Chorus: I have no comfort. What he saith, Portends no other thing than death.
Antigone: My fatherland, city of Thebes divine, Ye gods of Thebes whence sprang my line, Look, puissant lords of Thebes, on me; The last of all your royal house ye see. Martyred by men of sin, undone. Such meed my piety hath won. Exit Antigone.
Chorus: Strophe 1
Like to thee that maiden bright, Danaë, in her brass-bound tower, Once exchanged the glad sunlight For a cell, her bridal bower. And yet she sprang of royal line, My child, like thine, And nursed the seed By her conceived Of Zeus descending in a golden shower. Strange are the ways of Fate, her power Nor wealth, nor arms withstand, nor tower; Nor brass-prowed ships, that breast the sea From Fate can flee.
Antistrophe 1
Thus Dryas’ child, the rash Edonian King, For words of high disdain Did Bacchus to a rocky dungeon bring, To cool the madness of a fevered brain. His frenzy passed, He learnt at last ’Twas madness gibes against a god to fling. For once he fain had quenched the Maenad’s fire; And of the tuneful Nine provoked the ire.
Strophe 2
By the Iron Rocks that guard the double main, On Bosporus’ lone strand, Where stretcheth Salmydessus’ plain In the wild Thracian land, There on his borders Ares witnessèd The vengeance by a jealous step-dame ta’en The gore that trickled from a spindle red, The sightless orbits of her step-sons twain.
Antistrophe 2
Wasting away they mourned their piteous doom, The blasted issue of their mother’s womb. But she her lineage could trace To great Erecththeus’ race; Daughter of Boreas in her sire’s vast caves Reared, where the tempest raves, Swift as his horses o’er the hills she sped; A child of gods; yet she, my child, like thee, By Destiny That knows not death nor age—she too was vanquishèd.
Enter Teiresias and Boy.
Teiresias: Princes of Thebes, two wayfarers as one, Having betwixt us eyes for one, we are here. The blind man cannot move without a guide.
Creon: Why tidings, old Teiresias?
Teiresias: I will tell thee; And when thou hearest thou must heed the seer.
Creon: Thus far I ne’er have disobeyed thy rede.
Teiresias: So hast thou steered the ship of State aright.
Creon: I know it, and I gladly own my debt.
Teiresias: Bethink thee that thou treadest once again The razor edge of peril.
Creon: What is this? Thy words inspire a dread presentiment.
Teiresias: The divination of my arts shall tell. Sitting upon my throne of augury, As is my wont, where every fowl of heaven Find harbourage, upon mine ears was borne A jargon strange of twitterings, hoots, and screams, So knew I that each bird at the other tare With bloody talons, for the whirr of wings Could signify naught else. Perturbed in soul, I straight essayed the sacrifice by fire
On blazing altars, but the God of Fire Came not in flame, and from the thigh bones dripped And sputtered in the ashes a foul ooze; Gall-bladders cracked and spurted up: the fat Melted and fell and left the thigh bones bare. Such are the signs, taught by this lad, I read— As I guide others, so the boy guides me— The frustrate signs of oracles grown dumb. O King, thy willful temper ails the State,
For all our shrines and altars are profaned By what has filled the maw of dogs and crows, The flesh of Oedipus’ unburied son. Therefore the angry gods abominate Our litanies and our burnt offerings; Therefore no birds trill out a happy note, Gorged with the carnival of human gore. O ponder this, my son. To err is common To all men, but the man who having erred
Hugs not his errors, but repents and seeks The cure, is not a wastrel nor unwise. No fool, the saw goes, like the obstinate fool. Let death disarm thy vengeance. O forbear To vex the dead. What glory wilt thou win By slaying twice the slain? I mean thee well; Counsel’s most welcome if I promise gain.
Creon: Old man, ye all let fly at me your shafts Like anchors at a target; yea, ye set Your soothsayer on me. Peddlers are ye all And I the merchandise ye buy and sell. Go to, and make your profit where ye will, Silver of Sardis change for gold of Ind; Ye will not purchase this man’s burial, Not though the wingèd ministers of Zeus Should bear him in their talons to his throne; Not e’en in awe of prodigy so dire Would I permit his burial, for I know No human soilure can assail the gods; This too I know, Teiresias, dire’s the fall Of craft and cunning when it tries to gloss Foul treachery with fair words for filthy gain.
Teiresias: Alas! doth any know and lay to heart—