Four Plays of Aeschylus Part 22

That to a swordsman, is no welcome word!

CHORUS

Shall thine own brother's blood be victory's palm?

ETEOCLES

Ill which the G.o.ds have sent thou canst not shun!

[Exit ETEOCLES. CHORUS I shudder in dread of the power, abhorred by the G.o.ds 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, 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 s.p.a.ce of a grave!

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?

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!

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.

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 wall Totters, as soon to fall; And, if our chieftains in the storm go down, What chance can save the town?

Curses, inherited from long ago, Bring heavy freight of woe: Rich stores of merchandise o'erload the deck, Near, nearer comes the wreck- And all is lost, cast out upon the wave, Floating, with none to save!

Whom did the G.o.ds, whom did the chief of men, Whom did each citizen In crowded concourse, in such honour hold, As Oedipus of old, When the grim fiend, that fed on human prey, He took from us away?

But when, in the fulness of days, he knew of his bridal unblest, A twofold horror he wrought, in the frenzied despair of his breast- Debarred from the grace of the banquet, the service of goblets of gold, He flung on his children a curse for the splendour they dared to withhold, A curse prophetic and bitter- The glory of wealth and of pride, With iron, not gold, in your hands, ye shall come, at the last, to divide!

Behold, how a shudder runs through me, lest now, in the fulness of time, The house-fiend awake and return, to mete out the measure of crime!

[Enter THE SPY.

THE SPY

Take heart, ye daughters whom your mothers' milk Made milky-hearted! lo, our city stands, Saved from the yoke of servitude: the vaunts Of overweening men are silent now, And the State sails beneath a sky serene, Nor in the manifold and battering waves Hath s.h.i.+pped a single surge, and solid stands The rampart, and the gates are made secure, Each with a single champion's trusty guard.

So in the main and at six gates we hold A victory a.s.sured; but, at the seventh, The G.o.d that on the seventh day was born, Royal Apollo, hath ta'en up his rest To wreak upon the sons of Oedipus Their grandsire's wilfulness of long ago.

CHORUS

What further woefulness besets our home?

THE SPY

The home stands safe-but ah, the princes twain-

CHORUS

Who? what of them? I am distraught with fear.

THE SPY

Hear now, and mark! the sons of Oedipus-

CHORUS

Ah, my prophetic soul! I feel their doom.

THE SPY

Have done with questions!-with their lives crushed out-

CHORUS

Lie they out yonder? the full horror speak!

Did hands meet hands more close than brotherly?

Came fate on each, and in the selfsame hour?

THE SPY

Yea, blotting out the lineage ill-starred!

Now mix your exultation and your tears, Over a city saved, the while its lords, Twin leaders of the fight, have parcelled out With forged arbitrament of Scythian steel The full division of their fatherland, And, as their father's imprecation bade, Shall have their due of land, a twofold grave.

So is the city saved; the earth has drunk Blood of twin princes, by each other slain.

CHORUS

O mighty Zeus and guardian powers, The strength and stay of Cadmus' towers!

Shall I send forth a joyous cry, Hail to the lord of weal renewed?

Or weep the misbegotten twain, Born to a fatal destiny?

Each numbered now among the slain, Each dying in ill fort.i.tude, Each truly named, each child of feud?

O dark and all-prevailing ill, That broods o'er Oedipus and all his line, Numbing my heart with mortal chill!

Ah me, this song of mine, Which, Thyad-like, I woke, now falleth still, Or only tells of doom, And echoes round a tomb!

Dead are they, dead! in their own blood they lie- Ill-omened the concent that hails our victory!

The curse a father on his children spake Hath faltered not, nor failed!

Nought, Laius! thy stubborn choice availed- First to beget, then, in the after day And for the city's sake, The child to slay!

For nought can blunt nor mar The speech oracular!

Children of teen! by disbelief ye erred- Yet in wild weeping came fulfilment of the word!

[ANTIGONE and ISMENE approach, with a train of mourners, bearing the bodies of ETEOCLES and POLYNICES.

Look up, look forth! the doom is plain, Nor spake the messenger in vain!

A twofold sorrow, twofold strife- Each brave against a brother's life!

In double doom hath sorrow come- How shall I speak it?-on the home!

Alas, my sisters! be your sighs the gale, The smiting of your brows the plash of oars, Wafting the boat, to Acheron's dim sh.o.r.es That pa.s.seth ever, with its darkened sail, On its uncharted voyage and sunless way, Far from thy beams, Apollo, G.o.d of day- The melancholy bark Bound for the common bourn, the harbour of the dark!

Look up, look yonder! from the home Antigone, Ismene come, On the last, saddest errand bound, To chant a dirge of doleful sound, With agony of equal pain Above their brethren slain!

Their sister-bosoms surely swell, Heart with rent heart according well In grief for those who fought and fell!

Yet-ere they utter forth their woe- We must awake the rueful strain To vengeful powers, in realms below, And mourn h.e.l.l's triumph o'er the slain!

Alas! of all, the breast who bind,- Yea, all the race of womankind- O maidens, ye are most bereaved!

For you, for you the tear-drops start- Deem that in truth, and undeceived, Ye hear the sorrows of my heart!

(To the dead.) Children of bitterness, and sternly brave- One, proud of heart against persuasion's voice, One, against exile proof! ye win your choice- Each in your fatherland, a separate grave!

Alack, on house and heritage They brought a baneful doom, and death for wage!

One strove through tottering walls to force his way, One claimed, in bitter arrogance, the sway, And both alike, even now and here, Have closed their suit, with steel for arbiter!

And lo, the Fury-fiend of Oedipus, their sire, Hath brought his curse to consummation dire!

Each in the left side smitten, see them laid- The children of one womb, Slain by a mutual doom!

Alas, their fate! the combat murderous, The horror of the house, The curse of ancient bloodshed, now repaid!

Yea, deep and to the heart the deathblow fell, Edged by their feud ineffable- By the grim curse, their sire did imprecate- Discord and deadly hate!

Hark, how the city and its towers make moan- How the land mourns that held them for its own!

Fierce greed and fell division did they blend, Till death made end!

They strove to part the heritage in twain, Giving to each a gain- Yet that which struck the balance in the strife, The arbitrating sword, By those who loved the twain is held abhorred- Loathed is the G.o.d of death, who sundered each from life!

Here, by the stroke of steel, behold! they lie- And rightly may we cry Beside their fathers, let them here be laid- Iron gave their doom, with iron their graves be made- Alack, the slaying sword, alack, th' entombing spade!

Alas, a piercing shriek, a rending groan, A cry unfeigned of sorrow felt at heart!

With shuddering of grief, with tears that start, With wailful escort, let them hither come- For one or other make divided moan!