived and prospered, joyous in a race
Of goodly offspring. Now, all this is gone;
For when men lose the joys that sweeten life,
I cannot count this living, rather deem
As of a breathing corpse. His heaped-up stores
Of wealth are large; so be it, and he lives
With all a sovereign`s state, and yet, if joy
Be absent, all the rest I count as naught,
And would not weigh them against pleasure`s charm,
More than a vapour`s shadow.
Chor. What is this?
What new disaster tell`st thou of our chiefs?
Mess. Dead are they, and the living cause their death.
Chor. Who slays, and who is slaughtered? Tell thy tale.
Mess. Haemon is dead. His own hand sheds his blood.
Chor. Was it father`s hand that struck the blow,
Or his own arm?
Mess. He by himself alone,
Yet in his wrath he charged his father with it.
Chor. O prophet! true, most true, those words of thine.
Mess. Since thus it stands, we may as well debate
Of other things in council.
Chor. Lo! there comes
The wife of Creon, sad Eurydice.
She from the house is come, or hearing speech
About her son, or else by chance.
Enter Eurydice
|
