THE SEVEN WHO FOUGHT AGAINST THEBES
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Eteocles Scout Herald Ismene Antigone Chorus of Theban Maidens Note.—The Seven against Thebes appears to have been produced B.C. 472, the year after The Persians.
THE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES
Scene.—Thebes in front of the Acropolis
Enter Eteocles, and crowd of Theban Citizens.
Eteoc. Ye citizens of Cadmos, it behoves That one who standeth at the stern of State Guiding the helm, with eyes unclosed in sleep, Should speak the things that meet occasion's need. For should we prosper, God gets all the praise: But if (which God forbid!) disaster falls, Eteocles, much blame on one head falling, Would find his name the by-word of the State, Sung in the slanderous ballads of the town; Yes, and with groanings, which may Zeus the Averter, True to his name, from us Cadmeians turn! But now 'tis meet for all, both him who fails Of full-grown age, and him advanced in years, Yet boasting still a stalwart strength of frame, And each in life's full prime, as it is fit, The State to succour and the altars here Of these our country's Gods, that never more Their votive honours cease,—to help our sons, And Earth, our dearest mother and kind nurse; For she, when young ye crept her kindly plain, Bearing the whole charge of your nourishment, Reared you as denizens that bear the shield, That ye should trusty prove in this her need. And now thus far God turns the scale for us; For unto us, beleaguered these long days, War doth in most things with God's help speed well, But now, as saith the seer, the augur skilled, Watching with ear and mind, apart from fire, The birds oracular with mind unerring, He, lord and master of these prophet-arts, Says that the great attack of the Achæans This very night is talked of, and their plots Devised against the town. But ye, haste all Unto the walls and gateways of the forts; Rush ye full-armed, and fill the outer space, And stand upon the platforms of the towers, And at the entrance of the gates abiding Be of good cheer, nor fear ye overmuch The host of aliens. Well will God work all. And I have sent my scouts and watchers forth, And trust their errand is no fruitless one. I shall not, hearing them, be caught with guile. [Exeunt Citizens.
Enter one of the Scouts.
Mess. King of Cadmeians, great Eteocles, I from the army come with tidings clear, And am myself eye-witness of its acts; For seven brave warriors, leading armèd bands, Cutting a bull's throat o'er a black-rimmed shield, And dipping in the bull's blood with their hands, Swore before Ares, Enyo, murderous Fear, That they would bring destruction on our town, And trample under foot the tower of Cadmos, Or dying, with their own blood stain our soil; And they memorials for their sires at home Placed with their hands upon Adrastos' car, Weeping, but no wail uttering with their lips, For courage iron-hearted breathed out fire In manliness unconquered, as when lions Flash battle from their eyeballs. And report Of these things does not linger on the way. I left them casting lots, that each might take, As the lot fell, his station at the gate. Wherefore do thou our city's chosen ones Array with speed at entrance of the gates; For near already is the Argive host, Marching through clouds of dust, and whitening foam Spots all the plain with drops from horses' mouths. And thou, as prudent helmsman of the ship, Guard thou our fortress ere the blasts of Ares Swoop on it wildly; for there comes the roar Of the land-wave of armies. And do thou Seize for these things the swiftest tide and time; And I, in all that comes, will keep my eye As faithful sentry; so through speech full clear, Thou, knowing all things yonder, shalt be safe. [Exit. Eteoc. O Zeus and Earth, and all ye guardian Gods! Thou Curse and strong Erinnys of my sire! Destroy ye not my city root and branch, With sore destruction smitten, one whose voice Is that of Hellas, nor our hearths and homes; Grant that they never hold in yoke of bondage Our country free, and town of Cadmos named; But be ye our defence. I deem I speak Of what concerns us both; for still 'tis true, A prosperous city honours well the Gods. [Exit.
Enter Chorus of Theban Maidens in solemn procession as suppliants
Chor. I in wild terror utter cries of woe; An army leaves its camp and is let loose: Hither the vanguard of the horsemen flows, And the thick cloud of dust, That suddenly is seen, Dumb herald, yet full clear, Constrains me to believe; And smitten with the horses' hoofs, the plain Of this my country rings with noise of war; It floats and echoes round, Like voice of mountain torrent dashing down Resistless in its might. Ah Gods! Ah Goddesses! Ward off the coming woe. With battle-shout that rises o'er the walls, The host whose shields are white Marches in full array against our city. Who then, of all the Gods Or Goddesses, will come to help and save? Say, shall I fall before the shrines of Gods? O blessed Ones firm fixed! 'Tis time to clasp your sacred images. Why linger we in wailing overmuch? Hear ye, or hear ye not, the din of shields? When, if not now, shall we Engage in prayer with peplos and with boughs? I hear a mighty sound; it is the din Not of a single spear. O Ares! ancient guardian of our land! What wilt thou do? Wilt thou betray thy land? O God of golden casque, Look on our city, yea, with favour look, The city thou did'st love. And ye, ye Gods who o'er the city rule, Come all of you, come all. Behold the band of maidens suppliant, In fear of bondage foul; For now around the town The wave of warriors bearing slopèd crests, With blasts of Ares rushing, hoarsely sounds: But thou, O Zeus! true father of us all, Ward off, ward off our capture by the foe.
Strophe I
For Argives now surround the town of Cadmos, And dread of Ares' weapons falls on us; And, bound to horses' mouths, The bits and curbs ring music as of death; And seven chief rulers of the mighty host, With warriors' arms, at each of seven tall gates, Spear-armed and harnessed all, Stand, having cast their lots. · · · · ·
Mesode
And thou, O Zeus-born power in war delighting, O Pallas! be our city's saviour now; And Thou who curb'st the steed, Great King of Ocean's waves, Poseidon, with thy trident fish-spear armed, Give respite from our troubles, respite give! And Thou, O Ares, guard the town that takes Its name from Cadmos old, Watch o'er it visibly.
Antistrophe I
And thou, O Kypris, of our race the mother, Ward off these ills, for we are thine by blood: To thee in many a prayer, With voice that calls upon the Gods we cry, And unto thee draw near as suppliants: And Thou, Lykeian king, Lykeian be, Foe of our hated foes, For this our wailing cry; And Thou, O child of Leto, Artemis, Make ready now thy bow.
Strophe II
Ah! ah! I hear a din of chariot wheels Around the city walls; O Hera great and dread! The heavy axles of the chariots groan, O Artemis beloved! And the air maddens with the clash of spears; What must our city bear? What now shall come on us? When will God give the end?
Antistrophe II
Ah! ah! a voice of stones is falling fast On battlements attacked; O Lord, Apollo loved, A din of bronze-bound shields is in the gates; And oh! that Zeus may give A faultless issue of this war we wage! And Thou, O blessed queen, As Guardian Onca known, Save thy seven-gated seat.
Strophe III
And ye, all-working Gods, Of either sex divine, Protectors of our towers, Give not our city, captured by the spear, To host of alien speech. Hear ye our maidens; hear, As is most meet, our prayers with outstretched hands.
Antistrophe III
O all ye loving Powers, Compass our State to save; Show how that State ye love; Think on our public votive offerings, And as ye think, oh, help: Be mindful ye, I pray, Of all our city's rites of sacrifice.
Re-enter Eteocles
Eteoc. (to the Chorus) I ask you, O ye brood intolerable, Is this course best and safest for our city? Will it give heart to our beleaguered host, That ye before the forms of guardian Gods Should wail and howl, ye loathèd of the wise; Ne'er be it mine, in ill estate or good, To dwell together with the race of women; For when they rule, their daring bars approach, And when they fear, alike to house and State Comes greater ill; and now with these your rushings Hither and thither, ye have troubled sore Our subjects with a coward want of heart; And do your best for those our foes without; And we are harassed by ourselves within. This comes to one who dwells with womankind. And if there be that will not own my sway, Or man or woman in their prime, or those Who can be classed with neither, they shall take Their trial for their life, nor shall they 'scape The fate of stoning. Things outdoors are still The man's to look to: let not woman counsel. Stay thou within, and do no mischief more. Hear'st thou, or no? or speak I to the deaf?
Strophe I
Chor. Dear son of Œdipus, I shuddered as I heard the din, the din Of many a chariot's noise, When on the axles creaked the whirling wheels, *And when I heard the sound *Of fire-wrought curbs within the horses' mouths.
Eteoc. What then? Did ever yet the sailor flee From stern to stem, and find deliverance so, While his ship laboured in the ocean's wave?
Antistrophe I
Chor. Nay, to the ancient forms Of mighty Powers I rushed, as trusting Gods; And when behind the gates Was heard the crash of fierce and pelting storm, Then was it, in my fear, I prayed the Blessed Ones to guard our city.
Eteoc. Pray that our towns hold out 'gainst spear of foes.
Chor. Do not the Gods grant these things?
Eteoc. Nay the Gods, So say they, leave the captured city's walls.
Strophe II
Chor. Ah! never in my life May all this goodly company of Gods Depart; nor may I see This city scene of rushings to and fro, *And hostile army burning it with fire!
Eteoc. Nay, call not on the Gods with counsel base; Obedience is the mother of success, Child strong to save. 'Tis thus the saying runs.
Antistrophe II
Chor. True is it; but the Gods Have yet a mightier power, and oftentimes, In pressure of sore ill, It raises one perplexed from direst woe, When dark clouds gather thickly o'er his eyes.
Eteoc. 'Tis work of men to offer sacrifice And victims to the Gods, when foes press hard; Thine to be dumb and keep within the house.
Strophe III
Chor. 'Tis through the Gods we live In city unsubdued, and that our towers Ward off the multitude of jealous foes. What Power will grudge us this?
Eteoc. I grudge not your devotion to the Gods; But lest you make my citizens faint-hearted Be tranquil, nor to fear's excess give way.
Antistrophe III
Chor. Hearing but now a din Strange, wildly mingled, I with shrinking fear Here to our city's high Acropolis, Time-hallowed spot, have come.
Eteoc. Nay, if ye hear of wounded men or dying, Bear them not swiftly off with wailing loud; *For blood of men is Ares' chosen food.
Chor. Hark! now I hear the panting of the steeds.
Eteoc. Clear though thou hear, yet hear not overmuch.
Chor. Lo! from its depths the fortress groans, beleaguered.
Eteoc. It is enough that I provide for this.
Chor. I fear: the din increases at the gates.
Eteoc. Be still, say nought of these things in the city.
Chor. O holy Band! desert ye not our towers.
Eteoc. A curse fall on thee! wilt thou not be still?
Chor. Gods of my city, from the slave's lot save me!
Eteoc. 'Tis thou enslav'st thyself and all thy city.
Chor. Oh, turn thy darts, great Zeus, against our foes!
Eteoc. Oh, Zeus, what race of women thou hast given us!
Chor. A sorry race, like men whose city falls.
Eteoc. What? Cling to these statues, yet speak words of ill?
Chor. Fear hurries on my tongue in want of courage.
Eteoc. Could'st thou but grant one small boon at my prayer!
Chor. Speak it out quickly, and I soon shall know.
Eteoc. Be still, poor fool, and frighten not thy friends.
Chor. Still am I, and with others bear our fate.
Eteoc. These words of thine I much prefer to those: And further, though no longer at the shrines, Pray thou for victory, that the Gods fight with us. And when my prayers thou hearest, then do thou Raise a loud, welcome, holy pæan-shout, The Hellenes' wonted cry at sacrifice; So cheer thy friends, and check their fear of foes; And I unto our country's guardian Gods, Who hold the plain or watch the agora, The springs of Dirkè, and Ismenos' stream;— If things go well, and this our city's saved,— I vow that staining with the blood of sheep The altar-hearths of Gods, or slaying bulls, We'll fix our trophies, and our foemen's robes On the spear's point on consecrated walls, Before the shrines I'll hang. Pray thou this prayer, Not weakly wailing, nor with vain wild sobs, For no whit more thou'lt 'scape thy destined lot: And I six warriors, with myself as seventh, Against our foes in full state like their own, Will station at the seven gates' entrances, Ere hurrying heralds and swift-rushing words Come and inflame them in the stress of need. [Exit
Strophe I
Chor. My heart is full of care and knows not sleep, By panic fear o'ercome; And troubles throng my soul, And set a-glow my dread Of the great host encamped around our walls, As when a trembling dove Fears, for her callow brood, The snakes that come, ill mates for her soft nest; For some upon our towers March in full strength of mingled multitude; And what will me befall? And others on our men on either hand Hurl rugged blocks of stone. In every way, ye Zeus-born Gods, defend The city and the host That Cadmos claim as sire.
Antistrophe I
What better land will ye receive for this, If ye to foes resign This rich and fertile clime, And that Dirkæan stream, Goodliest of founts by great Poseidon sent, Who circleth earth, or those Who Tethys parent call? And therefore, O ye Gods that guard our city, Sending on those without Our towers a woe that robs men of their life, And makes them lose their shield, Gain glory for these countrymen of mine; And take your standing-ground, As saviours of the city, firm and true, In answer to our cry Of wailing and of prayer.
Strophe II
For sad it were to hurl to Hades dark A city of old fame, The spoil and prey of war, With foulest shame in dust and ashes laid, By an Achæan foe at God's decree; And that our women, old and young alike, Be dragged away, ah me! Like horses, by their hair Their robes torn off from them. And lo, the city wails, made desolate, While with confusèd cry The wretched prisoners meet doom worse than death. Ah, at this grievous fate I shudder ere it comes.
Antistrophe II
And piteous 'tis for those whose youth is fresh Before the rites that cull Their fair and first-ripe fruit, To take a hateful journey from their homes. Nay, but I say the dead far better fare Than these, for when a city is subdued It bears full many an ill. This man takes prisoner that, Or slays, or burns with fire; And all the city is defiled with smoke, And Ares fans the flame In wildest rage, and laying many low, Tramples with foot unclean On all men sacred hold.
Strophe III
And hollow din is heard throughout the town, Hemmed in by net of towers; And man by man is slaughtered with the spear, And cries of bleeding babes, Of children at the breast, Are heard in piteous wail, And rapine, sister of the plunderer's rush, Spoiler with spoiler meets, And empty-handed empty-handed calls, Wishing for share of gain, Both eager for a portion no whit less, For more than equal lot With what they deem the others' hands have found.
Antistrophe III
And all earth's fruits cast wildly on the ground, Meeting the cheerless eye Of frugal housewives, give them pain of heart; And many a gift of earth In formless heaps is whirled In waves of nothingness; And the young maidens know a sorrow new; For now the foe prevails, And gains rich prize of wretched captive's bed; And now their only hope Is that the night of death will come at last, Their truest, best ally, To rescue them from sorrow fraught with tears.
Enter Eteocles, followed by his Chief Captains, and by the Scout
Semi-Chor. A. The army scout, so deem I, brings to us, Dear friends, some tidings new, with quickest speed Plying the nimble axles of his feet.
Semi-Chor. B. Yea, the king's self, the son of Œdipus, Is nigh to hear the scout's exact report; And haste denies him too an even step.
Mess. I knowing well, will our foes' state report, How each his lot hath stationed at the gates. At those of Prœtos, Tydeus thunders loud, And him the prophet suffers not to cross Ismenos' fords, the victims boding ill. And Tydeus, raging eager for the fight, Shouts like a serpent in its noontide scream, And on the prophet, Œcleus' son, heaps shame, That he, in coward fear, doth crouch and fawn Before the doom and peril of the fight. And with such speech he shakes his triple crest, O'ershadowing all his helm, and 'neath his shield Bells wrought in bronze ring out their chimes of fear; And on his shield he bears this proud device,— A firmament enchased, all bright with stars; And in the midst the full moon's glittering orb, Sovran of stars and eye of Night, shines forth. And thus exulting in o'er boastful arms, By the stream's bank he shouts in lust of war, [E'en as a war-horse panting in his strength Against the curb that galls him, who at sound Of trumpet's clang chafes hotly.] Whom wilt thou Set against him? Who is there strong enough When the bolts yield, to guard the Prœtan gates?
Eteoc. No fear have I of any man's array; Devices have no power to pierce or wound, And crest and bells bite not without a spear; And for this picture of the heavens at night, Of which thou tellest, glittering on his shield, *Perchance his madness may a prophet prove; For if night fall upon his dying eyes, Then for the man who bears that boastful sign It may right well be all too truly named, And his own pride shall prophet be of ill. And against Tydeus, to defend the gates, I'll set this valiant son of Astacos; Noble is he, and honouring well the throne Of Reverence, and hating vaunting speech, Slow to all baseness, unattuned to ill: And of the dragon-race that Ares spared He as a scion grows, a native true, E'en Melanippos; Ares soon will test His valour in the hazard of the die: And kindred Justice sends him forth to war, For her that bore him foeman's spear to check.
Strophe I
Chor. May the Gods grant my champion good success! For justly he goes forth For this our State to fight; But yet I quake with fear To see the deaths of those who die for friends.
Mess. Yea, may the Gods give good success to him! The Electran gates have fallen to Capaneus, A second giant, taller far than he Just named, with boast above a mortal's bounds; And dread his threats against our towers (O Fortune, Turn them aside!)—for whether God doth will, Or willeth not, he says that he will sack The city, nor shall e'en the wrath of Zeus, On the plain swooping, turn him from his will; And the dread lightnings and hot thunderbolts He likens to the heat of noon-day sun. And his device, the naked form of one Who bears a torch; and bright the blaze shines forth And in gold characters he speaks the words, “The city I will burn.” Against this man Send forth ... but who will meet him in the fight? Who, without fear, await this warrior proud?
Eteoc. Herein, too, profit upon profit comes; And 'gainst the vain and boastful thoughts of men, Their tongue itself is found accuser true. Threatening, equipped for work is Capaneus, Scorning the Gods: and giving speech full play, And in wild joy, though mortal, vents at Zeus, High in the heavens, loud-spoken foaming words. And well I trust on him shall rightly come Fire-bearing thunder, nothing likened then To heat of noon-day sun. And so 'gainst him, Though very bold of speech, a man is set Of fiery temper, Polyphontes strong, A trusty bulwark, by the loving grace Of guardian Artemis and other Gods. Describe another, placed at other gates.
Antistrophe I
Chor. A curse on him who 'gainst our city boasts! May thunder smite him down Before he force his way Into my home, and drive Me from my maiden bower with haughty spear?
Mess. And now I'll tell of him who by the gates Stands next; for to Eteocles, as third, To march his cohort to Neïstian gates, Leaped the third lot from upturned brazen helm: And he his mares, in head-gear snorting, whirls, Full eager at the gates to fall and die; Their whistling nozzles of barbaric mode, Are filled with loud blast of the panting nostrils. In no poor fashion is his shield devised; A full-armed warrior climbs a ladder's rungs, And mounts his foeman's towers as bent to sack; And he too cries, in words of written speech, That “Not e'en Ares from the towers shall drive him.” Send thou against him some defender true, To ward the yoke of bondage from our State.
Eteoc. Such would I send now; by good luck indeed He has been sent, his vaunting in his deeds, Megareus, Creon's son, who claims descent From those as Sparti known, and not by noise Of neighings loud of warlike steeds dismayed, Will he the gates abandon, but in death Will pay our land his nurture's debt in full, Or taking two men, and a town to boot, (That on the shield,) will deck his father's house With those his trophies. Of another tell The bragging tale, nor grudge thy words to me.
Strophe II
Chor. Him I wish good success, O guardian of my home, and for his foes All ill success I pray; And since against our land their haughty words With maddened soul they speak, May Zeus, the sovran judge, With fiery, hot displeasure look on them!
Mess. Another stands as fourth at gates hard by, Onca-Athenà's, with a shout of war, Hippomedon's great form and massive limbs; And as he whirled his orb, his vast shield's disk, I shuddered; yea, no idle words I speak. No cheap and common draughtsman sure was he Who wrought this cunning ensign on his shield: Typhon emitting from his lips hot blast Of darkling smoke, the flickering twin of fire: And round the belly of the hollow shield A rim was made with wreaths of twisted snakes. And he too shouts his war-cry, and in frenzy, As man possessed by Ares, hastes to battle, Like Thyiad, darting terror from his eyes. 'Gainst such a hero's might we well may guard; Already at the gates men brag of rout.
Eteoc. First, the great Onca-Pallas, dwelling nigh Our city's gates, and hating man's bold pride, Shall ward him from her nestlings like a snake Of venom dread; and next Hyperbios, The stalwart son of Œnops, has been chosen, A hero 'gainst this hero, willing found To try his destiny at Fortune's hest. No fault has he in form, or heart, or arms; And Hermes with good reason pairs them off; For man with man will fight as enemy, And on their shields they'll bring opposing Gods; For this man beareth Typhon, breathing fire, And on Hyperbios' shield sits father Zeus, Full firm, with burning thunderbolt in hand; And never yet has man seen Zeus, I trow, O'ercome. Such then the favour of the Gods, We with the winners, they with losers are: Good reason then the rivals so should fare, If Zeus than Typhon stronger be in fight, And to Hyperbios Zeus will saviour prove, As that device upon his shield presents him.
Antistrophe II
Chor. Now do I trust that he Who bears upon his shield the hated form Of Power whom Earth doth shroud, Antagonist to Zeus, unloved by men And by the ageless Gods, Before those gates of ours To his own hurt may dash his haughty head.
Mess. So may it be! And now the fifth I tell, Who the fifth gates, the Northern, occupies, Hard by Amphion's tomb, the son of Zeus; And by his spear he swears, (which he is bold To honour more than God or his own eyes,) That he will sack the fort of the Cadmeians With that spear's might. So speaks the offspring fair Of mother mountain-bred, a stripling hero; And the soft down is creeping o'er his cheeks, Youth's growth, and hair that floweth full and thick; And he with soul, not maiden's like his name, But stern, with flashing eye, is standing there. Nor stands he at the gate without a vaunt; For on his brass-wrought buckler, strong defence, Full-orbed, his body guarding, he the shame Of this our city bears, the ravenous Sphinx, With rivets fixed, all burnished and embossed; And under her she holdeth a Cadmeian, That so on him most arrows might be shot. No chance that he will fight a peddling fight, Nor shame the long, long journey he hath come, Parthenopæos, in Arcadia born: This man did Argos welcome as a guest, And now he pays her for her goodly rearing, And threatens these our towers with ... God avert it!
Eteoc. Should the Gods give them what they plan 'gainst us, Then they, with those their godless boastings high, Would perish shamefully and utterly. And for this man of Arcady thou tell'st of, We have a man who boasts not, but his hand Sees the right thing to do;—Actôr, of him I named but now the brother,—who no tongue Divorced from deeds will ever let within Our gates, to spread and multiply our ills, Nor him who bears upon his foeman's shield The image of the hateful venomed beast; But she without shall blame him as he tries To take her in, when she beneath our walls Gets sorely bruised and battered. And herein, If the Gods will, I prophet true shall prove.
Strophe III
Chor. Thy words thrill through my breast; My hair stands all on end, To hear the boastings great Of those who speak great things Unholy. May the Gods Destroy them in our land!
Mess. A sixth I tell of, one of noblest mood, Amphiaraos, seer and warrior famed; He, stationed at the Homolôian gates, Reproves the mighty Tydeus with sharp words As 'murderer,' and 'troubler of the State,' 'To Argos teacher of all direst ills, Erinnys' sumpnour,' 'murder's minister,' Whose counsels led Adrastos to these ills. *And at thy brother Polyneikes glancing With eyes uplifted for his father's fate, And ending, twice he syllabled his name, And called him, and thus speaketh with his lips:— “A goodly deed, and pleasant to the Gods, Noble for after age to hear and tell, Thy father's city and thy country's Gods To waste through might of mercenary host! And how shall Justice stay thy mother's tears? And how, when conquered, shall thy fatherland, Laid waste, become a true ally to thee? As for myself, I shall that land make rich, A prophet buried in a foeman's soil: To arms! I look for no inglorious death.” So spake the prophet, bearing full-orbed shield Wrought all of bronze, no ensign on that orb. He wishes to be just, and not to seem, Reaping full harvest from his soul's deep furrows, Whence ever new and noble counsels spring. I bid thee send defenders wise and brave Against him. Dread is he who fears the Gods.
Eteoc. Fie on the chance that brings the righteous man Close-mated with the ungodly! In all deeds Nought is there worse than evil fellowship, A crop men should not reap. Death still is found The harvest of the field of frenzied pride; For either hath the godly man embarked With sailors hot in insolence and guile, And perished with the race the Gods did loathe; Or just himself, with citizens who wrong The stranger and are heedless of the Gods, Falling most justly in the self-same snare, By God's scourge smitten, shares the common doom. And thus this seer I speak of, Œcleus' son, Righteous, and wise, and good, and reverent, A mighty prophet, mingling with the godless *And men full bold of speech in reason's spite, Who take long march to reach a far-off city, If Zeus so will, shall be hurled down with them. And he, I trow, shall not draw nigh the gates, Not through faint-heart or any vice of mood, But well he knows this war shall bring his death, If any fruit is found in Loxias' words; And He or holds his speech or speaks in season. Yet against him the hero Lasthenes, A foe of strangers, at the gates we'll set; Old in his mind, his body in its prime, His eye swift-footed, and his hand not slow To grasp the spear from 'neath the shield laid bare: Yet 'tis by God's gift men must win success.
Antistrophe III
Chor. Hear, O ye Gods! our prayers, Our just entreaties grant, That so our State be blest. Turn ye the toils of war Upon the invading host. Outside the walls may Zeus With thunder smite them low!
Mess. The seventh chief then who at the seventh gate stands, Thine own, own brother, I will speak of now, What curses on our State he pours, and prays That he the towers ascending, and proclaimed By herald's voice to all the territory, And shouting out the captor's pæan-cry, May so fight with thee, slay, and with thee die; Or driving thee alive, who did'st him wrong, May on thee a vengeance wreak like in kind. So clamours he, and bids his father's Gods, His country's guardians, look upon his prayers, [And grant them all. So Polyneikes prays.] And he a new and well-wrought shield doth bear, And twofold sign upon it riveted; For there a woman with a stately tread Leads one who seems a warrior wrought in gold: Justice she calls herself, and thus she speaks: “I will bring back this man, and he shall have The city and his father's dwelling-place.” Such are the signs and mottoes of those men; And thou, know well whom thou dost mean to send: So thou shalt never blame my heraldings; And thou thyself know how to steer the State.
Eteoc. O frenzy-stricken, hated sore of Gods! O woe-fraught race (my race!) of Œdipus! Ah me! my father's curse is now fulfilled; But neither is it meet to weep or wail, Lest cry more grievous on the issue come. Of Polyneikes, name and omen true, We soon shall know what way his badge shall end, Whether his gold-wrought letters shall restore him, His shield's great swelling words with frenzied soul. An if great Justice, Zeus's virgin child, Ruled o'er his words and acts, this might have been; But neither when he left his mother's womb, Nor in his youth, nor yet in ripening age, Nor when his beard was gathered on his chin, Did Justice count him meet for fellowship; Nor do I think that she befriends him now In this great outrage on his father's land. Yea, justly Justice would as falsely named Be known, if she with one all-daring joined. In this I trust, and I myself will face him: Who else could claim a greater right than I? Brother with brother fighting, king with king, And foe with foe, I'll stand. Come, quickly fetch My greaves that guard against the spear and stones.
Chor. Nay, dearest friend, thou son of Œdipus, Be ye not like to him with that ill name. It is enough Cadmeian men should fight Against the Argives. That blood may be cleansed; But death so murderous of two brothers born, This is pollution that will ne'er wax old.
Eteoc. If a man must bear evil, let him still Be without shame—sole profit that in death. [No glory comes of base and evil deeds].
Chor. What dost thou crave, my son? Let no ill fate, Frenzied and hot for war, Carry thee headlong on; Check the first onset of an evil lust.
Eteoc. Since God so hotly urges on the matter, Let all of Laios' race whom Phœbos hates, Drift with the breeze upon Cokytos' wave.
Chor. An over-fierce and passionate desire Stirs thee and pricks thee on To work an evil deed Of guilt of blood thy hand should never shed.
Eteoc. Nay, my dear father's curse, in full-grown hate, Dwells on dry eyes that cannot shed a tear, And speaks of gain before the after-doom.
Chor. But be not thou urged on. The coward's name Shall not be thine, for thou Hast ordered well thy life. Dark-robed Erinnys enters not the house, When at men's hands the Gods Accept their sacrifice.
Eteoc. As for the Gods, they scorned us long ago, And smile but on the offering of our deaths; What boots it then on death's doom still to fawn?
Chor. Nay do it now, while yet 'tis in thy power; Perchance may fortune shift With tardy change of mood, And come with spirit less implacable: At present fierce and hot She waxeth in her rage.
Eteoc. Yea, fierce and hot the Curse of Œdipus; And all too true the visions of the night, My father's treasured store distributing.
Chor. Yield to us women, though thou lov'st us not.
Eteoc. Speak then what may be done, and be not long.
Chor. Tread not the path that to the seventh gate leads.
Eteoc. Thou shall not blunt my sharpened edge with words.
Chor. And yet God loves the victory that submits.
Eteoc. That word a warrior must not tolerate.
Chor. Dost thou then haste thy brother's blood to shed?
Eteoc. If the Gods grant it, he shall not 'scape harm. [Exeunt Eteocles, Scout, and Captains
Strophe I
Chor. I fear her might who doth this whole house wreck, The Goddess unlike Gods, The prophetess of evil all too true, The Erinnys of thy father's imprecations, Lest she fulfil the curse, O'er-wrathful, frenzy-fraught, The curse of Œdipus, Laying his children low. This Strife doth urge them on.
Antistrophe I
And now a stranger doth divide the lots, The Chalyb, from the Skythians emigrant, The stern distributor of heaped-up wealth, The iron that hath assigned them just so much Of land as theirs, no more, As may suffice for them As grave when they shall fall, Without or part or lot In the broad-spreading plains.
Strophe II
And when the hands of each The other's blood have shed, And the earth's dust shall drink The black and clotted gore, Who then can purify? Who cleanse thee from the guilt? Ah me! O sorrows new, That mingle with the old woes of our house!
Antistrophe II
I tell the ancient tale Of sin that brought swift doom; Till the third age it waits, Since Laios, heeding not Apollo's oracle, (Though spoken thrice to him In Pythia's central shrine,) That dying childless, he should save the State.
Strophe III
But he by those he loved full rashly swayed, Doom for himself begat, His murderer Œdipus, Who dared to sow in field Unholy, whence he sprang, A root of blood-flecked woe. Madness together brought Bridegroom and bride accursed.
Antistrophe III
And now the sea of evil pours its flood: This falling, others rise, As with a triple crest, Which round the State's stern roars: And but a bulwark slight, A tower's poor breadth, defends: And lest the city fall With its two kings I fear.
Strophe IV
*And that atonement of the ancient curse Receives fulfilment now; *And when they come, the evils pass not by. E'en so the wealth of sea-adventurers, When heaped up in excess, Leads but to cargo from the stern thrown out.
Antistrophe IV
For whom of mortals did the Gods so praise, And fellow-worshippers, *And race of those who feed their flocks and herds As much as then they honoured Œdipus, Who from our country's bounds Had driven the monster, murderess of men?
Strophe V
And when too late he knew, Ah, miserable man! his wedlock dire, Vexed sore with that dread shame, With heart to madness driven, He wrought a twofold ill, And with the hand that smote his father's life *Blinded the eyes that might his sons have seen.
Antistrophe V
And with a mind provoked By nurture scant, he at his sons did hurl His curses dire and dark, (Ah, bitter curses those!) That they with spear in hand Should one day share their father's wealth; and I Fear now lest swift Erinnys should fulfil them.
Enter Messenger
Mess. Be of good cheer, ye maidens, mother-reared; Our city has escaped the yoke of bondage, The boasts of mighty men are fallen low, And this our city in calm waters floats, And, though by waves lashed, springs not any leak. Our fortress still holds out, and we did guard The gates with champions who redeemed their pledge. In the six gateways almost all goes well; But the seventh gate did King Apollo choose, Seventh mighty chief, avenging Laios' want Of counsel on the sons of Œdipus.
Chor. What new disaster happens to our city?
Mess. The city's saved, but both the royal brothers,...
Chor. Who? and what of them? I'm distraught with fear.
Mess. Be calm, and hear: the sons of Œdipus,...
Chor. Oh wretched me! a prophet I of ill!
Mess. Slain by each other, earth has drunk their blood.
Chor. Came they to that? 'Tis dire; yet tell it me.
Mess. Too true, by brother's hand our chiefs are slain.
Chor. What, did the brother's hands the brother lay?
Mess. No doubt is there that they are laid in dust.
Chor. Thus was there then a common fate for both?
Mess. *Yea, it lays low the whole ill-fated race.
Chor. These things give cause for gladness and for tears, Seeing that our city prospers, and our lords, The generals twain, with well-wrought Skythian steel, Have shared between them all their store of goods, And now shall have their portion in a grave, Borne on, as spake their father's grievous curse.
Mess. [The city's saved, but of the brother-kings The earth has drunk the blood, each slain by each.]
Chor. Great Zeus! and ye, O Gods! Guardians of this our town, Who save in very deed The towers of Cadmos old, Shall I rejoice and shout Over the happy chance That frees our State from harm; Or weep that ill-starred pair, The war-chiefs, childless and most miserable, Who, true to that ill name Of Polyneikes, died in impious mood, Contending overmuch?
Strophe
Oh dark, and all too true That curse of Œdipus and all his race, An evil chill is falling on my heart, And, like a Thyiad wild, Over his grave I sing a dirge of grief, Hearing the dead have died by evil fate, Each in foul bloodshed steeped; Ah me! Ill-omened is the spear's accord.
Antistrophe
It hath wrought out its end, And hath not failed, that prayer the father poured; And Laios' reckless counsels work till now: I fear me for the State; The oracles have not yet lost their edge; O men of many sorrows, ye have wrought This deed incredible; Not now in word come woes most lamentable. [As the Chorus are speaking, the bodies of Eteocles and Polyneikes are brought in solemn procession by Theban Citizens
Epode
Yea, it is all too clear, The herald's tale of woe comes full in sight; Twofold our cares, twin evils born of pride, Murderous, with double doom, Wrought unto full completeness all these ills. What shall I say? What else Are they than woes that make this house their home? But oh! my friends, ply, ply with swift, strong gale, That even stroke of hands upon your head, In funeral order, such as evermore O'er Acheron sends on *That bark of State, dark-rigged, accursed its voyage, Which nor Apollo visits nor the sun, On to the shore unseen, The resting-place of all. [Ismene and Antigone are seen approaching in mourning garments, followed by a procession of women wailing and lamenting For see, they come to bitter deed called forth, Ismene and the maid Antigone, To wail their brothers' fall; With little doubt I deem, That they will pour from fond, deep-bosomed breasts A worthy strain of grief: But it is meet that we, Before we hear their cry, Should utter the harsh hymn Erinnys loves, And sing to Hades dark The Pæan of distress. O ye, most evil-fated in your kin, Of all who guard their robes with maiden's band, I weep and wail, and feigning know I none, That I should fail to speak My sorrow from my heart.
Strophe I
Semi-Chor. A. Alas! alas! Men of stern mood, who would not list to friends, Unwearied in all ills, Seizing your father's house, O wretched ones With the spear's murderous point.
Semi-Chor. B. Yea, wretched they who found a wretched doom, With havoc of the house.
Antistrophe I
Semi-Chor. A. Alas! alas! Ye who laid low the ancient walls of home, On sovereignty, ill won, Your eyes have looked, and ye at last are brought To concord by the sword.
Semi-Chor. B. Yea, of a truth, the curse of Œdipus Erinnys dread fulfils.
Strophe II
Semi-Chor. A. Yea, smitten through the heart, Smitten through sides where flowed the blood of brothers. Ah me! ye doomed of God! Ah me! the curses dire Of deaths ye met with each at other's hands!
Semi-Chor. B. Thou tell'st of men death-smitten through and through, Both in their homes and lives, With wrath beyond all speech, And doom of discord fell, That sprang from out the curse their father spake.
Antistrophe II
Semi-Chor. A. Yea, through the city runs A wailing cry. The high towers wail aloud; Wails all the plain that loves her heroes well; And to their children's sons The wealth will go for which The strife of those ill-starred ones brought forth death.
Semi-Chor. B. Quick to resent, they shared their fortune so, That each like portion won; *Nor can their friends regard Their umpire without blame; Nor is our voice in thanks to Ares raised.
Strophe III
Semi-Chor. A. By the sword smitten low, Thus are they now; By the sword smitten low, There wait them ... Nay, Doth one perchance ask what? Shares in their old ancestral sepulchres.
Semi-Chor. B. *The sorrow of the house is borne to them By my heart-rending wail. Mine own the cries I pour; Mine own the woes I weep, Bitter and joyless, shedding truest tears From heart that faileth, even as they fall, For these two kingly chiefs.
Antistrophe III
Semi-Chor. A. Yes; one may say of them, That wretched pair, That they much ill have wrought To their own host; Yea, and to alien ranks Of many nations fallen in the fray.
Semi-Chor. B. Ah! miserable she who bare those twain, 'Bove all of women born Who boast a mother's name! Taking her son, her own, As spouse, she bare these children, and they both, By mutual slaughter and by brothers' hands, Have found their end in death.
Strophe IV
Semi-Chor. A. Yes; of the same womb born, and doomèd both, *Not as friends part, they fell, In strife to madness pushed In this their quarrel's end.
Semi-Chor. B. The quarrel now is hushed, And in the ensanguined earth their lives are blent; Full near in blood are they. Stern umpire of their strifes Has been the stranger from beyond the sea, Fresh from the furnace, keen and sharpened steel. Stern, too, is Ares found, Distributing their goods, Making their father's curses all too true.
Antistrophe IV
Semi-Chor. A. At last they have their share, ah, wretched ones! Of burdens sent from God. And now beneath them lies A boundless wealth of——earth.
Semi-Chor. B. O ye who your own race Have made to burgeon out with many woes! Over the end at last The brood of Curses raise Their shrill, sharp cry of lamentation loud, The race being put to flight of utmost rout, And Atè's trophy stands, Where in the gates they fell; And Fate, now both are conquered, rests at last.
Enter Antigone and Ismene, followed by mourning maidens
Ant. Thou wast smitten, and thou smotest.
Ism. Thou did'st slaughter, and wast slaughtered.
Ant. Thou with spear to death did'st smite him.
Ism. Thou with spear to death wast smitten.
Ant. Oh, the woe of all your labours!
Ism. Oh, the woe of all ye suffered!
Ant. Pour the cry of lamentation.
Ism. Pour the tears of bitter weeping.
Ant. There in death thou liest prostrate.
Ism. Having wrought a great destruction.
Strophe
Ant. Ah! my mind is crazed with wailing.
Ism. Yea, my heart within me groaneth.
Ant. Thou for whom the city weepeth!
Ism. Thou too, doomed to all ill-fortune!
Ant. By a loved hand thou hast perished.
Ism. And a loved form thou hast slaughtered.
Ant. Double woes are ours to tell of.
Ism. Double woes too ours to look on.
Ant. *Twofold sorrows from near kindred.
Ism. *Sisters we by brothers standing.
Ant. Terrible are they to tell of.
Ism. Terrible are they to look on.
Chor. Ah me, thou Destiny, Giver of evil gifts, and working woe, And thou dread spectral form of Œdipus, And swarth Erinnys too, A mighty one art thou.
Antistrophe
Ant. Ah me! ah me! woes dread to look on....
Ism. Ye showed to me, returned from exile.
Ant. Not, when he had slain, returned he.
Ism. Nay, he, saved from exile, perished.
Ant. Yea, I trow too well, he perished.
Ism. And his brother, too, he murdered.
Ant. Woeful, piteous, are those brothers!
Ism. Woeful, piteous, all they suffered!
Ant. Woes of kindred wrath enkindling!
Ism. Saturate with threefold horrors!
Ant. Terrible are they to tell of.
Ism. Terrible are they to look on.
Chor. Ah me, thou Destiny, Giver of evil gifts, and stern of soul, And thou dread spectral form of Œdipus, And swarth Erinnys too, A mighty one art thou.
Epode
Ant. Thou, then, by full trial knowest....
Ism. Thou, too, no whit later learning....
Ant. When thou cam'st back to this city....
Ism. Rival to our chief in warfare.
Ant. Woe, alas! for all our troubles!
Ism. Woe, alas! for all our evils!
Ant. Evils fallen on our houses!
Ism. Evils fallen on our country!
Ant. And on me before all others....
Ism. And to me the future waiting....
Ant. Woe for those two brothers luckless!
Ism. King Eteocles, our leader!
Ant. Oh, before all others wretched!
Ism. . . . . .
Ant. Ah, by Atè frenzy-stricken!
Ism. Ah, where now shall they be buried?
Ant. There where grave is highest honour.
Ism. Ah, the woe my father wedded!
Enter a Herald
Her. 'Tis mine the judgment and decrees to publish Of this Cadmeian city's counsellors: It is decreed Eteocles to honour, For his good-will towards this land of ours, With seemly burial, such as friend may claim; For warding off our foes he courted death; Pure as regards his country's holy things, Blameless he died where death the young beseems; This then I'm ordered to proclaim of him. But for his brother's, Polyneikes' corpse, To cast it out unburied, prey for dogs, As working havoc on Cadmeian land, Unless some God had hindered by the spear Of this our prince; and he, though, dead, shall gain The curse of all his father's Gods, whom he [Pointing to Polyneikes With alien host dishonouring, sought to take Our city. Him by ravenous birds interred Ingloriously, they sentence to receive His full deserts; and none may take in hand To heap up there a tomb, nor honour him With shrill-voiced wailings; but he still must lie, Without the meed of burial by his friends. So do the high Cadmeian powers decree.
Ant. And I those rulers of Cadmeians tell, That if no other care to bury him, I will inter him, facing all the risk, Burying my brother: nor am I ashamed To thwart the State in rank disloyalty; Strange power there is in ties of blood, that we, Born of woe-laden mother, sire ill-starred, Are bound by: therefore of thy full free-will, Share thou, my soul, in woes he did not will, Thou living, he being dead, with sister's heart. And this I say, no wolves with ravening maw, Shall tear his flesh—No! no! let none think that! For tomb and burial I will scheme for him, Though I be but weak woman, bringing earth Within my byssine raiment's fold, and so Myself will bury him; let no man think (I say't again) aught else. Take heart, my soul! There shall not fail the means effectual.
Her. I bid thee not defy the State in this.
Ant. I bid thee not proclaim vain words to me.
Her. Stern is the people now, with victory flushed.
Ant. Stern let them be, he shall not tombless lie.
Her. And wilt thou honour whom the State doth loathe?
Ant. *Yea, from the Gods he gets an honour due.
Her. It was not so till he this land attacked.
Ant. He, suffering evil, evil would repay.
Her. Not against one his arms were turned, but all.
Ant. Strife is the last of Gods to end disputes: Him I will bury; talk no more of it.
Her. Choose for thyself then, I forbid the deed.
Chor. Alas! alas! alas! Ye haughty boasters, race-destroying, Now Fates and now Erinnyes, smiting The sons of Œdipus, ye slew them, With a root-and-branch destruction. What shall I then do, what suffer? What shall I devise in counsel? How should I dare nor to weep thee, Nor escort thee to the burial? But I tremble and I shrink from All the terrors which they threatened, They who are my fellow-townsmen. Many mourners thou (looking to the bier of Eteocles) shalt meet with; But he, lost one, unlamented, With his sister's wailing only Passeth. Who with this complieth?
Semi-Chor. A. Let the city doom or not doom Those who weep for Polyneikes; We will go, and we will bury, Maidens we in sad procession; For the woe to all is common, And our State with voice uncertain, Of the claims of Right and Justice; Hither, thither, shifts its praises.
Semi-Chor. B. We will thus, our chief attending, Speak, as speaks the State, our praises: Of the claims of Right and Justice; For next those the Blessed Rulers, And the strength of Zeus, he chiefly Saved the city of Cadmeians From the doom of fell destruction, From the doom of whelming utter, In the flood of alien warriors. [Exeunt Antigone and Semi-Chorus A., following the corpse of Polyneikes; Ismene and Semi-Chorus B. that of Eteocles.