The Seven Plays in English Verse Part 8

TI. Therefore thy pilotage hath saved this city.

CR. Grateful experience owns the benefit.

TI. Take heed. Again thou art on an edge of peril.

CR. What is it? How I shudder at thy word!

TI. The tokens of mine art shall make thee know.

As I was sitting on that ancient seat Of divination, where I might command Sure cognisance of every bird of the air, I heard strange clamouring of fowl, that screeched In furious dissonance; and, I could tell, Talons were bloodily engaged--the whirr Of wings told a clear tale. At once, in fear, I tried burnt sacrifice at the high altar: Where from the offering the fire G.o.d refused To gleam; but a dank humour from the bones Dripped on the embers with a sputtering fume.

The gall was spirited high in air, the thighs Lay wasting, bared of their enclosing fat.

Such failing tokens of blurred augury This youth reported, who is guide to me, As I to others. And this evil state Is come upon the city from thy will: Because our altars--yea, our sacred hearths-- Are everywhere infected from the mouths Of dogs or beak of vulture that hath fed On Oedipus' unhappy slaughtered son.

And then at sacrifice the G.o.ds refuse Our prayers and savour of the thigh-bone fat-- And of ill presage is the thickening cry Of bird that battens upon human gore Now, then, my son, take thought. A man may err; But he is not insensate or foredoomed To ruin, who, when he hath lapsed to evil, Stands not inflexible, but heals the harm.

The obstinate man still earns the name of fool.

Urge not contention with the dead, nor stab The fallen. What valour is 't to slay the slain?

I have thought well of this, and say it with care; And careful counsel, that brings gain withal, Is precious to the understanding soul.

CR. I am your mark, and ye with one consent All shoot your shafts at me. Nought left untried, Not even the craft of prophets, by whose crew I am bought and merchandised long since. Go on!

Traffic, get gain, electrum from the mine Of Lydia, and the gold of Ind! Yet know, Grey-beard! ye ne'er shall hide him in a tomb.

No, not if heaven's own eagle chose to s.n.a.t.c.h And bear him to the throne supreme for food, Even that pollution should not daunt my heart To yield permission for his funeral.

For well know I defilement ne'er can rise From man to G.o.d. But, old Tiresias, hear!

Even wisest spirits have a shameful fall That fairly speak base words for love of gain.

TI. Ah! where is wisdom? who considereth?

CR. Wherefore? what means this universal doubt?

TI. How far the best of riches is good counsel!

CR. As far as folly is the mightiest bane.

TI. Yet thou art sick of that same pestilence.

CR. I would not give the prophet blow for blow.

TI. What blow is harder than to call me false?

CR. Desire of money is the prophet's plague.

TI. And ill-sought lucre is the curse of kings.

CR. Know'st thou 'tis of thy sovereign thou speak'st this?

TI. Yea, for my aid gives thee to sway this city.

CR. Far seeing art thou, but dishonest too.

TI. Thou wilt provoke the utterance of my tongue To that even thought refused to dwell upon.

CR. Say on, so thou speak sooth, and not for gain.

TI. You think me likely to seek gain from you?

CR. You shall not make your merchandise on me!

TI. Not many courses of the racing sun Shalt thou fulfil, ere of thine own true blood Thou shalt have given a corpse in recompense For one on earth whom thou hast cast beneath, Entombing shamefully a living soul, And one whom thou hast kept above the ground And disappointed of all obsequies, Unsanctified and G.o.dlessly forlorn.

Such violence the powers beneath will bear Not even from the Olympian G.o.ds. For thee The avengers wait. Hidden but near at hand, Lagging but sure, the Furies of the grave Are watching for thee to thy ruinous harm, With thine own evil to entangle thee.

Look well to it now whether I speak for gold!

A little while, and thine own palace-halls Shall flash the truth upon thee with loud noise Of men and women, shrieking o'er the dead.

And all the cities whose unburied sons, Mangled and torn, have found a sepulchre In dogs or jackals or some ravenous bird That stains their incense with polluted breath, Are forming leagues in troublous enmity.

Such shafts, since thou hast stung me to the quick, I like an archer at thee in my wrath Have loosed unerringly--carrying their pang, Inevitable, to thy very heart.

Now, sirrah! lead me home, that his hot mood Be spent on younger objects, till he learn To keep a safer mind and calmer tongue. [_Exit_

CH. Sire, there is terror in that prophecy.

He who is gone, since ever these my locks, Once black, now white with age, waved o'er my brow, Hath never spoken falsely to the state.

CR. I know it, and it shakes me to the core.

To yield is dreadful: but resistingly To face the blow of fate, is full of dread.

CH. The time calls loud on wisdom, good my lord.

CR. What must I do? Advise me. I will obey.

CH. Go and release the maiden from the vault, And make a grave for the unburied dead.

CR. Is that your counsel? Think you I will yield?

CH. With all the speed thou mayest: swift harms from heaven With instant doom o'erwhelm the froward man.

CR. Oh! it is hard. But I am forced to this Against myself. I cannot fight with Destiny.

CH. Go now to do it. Trust no second hand.

CR. Even as I am, I go. Come, come, my people.

Here or not here, with mattocks in your hands Set forth immediately to yonder hill!

And, since I have ta'en this sudden turn, myself, Who tied the knot, will hasten to unloose it.

For now the fear comes over me, 'tis best To pa.s.s one's life in the accustomed round. [_Exeunt_

CHORUS.

O G.o.d of many a name! I 1 Filling the heart of that Cadmeian bride With deep delicious pride, Offspring of him who wields the withering flame!

Thou for Italia's good Dost care, and 'midst the all-gathering bosom wide[7]

Of Deo dost preside; Thou, Bacchus, by Ismenus' winding waters 'Mongst Thebe's frenzied daughters, Keep'st haunt, commanding the fierce dragon's brood.

Thee o'er the forked hill I 2 The pinewood flame beholds, where Bacchai rove, Nymphs of Corycian grove, Hard by the flowing of Castalia's rill.

To visit Theban ways, By bloomy wine-cliffs flus.h.i.+ng tender bright 'Neath far Nyseian height Thou movest o'er the ivy-mantled mound, While myriad voices sound Loud strains of 'Evoe!' to thy deathless praise.

For Thebe thou dost still uphold, II 1 First of cities manifold, Thou and the nymph whom lightning made Mother of thy radiant head.

Come then with healing for the violent woe That o'er our peopled land doth largely flow, Pa.s.sing the high Parna.s.sian steep Or moaning narrows of the deep!