dark to ban
| And slay me; sending first this magic-man
| And schemer, this false beggar-priest, whose eye
| Is bright for gold and blind for prophecy?
| Speak, thou. When hast thou ever shown thee strong
| For
aid? The She-Wolf of the woven song
| Came, and thy art could find no word, no breath,
| To save thy
people from her riddling death.
| ’Twas scarce a secret, that, for common men
| To unravel. There was
need of Seer-craft then.
| And thou hadst none to show. No fowl, no flame,
| No God revealed it thee.
’Twas I that came,
| Rude Oedipus, unlearned in wizard’s lore,
| And read her secret, and she spoke no
more.
| Whom now thou thinkest to hunt out, and stand
| Foremost in honour at King Creon’s hand.
| I think
ye will be sorry, thou and he
| That shares thy sin-hunt. Thou dost look to me
| An old man; else, I swear
this day should bring
| | On thee the death thou plottest for thy King. |
Leader.
Lord Oedipus, these be but words of wrath,
| All thou hast spoke and all the Prophet hath.
| Which
skills not. We must join, for ill or well,
| | In search how best to obey God’s oracle. |
Tiresias.
King though thou art, thou needs must bear the right
| Of equal answer. Even in me is might
| For thus much, seeing I live no thrall of thine,
| But Lord Apollo’s; neither do I sign
| Where Creon bids me.
| I
am blind, and thou
| Hast mocked my blindness. Yea, I will speak now.
| Eyes hast thou, but thy deeds
thou canst not see
| Nor where thou art, nor what things dwell with thee.
| Whence art thou born? Thou
know’st not; and unknown,
| On quick and dead, on all that were thine own,
| Thou hast wrought hate. For
that across thy path
| Rising, a mother’s and a father’s wrath,
| Two-handed, shod with fire, from the haunts
of men
| Shall scourge thee, in thine eyes now light, but then
| Darkness. Aye, shriek! What harbour of the
sea,
| What wild Kithairon shall not cry to thee
| In answer, when thou hear’st what bridal song,
| What wind
among the torches, bore thy strong
| Sail to its haven, not of peace but blood.
| Yea, ill things multitude
on multitude
| Thou seest not, which so soon shall lay thee low,
| Low as thyself, low as thy children.—Go,
| Heap scorn on Creon and my lips withal:
| For this I tell thee, never was there fall
| | Of pride, nor shall be,
like to thine this day. |
Oedipus.
To brook such words from this thing? Out, I say!
| | Out to perdition! Aye, and quick, before … |
[The Leader restrains him.
| Enough then!—Turn and get thee from my door. |
Tiresias.
| I had not come hadst thou not called me here. |
Oedipus.
I knew thee not so dark a fool. I swear
| | ’Twere long before I called thee, had I known. |
Tiresias.
Fool, say’st thou? Am I truly such an one?
| | The two who gave thee birth, they held me wise. |
Oedipus.
| Birth? … Stop! Who were they? Speak thy prophecies.4 |
Tiresias.
| This day shall give thee birth and blot thee out. |
Oedipus.
| Oh, riddles everywhere and words of doubt! |
Tiresias.
| Aye. Thou wast their best reader long ago. |
Oedipus.
| Laugh on. I swear thou still shalt find me so. |
Tiresias.
| That makes thy pride and thy calamity. |
Oedipus.
| I have saved this land, and care not if I die. |
Tiresias.
| Then I will go.—Give me thine arm, my child. |
Oedipus.
Aye, help him quick.—To see him there makes wild
| | My heart. Once gone, he will not vex me
more. |
|
