|
Creon.
That had I done, for sure, save that I still
| | Tremble, and fain would ask Apollo’s will. |
Oedipus.
His will was clear enough, to stamp the unclean
| | Thing out, the bloody hand, the heart of sin. |
Creon.
’Twas thus he seemed to speak; but in this sore
| | Strait we must needs learn surer than before. |
Oedipus.
| Thou needs must trouble God for one so low? |
Creon.
| Surely; thyself will trust his answer now. |
Oedipus.
I charge thee more … and, if thou fail, my sin
| Shall cleave to thee. … For her who lies within,
| Make as thou wilt her burial. ’Tis thy task
| To tend thine own. But me: let no man ask
| This ancient city
of my sires to give
| Harbour in life to me. Set me to live21
| On the wild hills and leave my name to those
| Deeps of Kithairon which my father chose,
| And mother, for my vast and living tomb.
| As they, my murderers,
willed it, let my doom
| Find me. For this my very heart doth know,
| No sickness now, nor any mortal blow,
| Shall slay this body. Never had my breath
| Been thus kept burning in the midst of death,
| Save for some
frightful end. So, let my way
| | Go where it listeth. |
But my children—Nay,
| Creon, my sons will ask thee
for no care.
| Men are they, and can find them everywhere
| What life needs. But my two poor desolate
| Maidens. … There was no table ever set
| Apart for them, but whatso royal fare
| I tasted, they were with me
and had share
| In all. … Creon, I pray, forget them not.
| | And if it may be, go, bid them be brought, |
[Creon goes and presently returns with the two princesses. Oedipus thinks he is there all the time.
That I may touch their faces, and so weep. …
| Go, Prince. Go, noble heart! …
| If I might touch them, I should
seem to keep
| And not to have lost them, now mine eyes are gone. …
| What say I?
| In God’s name, can it
be I hear mine own
| Beloved ones sobbing? Creon of his grace
| Hath brought my two, my dearest, to this
place.
| | Is it true? |
Creon.
’Tis true. I brought them, for in them I know
| | Thy joy is, the same now as long ago. |
Oedipus.
God bless thee, and in this hard journey give
| Some better guide than mine to help thee live.
| Children!
Where are ye? Hither; come to these
| Arms of your … brother, whose wild offices
| Have brought
much darkness on the once bright eyes
| Of him who grew your garden; who, nowise
| Seeing nor understanding,
digged a ground
| The world shall shudder at. Children, my wound
| Is yours too, and I cannot meet your
gaze
| Now, as I think me what remaining days
| Of bitter living the world hath for you.
| What dance of
damsels shall ye gather to,
| What feast of Thebes, but quick ye shall turn home,
| All tears, or ere the
feast or dancers come?
| And, children, when ye reach the years of love,
| Who shall dare wed you, whose
heart rise above
| The peril, to take on him all the shame
| That cleaves to my name and my children’s
name?
| God knows, it is enough! …
| My flowers, ye needs must die, waste things, bereft
| And fruitless.
| Creon,
thou alone art left
| Their father now, since both of us are gone
| Who cared for them. Oh, leave
them not alone
| To wander masterless, these thine own kin,
| And beggared. Neither think of them such
sin
| As ye all know in me, but let their fate
| Touch thee. So young they are, so desolate—
| Of all save
thee. True man, give me thine hand,
| | And promise. |
[Oedipus and Creon clasp hands.
If your age could understand,
| Children, full many counsels I could
give.
| But now I leave this one word: Pray to live
| As life may suffer you, and find a road
| | To travel easier
than your father trod. |
Creon.
Enough thy heart hath poured its tears; now back
| | into thine house repair. |
Oedipus.
| I dread the house, yet go I must. |
Creon.
| Fair season maketh all things fair. |
Oedipus.
| One oath then give me, and I go. |
Creon.
| Name it, and I will answer thee. |
|
