The Seven Against Thebes [10]
Ah, be not urged of her! for none shall dare
To call thee coward, in thy throned estate!
Will not the Fury in her sable pal
Pass outward from these halls, what time the gods
Welcome a votive offering from our hands?
ETEOCLES
The gods! long since they hold us in contempt,
Scornful of gifts thus offered by the lost!
Why should we fawn and flinch away from doom?
CHORUS (chanting)
Now, when it stands beside thee! for its power
May, with a changing gust of milder mood,
Temper the blast that bloweth wild and rude
And frenzied, in this hour!
ETEOCLES
Ay, kindled by the curse of Oedipus-
All too prophetic, out of dreamland came
The vision, meting out our sire's estate!
LEADER OF THE CHORUS
Heed women's voices, though thou love them not!
ETEOCLES
Say aught that may avail, but stint thy words.
LEADER
Go not thou forth to guard the seventh gate!
ETEOCLES
Words shall not blunt the edge of my resolve.
LEADER
Yet the god loves to let the weak prevail.
ETEOCLES
That to a swordsman, is no welcome word!
LEADER
Shall thine own brother's blood be victory's palm?
ETEOCLES
Ill which the gods have sent thou canst no-shun!
(ETEOCLES goes out.)
CHORUS (singing)
strophe 1
I shudder in dread of the power, abhorred by the gods of high
heaven,
The ruinous curse of the home till roof-tree and rafter be riven!
Too true are the visions of ill, too true the fulfilment they
bring
To the curse that was spoken of old by the frenzy and wrath of the
king!
Her will is the doom of the children, and Discord is kindled
amain,
antistrophe 1
And strange is the Lord of Division, who cleaveth the birthright
in twain,-
The edged thing, born of the north, the steel that is ruthless
and keen,
Dividing in bitter division the lot of the children of teen!
Not the wide lowland around, the realm of their sire, shall they
have,
Yet enough for the dead to inherit, the pitiful space of a grave!
strophe 2
Ah, but when kin meets kin, when sire and child,
Unknowing, are defiled
By shedding common blood, and when the pit
Of death devoureth it,
Drinking the clotted stain, the gory dye-
Who, who can purify?
Who cleanse pollution, where the ancient bane
Rises and reeks again?
antistrophe 2
Whilome in olden days the sin was wrought,
And swift requital brought-
Yea on the children of the child came still
New heritage of ill!
For thrice Apollo spoke this word divine,
From Delphi's central shrine,
To Laius-Die thou childless! thus alone
Can the land's weal be won!
strophe 3
But vainly with his wife's desire he strove,
And gave himself to love,
Begetting Oedipus, by whom he died,
The fateful parricide!
The sacred seed-plot, his own mother's womb,
He sowed, his house's doom,
A root of blood! by frenzy lured, they came
Unto their wedded shame.
antistrophe 3
And now the waxing surge, the wave of fate,
Rolls on them, triply great-
One billow sinks, the next towers, high and dark,
Above our city's bark-
Only the narrow barrier of the wal
Totters, as soon to fall;
And, if our chieftains in the