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PREFACE.

I have translated the Antigone for a special performance in the Grand Opera House, Cincinnati, on the afternoon of March the tenth. The drama will be staged by one of my former pupils, Miss Edna Mannheimer. If the play acts well (for no play is good, unless it is a good acting play) I shall not be dissatisfied with my version, whatever the other merits, or demerits, of my attempted transfusion of the drama may be. If Æschylus cannot be translated into French, certainly Sophocles cannot be translated into English; for our language simply breaks down in the attempt to render the light and rapid, yet strong and unerring, words of the flexible Greek. The trimeters I translated in thirty days. Thirty years would not suffice for the choral songs—indeed, the hopelessness of translation, at the end of that period, would probably be even more apparent than it is now.

For my plagiarism of Shakesperian phraseology I have no apology to offer. I have resolutely refrained from consulting all previous translations of the tragedy except three. Two of these I have glanced at only occasionally; the third— Sir Richard Jebb’s —has been open before me constantly, so that the metempsychosis I have endeavored to make of the Antigone doubtless bears the impress of this monumental edition. Greek scholars will know that I could not escape it—and, I may add, in the words of Hæmon, “I would not, if I could.”

I am under great obligations to my colleague, Frank Wadleigh Chandler , Professor of English in the University of Cincinnati, for reading the work in manuscript, and for suggesting changes in many places. Joseph Edward Harry.

Cincinnati, Jan. 8, 1911 .

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INTRODUCTION.

The best gate to the Antigone is through King Œdipus , an earlier chapter in the story.

This drama opens in front of the palace in Thebes. Suppliants in white tunics and cloaks have laid olive branches with fillets of wool on the altars. The doors of the palace open and Œdipus appears. He asks his dear children, as he calls them, the meaning of their attitude, the frankincense that fills the city, the solemn chants and frequent cries of dole. The priest answers for them: Heaven itself frowns upon the land; the city tosseth sore and cannot her head upheave; a curse is on her—the pasturing kine, the fruit of earth, the childless mother-pangs of women, and the abominable pestilence harrieth Thebes, while black Hades is glutted rich with wails and groans. Their king upreared their life from out the dust of death, when aforetime the dire sphinx exacted tribute, and now they entreat him to find some remedy, some refuge for them once again. But Œdipus has already divined their yearnings; he knows they ail, but none whose ailment equals his: his soul groans for state, for self, for all. He has wept long and has gone many roads in devious wanderings of thought; and the sole remedy he could find after diligent survey has already been applied: his own wife’s brother has been despatched in post to sacred Delphi, Apollo’s temple, to learn by what deed or word he might deliver the state. And now Œdipus is growing anxious; beyond all likelihood the son of Menoiceus stays; but when Apollo’s answer comes, he will leave nothing undone of all things whatsoever they be, that the god shall show. Suddenly Creon arrives with certain news, but—a riddle—neither good nor bad: “Good, an God will,—that is, if all come out aright.” The oracle neither comforts nor saddens. Then Creon speaks plainly: “Drive out the defiling thing in the land and breed it not so that it cannot be healed.” This defilement is explained to be a man who has shed blood and brought the storm of troubles on the state, namely, the man who has killed the former king. For Laius on the road to Delphi met a bloody end; his comrades too all perished, save one, who escaped and brought back word that robbers had overpowered them by force of numbers. The Thebans had done naught to seek or punish the murderers since the riddling sphinx had occupied their whole attention. Œdipus, having listened to the oracle, now promises to search out the criminal, for the sake of the land, of the god, and even for his own sake,—since in avenging Laius he but befriends himself. The suppliants retire, and fifteen Theban elders, men of noble birth, enter and express in song their feelings of distress and terror and entreat the gods to help them in their affliction.

Œdipus asks the assistance of the elders that he may obtain some clue which he may follow up in tracking out, the guilty man; he charges them to tell all they know; if the criminal be afraid, let him reveal himself, for no hurt will be done unto him—only he shall leave the land. But if he be screened, so much the worse: no one shall speak to the murderer or share house, sacrifice, or prayer with him, but thrust him forth. Œdipus is the ally of Apollo and of the murdered king: may the unknown slayer eke out in sin his unblest life; nay, more, if he should be unwittingly a member of the king’s own household, may the same curse rest on himself. In any event, e’en unurged, they should seek out the murderer of one so noble; but now since Œdipus holds the sovereignty once held by him, and also bed and wife, from whom they would have had chil dren in common, had not issue been denied the former king, he will prosecute the case as for his own father, will leave no stone unturned to find the assassin, “and curses on him who withholds his aid!” The chorus protest their innocence and their ignorance, but suggest that he would not go amiss in his inquiry, if he were to send for Teiresias, who can descry what’s past and what’s to come. But Creon, his wife’s brother, has already advised this course; twice has he sent for Teiresias and he wonders why the prophet tarries. But lo! at this instant the blind soothsayer appears, led by a boy. The king entreats him to rescue them all from the blight of pollution by naming, if he knows, the murderer. But Teiresias is loth to speak, and turns to go. Œdipus implores him to unlock his lips, if he has knowledge, but the seer replies:

“I will not proclaim my secret grief—that I say not thine.”

“ ’S death! You know, and will not tell?”

“To spare myself and you. Your questioning will be vain.”

“Arch villain! Why, you would turn a very stone to rage—you will not speak, but remain untouched?”

“You chide my temper; but your own you see not. What is to come will come, e’en if I refuse to unseal my lips.”

“ ’T is my right to hear, if come it will.”

“I’ll speak no further; stamp, rave, and fret, if you will.”

“Sooth, and I will. By God! I turn it all to your suggestion, plot and damned practice, manifest conspirator that you are, that you did contrive to murder our dead lord, and were you not blind, I’d say that you did the deed.”

“Indeed?—I charge you to abide by the proclamation you have made and from this day never speak to those nor me—you are the man that defiles this land accursed!”

“Insolence surpassing insolence! How do you expect to escape?”

“I have escaped: the truth is my strength.”

“Say it again—I did not catch the purport.”

“You slew the man whose slayer you seek.”

“Measureless liar! You’ll not repeat with impunity that infamous charge.”

“Shall I tell you more to make you chafe the more?”

“All you like—’t will have no effect.”

“You have been living with your dearest kin most foully and knew it not.”

“Presumputous priest! Do you think you will say on and on and not smart for this?”

“Yes, if there’s strength in truth.”

“There is, except for you; but you are blind in ear and mind and eye.”

“And you a pitiful wretch to utter taunts that all will soon hurl back on you.”

“Are these treasons complotted and contrived by Creon, or are they your own?”

“Creon harms you not—you harm yourself alone.”

Œdipus then inveighs against wealth and sovereignty for the envy that goes with them—machinations, hollowness, treachery and all ruinous disorders. This power Thebes put into his hands unasked, and now his old and trusty friend Creon is seeking to overthrow him and gripe the general sway into his own hand by the merit of vile gold, by hiring a miserable charlatan, a scheming juggler, blind in his art, but open-eyed for gain, for glistening gold, the yellow slave that will knit and break religions.

“Come, why did you not guess the riddle of the Sphinx—it required a seer’s skill—instead of waiting for the ignorant Œdipus to come and by mother-wit alone, with no lore of birds, to make her mute?”

“Though you are king, I have the right of reply—I am not your servant, but Apollo’s. I am blind, you have taunted me with that—you can see, yet you see not in what woe you are, where you dwell, nor with whom you live. Know you of whom you are? Your mother’s and father’s curse shall drive you from this land with eyes that now see the light then in darkness shrouded. Therefore calumniate Creon, reproach me for my message: for in all the world there is none that will be more miserably crushed than you.”

“Vengeance! Death! Confusion! Such words from him! Damnation seize you! Out of my sight! Hence! Avaunt! Back whence you came and rid me of your presence!”

“I had not come, had you not sent for me.”

“I knew not that you would talk so foolishly, or hardly would I have called you in.”

“I am—in your esteem—a fool; but to your parents wise.”

“Parents? Stay! Who are they? Who?”

“This day begets, this day destroys you.”

“How in riddles darkly-syllabled each point is glanced at.”

“Are not you most skilled in guessing riddles? I will go. Lead me, boy.”

“Aye, lead him. Your presence has been annoyance, your absence will please me much.”

“I will go, when I have spoken what I came to speak,—but not in fear of your frown; for you can never do me hurt. And I tell you that the man you have been seeking, he is here, in this place, passing for a foreigner, but in the end proved a Theban born, and he will not be pleased to find it out. Then sightless, though now endowed with sight, a beggar then, though now rich, with staff in hand he shall wander to a strange land. And he shall be found to be at once brother and father of his own sons, husband and son of her who bare him,—possessor of his father’s bed and shedder of his father’s blood. Go thou within and think on that, and if thou dost find that I have lied, deny henceforth that I possess the gift of prophecy.”

The chorus waver. They can not give credence to the seer’s utterance, yet the wise augur moved them; for he hath still been tried a holy man: his words have always been infallible. Nevertheless, they will wait till the word the seer has spoken against the opinion Thebes holds of his high name shall be verified. No prophet can be trusted if he prove false; but Œdipus was shown to be wise when the sphinx came against him of old; hence they will not adjudge him guilty.

Highly indignant to think that he must bear such blame, Creon enters just as Œdipus emerges from the palace. The latter sincerely believes that he has not been exempt from the envy of his kinsman’s swelling heart.

“Sirrah, have you the hardihood, you, the proved assassin of Laius, you, apprehended in the fact and act of wresting my crown from me,—to seek my house. Was it cowardice or folly you saw in me that prompted you to hatch this plot? The crown of Thebes is not to be sought by any by-paths and indirect crooked ways.”

After a warm altercation Creon avers that he has never had a thought of aspiring to be King, one who often feels a world of restless cares; he prefers his present position with its security and honor free from distress; the profits of the king’s dethronement would never be pregnant and potential spurs to such an action. If Œdipus does not believe him, let him go to Delphi and let the oracle rectify his knowledge, let him ask whether he brought back a true message from Apollo. Jocasta, Creon’s sister, comes forth just in time to overhear the high words, and inquires their cause. She urges the wranglers to forbear, to be ruled by her, and in the best consideration to check their hideous rashness.

“Whence arose this strife?”

On learning that the king imputes to his brother-in-law a bold conspiracy, and that he is accused of sending the seer to proclaim her husband as the assassin of Laius, she bids Œdipus allay his fire of passion with the sap of reason and listen to her; an oracle came from Delphi once declaring that the child born of Laius and herself should slay his father; but when the babe was only three days old, it was exposed on a bleak mountainside. So the oracle was not fulfilled—the babe did not slay its father, nor did Laius die by the hand of his child; for, according to report, the king was murdered by robbers at three crossways. Mention of this spot startles Œdipus. He asks for more specific information and learns that it was in the land of Phocis where roads from Delphi and from Daulia meet.

“How long ago?”

“Just before you ascended the throne.”

“O Zeus! What hast thou planned to do to me?—What was the man like?”

“Tall, his hair just turning gray, in form not unlike you.”

“Unhappy man that I am! I imprecated curses on myself and knew it not.”

“What is the matter? Œdipus, my lord, you startle me!”

“My mind misgives. ‘Teiresias after all, I fear, is not blind. But tell me this, Did he set forth with few, or many, in royal state?”

“Five in all, one a herald, and Laius in a carriage.”

“God in heaven! ’Tis plain—But who reported the occurrence?”

“A slave, the sole survivor.”

“Is he here?”

‘‘No, for when he came and found you crowned king, he besought me to send him to the pastures, to tend the flocks, as far from town as possible. He deserved even a greater reward for a favor he once did.”

“I would see him.”

“He can easily be brought back. But what good will it do?”

“I fear I have said too much already and—I want to see him.”

“I will send for him. But surely I too have a right to know what troubles you.”

And willingly shall I tell you all. In whom else should I confide?

My father was Polybus of Corinth, my mother Merope, a Dorian. I was held second to none among the citizens, till one day, at a banquet, a fellow who had drunk much wine said that I was not my father’s son. I contained myself that day, but on the morrow I questioned my parents. They were angry at the man who had uttered the reproach; but it ever haunted me—for the whisper of it went abroad—and, unknown to them, I went to Delphi and asked Apollo, who answered not my query, but dismissed me with words of woe and terror, saying that it was my fate to mate with my own mother, bring into the world progeny that men would loathe to look upon, and murder him who was the author of my being. I turned, avoiding Corinth, and went where you say the king was slain. There I met a herald, and a man in a carriage drawn by colts. They tried to force me from the road. Furious, I struck the driver; but the old man watching his opportunity, as I passed, fetched me a blow with his double goad upon the head. But dearly did he pay for his rashness. A swift, sure blow from this right arm rolled him out of the car upon his back. Then I slew all. Now, if he was related to Laius, was ever man more wretched? Who could be more accurst?—received in no home, no man to speak to me—and to think that not another, but I myself laid this curse upon myself—and I must defile the dead man’s wife by the very hands that slew her lord. Do you not see that I am all vile? Am I not utterly polluted?—banished, never to see my own again, never set foot on my native soil, or else wed my mother and kill my father, Polybus. Oh! Great heaven! No! May I never see that day, but vanish from the sight of men before I meet with such an awful doom!

Jocasta reassures Œdipus . The herdsman cannot retract the tale he has told of the massacre. Besides, Apollo predicted the death of Laius at her child’s hands. So far as prophecy is concerned, she would not turn to the right or the left. But the queen’s mind changes later. Her misgivings prompt her to provide herself with suppliant branches and incense and to visit the altars—she begins to fear that naught can be avoided whose end is purposed by the mighty gods.

A messenger enters and inquires for the sovereign . He brings good news to the house and to its lord: Polybus is dead, and the people will crown Œdipus king of Corinth. Jocasta exclaims, as the king emerges from the palace: “Listen to this man, and then say whether oracles can be believed.” The message is repeated, and Œdipus feels relieved,—his alarm had misled him. Now he has no cause to fear—except that his mother Merope is still living. He will not return to Corinth; while she lives, he cannot hope for peace. The Corinthian eases his mind by telling him a secret: Polybus and Merope were not his parents, for he, the messenger, had received Œdipus when a babe from the hands of a herdsman in the winding glens of Cithæron, his ankles transfixed with spikes,—hence his name, Œdipus (Swellfoot). That shepherd was one of Laius’ men. The chorus surmise that it must have been the man for whom the queen has sent. The queen urges the king to pay no attention to the matter: but Œdipus is now bent on knowing his origin; and he suspects that Jocasta fears that, if the secret is revealed, he will be proven baseborn. The queen prays that he may never find out who he is. This irritates Œdipus beyond measure, and he gives peremptory orders for the herdsman to be brought.

“Let her glory in her wealth and pedigree.”

Jocasta exclaims: “Unhappy man! ’T is the last I shall ever say, and nothing ever more.”

She rushes into the house, and the shepherd, who is now brought forward, is recognized by both the chorus and by the Corinthian. The king makes inquiry. The messenger aids the old shepherd’s memory:

“You gave me a child to bring up as my own—that babe and this man is the same.”

“Damnation! keep your mouth shut!”

Œdipus is obliged to threaten to resort to rigorous measures before the old man consents to tell the whole story:

“I gave it.”

“Whose was it? Your own?”

“Beseech your Highness, no, another’s,—for Heaven’s sake, ask no more!”

“You ’re lost, if I have to ask again.”

“I got it from Laius’ house.”

“A slave's?”

“The next is the dread word for me to say.”

“And for me to hear,—but it must be heard.”

“Well, yes, it was said to be his. She could tell you best.”

“Did she give it to you?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“To kill.”

“Her own child?”

“Because she was afraid of the prophecies.”

“What prophecies?”

“That he would kill his father.”

“Oh! Oh! All true! O Light, never will I look on thee again! Born accurst, living sinfully with those I should not, and murderer of my sire!”

Œdipus is resolved to know the truth at any cost; heroically he sets at naught his own anguish of heart. Jocasta realizes that she can live no longer. She alone discerns the whole truth; she alone realizes that the awful dénouement is coming; and for dramatic skill and power hardly any drama in the ancient and modern world contains anything so fine as her exit.

After the choral song a second messenger enters. He comes from the palace .

Oh what sights, what deeds, what grief! Neither the Phasis nor the Ister could wash this dwelling clean. Jocasta’s dead!—No sooner entered than she rushed straight to her bridal bed, clutching her hair in both hands, and began to call on Laius, bewailing the fate that brought about the procreation of a son that was to slay his sire and she a widow left only to bear seed to her own son,—bemoaning the bed where she bore husband to husband and son to son. Then in burst Œdipus with such a shriek that we could not watch her anguish to the end. To and fro he rushed and begged us for a sword, and calling on his wife who was no wife, but a field tilled for both his children and himself. Some god above showed her to him, not we, and with a wild and dreadful cry he sprang toward the door, forced the bolts from their sockets, and rushed into the room. There he saw his wife hanging in a noose of twisted cords. With a great cry of woe he loosed the knot and laid her on the floor. Then there was an awful sight to see. From her vesture he tore the brooches of beaten gold, raised them on high and drove them full into his own eyeballs, as he shouted, “No more shall you behold all the wrongs I suffered, all I wrought, but in darkness see what should not be seen, and know not whom I longed to know!” Not once, but many times he smote, and at each blow bedewed his beard—not a drizzling ooze but a dark shower of blood fell from his eyes unceasingly. He cries now for some one to fling the doors wide open and show to all the Thebans the father’s murderer, the mother’s—too foul for utterance—declaring that he will cast himself out and no more abide in Thebes, to his house a curse self-accurst. Look! the gates are opening. Soon will you behold a spectacle that even he who loathes must pity.

As the musicians play an overture, Œdipus comes forth .

Woe is me! Alas! Wretched, wretched! Where am I moving now? Oh! Destiny, what a leap on me!

Chorus . Awful, unbearable, unspeakable!

Œdipus . O darkness unaidable enshrouding me, irresistible, unutterable, horrible. Woe is me! and woe again! Oh how my soul is pierced by the stings and the pangs of the sorrows I never can forget!

Chorus . Yea, small wonder if you moan the twofold anguish now.

Œdipus . Oh, my friends, you are still loyal and true, patiently caring for the poor blind man. You are there, I know it well, for I hear your voice despite the darkness of these eyes.

Chorus . O horrible deed! How could you blot out the vision of your eyes? Prompted by what power above?

Œdipus . Apollo, my friends, Apollo it was that brought upon me this terrible, horrible sorrow. But no other hand struck the blow save mine alone. Why should I see when there was nothing sweet for me to see?

Chorus . Too true—even as you say.

Œdipus . What, pray, was I to look upon, to care for, or to listen to with pleasure now? Take me out of the land as quickly as you can, O my friends, take me, the damned, disgraced, accurst, and hatefullest of all mortals to God.

Chorus . Wretched both for thy fortune and for thy feeling. Would God that I had never known thee!

Œdipus . Curses on the man, whoever he was, that loosed the cruel fetters on my feet and delivered me and kept me back from death! I thank him not. No! For if I had died then, I would not now be such a burden of woe to myself and to my friends.

Chorus . I too wish that that had been.

Œdipus . Then I would not have proved the murderer of my father, not have been called the spouse of her from whom I myself was born. But now am I god-forsaken, mother-defiled, and my father’s bridal bed made my own; and if there is any ill still worse than ill, all this is mine—O Cithæron, why didst thou shelter me? Why didst thou not slay me at once, that I might never show to men from what blood I sprang. O Polybus, and Corinth, and the old house that was known as the house of my fathers, what fairness filmed the ulcerous place, whilst rank corruption infected it within? For now vile and of the vile I am found to be. O ye three roads and secluded glen, thicket and narrow pass where three ways meet, that drank my blood shed by these hands from my father’s veins! Do you remember what deeds I wrought and what I further did, when I came here? O nuptials, nuptials, you brought me into life and then did breed again, producing fruit from the same soil, and gave for men to see fathers, brothers, sons of the same blood, brides, wives, mothers, incestuous acts and all the foulest sins that men can name!

At this point Creon enters . He tells the wretched king that he has not come to mock and cast reproaches. Œdipus begs him in God’s name to grant him a boon—to thrust him out, that he may vanish from the sight of men and perish from the earth. But Creon suggests that they first consult Apollo. Œdipus finally acquiesces, and charges, nay, entreats him to bury Jocasta with due rite.

As for my children, the boys can earn a livelihood—they are men and can take care of themselves; but my two girls, my poor hapless, helpless girls, who never sat apart from me at table, nor lacked my presence, but always shared my daily bread—do you care for them; and let me touch them and weep with them o’er our sorrows. Pray, noble prince, pray grant me this. If I could but touch them with my hands, I would feel that I had them with me as when I had my sight. What! Can it be? O ye gods! do I hear my sweet girls sobbing? Can it be that Creon has taken pity on me and brought my darlings here? Is it true?

“Yes, I did, for I knew that you yearned to have them.”

“Heaven bless you for your kindness and may it prove a better guardian than to me.—O my children, where are you? Come here, come to these brother arms of mine, to these hands that made your father’s eyes once bright, such orbs as these, because seeing naught, knowing naught, I became the author of your being at the source of my own existence. I can but weep for you—unable to see—to think of all the bitter days you now will have to live. To what gatherings, to what festivals will you go, and not come back home in tears instead of smiles. And when you reach the age to wed, who, my children, who will risk to take upon himself the disgrace that blights my own offspring, as it must yours? For wickedness and crime of every sort are here. Your father killed his father, wed his mother, and got children of her from whom he sprang himself, so that father, daughter, both were fruit of the selfsame womb. These taunts they will cast at you—then who will wed? There is none, my children, and you must wither barren and unmarried. O son of Menoiceus, you are all that’s left to them—for we twain who gave them birth are gone—do not suffer them, your poor, little nieces, to roam about as homeless waifs.—Bring them not down to the level of my shame and misery. Have compassion on them: they are so young, so delicate, so utterly destitute, except for you. Say that you will—signify that you will, and touch me with your hand. Children, were you old enough, I would give you much advice; but this must now suffice: endeavor to live as Heaven wills, and may your lot be happier than your father’s.”

“You have indulged your grief enough now. Go within.”

“I must obey, though hard it is.”

“Yes, everything in season.”

“Do you know on what condition I will go?”

“Tell me, and then I shall.”

“Send me forth from this land to dwell.”

“You request what the god must grant.”

“But I am an abomination to the gods.”

“Then the favor will be granted soon.”

“You consent ?”

“I never speak in vain what I do not mean.”

“Conduct me then within.”

“Come, let the children go.”

“O take them not from me, not them .”

“Do not yearn to have your way in everything; strong in power you did prevail, but power followed not through life; you see how soon your mightiness met misery.”

Œdipus, Creon, Antigone and Ismene move slowly away, while the leader of the chorus concludes the drama with these words:

Inhabitants of Thebes, look ye, this is Œdipus, who guessed the famous riddle and was a man most high in power; the people envied him in all his pomp and glory, and now behold in what an awful sea of misery submerged. ‘Therefore, never till the final day of all has come, till the goal of life is touched without hurt, deem any living creature happy.

In the Œdipus at Colonus , the blind old man, wedded to calamity and driven from Thebes, accompanied by his faithful Antigone, comes to Athens, where he is hospitably received by Theseus. Ismene arrives from Thebes and tells how her brothers had quarreled for the throne: Eteocles, the younger, had driven out Polyneices, who had fled to Argos, threatening to return with an invading army. Polyneices now enters and implores his father to espouse his cause. But Œdipus prays that his son may never regain the throne, may never return to his adopted Argos, but fall by the hand of the man who robbed him of his heritage. Polyneices begs his sisters to see that his corpse is given burial, if his father’s imprecations should be fulfilled.

In the Seven Against Thebes of Æschylus, Polyneices with his army has arrived. Many thousand warlike Argives are embattailed and ranked before the gates. Of the seven chiefs selected to stand against the seven Argive leaders, Eteocles is matched with his brother. The chorus sings of the impending conflict which will spill fratricidal blood upon the dust of Earth, and of the curses of wrath which the father had launched against his sons for their unfilial acts towards him. A scout enters to announce that the realm is saved, but that the princes are dead, slain by each other’s hand. It is here that Sophocles, in his Antigone , takes up the thread of the story.

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ANTIGONE

Who dares To self-selected good Prefer obedience to the primal law, Which consecrates the ties of blood.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

The scene is before the palace in Thebes .

ANTIGONE.

Antigone . Ismene, sister mine, my own dear sister, Dost know, of all the woes of Œdipus Bequeathed to thee and me; there ’s none that Zeus Doth not fulfil for us while yet we live? Nothing fraught with pain and misery, With shame, disgrace and sorrow, not included In thy afflictions and in mine? And now This recent proclamation which they say The Chieftain ’s made to all in Thebes? Hast heard? Or hast thou not observed how that fell doom Decreed to foes doth threaten those we love?

Ismene . No word of joy, or pain, Antigone, Concerning those we love has come to me Since we two sisters, robbed of brothers twain, Felled by a mutual blow, were left alone. And since the Argive host’s evanishment Within the night just fled, I scarcely know If happier. now I should account myself Or plunged in deeper woe and misery.

Antigone . I knew it well; wherefore I brought thee hence, Outside the gates, that thou mightst hear alone.

Ismene . What? In thy countenance I see ill news.

Antigone . True; for consigned to honored burial By Creon is the one of our two brothers, While reft of burial site the other lies, Eteocles, they say, he has interred With due observance, rite and ceremony, That he be honored of the dead below, Whereas our Polyneices’ hapless corpse, I hear the King has publicly proclaimed That none shall lay him in a grave, that none Shall mourn; unwept, unburied he shall lie To glut the maw of vultures, when they pause In flight and see the welcome feast below. Such is the edict which Creon the Good Hath published both for thee and me—for I Too am included—and he’s coming here Forthwith, this clearly to proclaim to those Who know it not; nor trivial matter deems, But whoso fails to heed his will, a doom Most dire awaits him, stoned to death by all. Thou hast my news, and soon wilt show thyself, If of a noble strain, or basely bred, Unworthy daughter of a noble sire.

Ismene . But what can I do, sister, my touch, To loose, or yet to tighten such a knot?

Antigone . Consider. Wilt join to do and dare?

Ismene . In what emprise? What meanest thou to do?

Antigone . Wilt aid this hand of mine to lift the corpse?

Ismene . Surely thou dost not mean to bury him When Creon’s edict doth forbid?

Antigone . My brother—and thine, if thou wilt not—I shall enshrine: Disloyal I shall ne’er be found to him.

Ismene . Foolhardy girl! When Creon hath said nay?

Antigone . To bar me from mine own he has no right.

Ismene . Oh, sister, be advised! Remember first Our father, how he fell defamed and scorned, And prompted by the sins which his own search Lard bare, smote both his eyes with self-raised hand; Then how the mother-wife, ah, two-fold name, With twisted cord did violence to her life. And last our brothers, shedding brother’s blood, In one sad day have wrought each other’s doom. And now we two, the only two still left, O think what worser fate is yet in store Fro us, if we defy the law and brave The high decree that speaks the sovereign will. Nay, let_us not forget that we are women, Whom nature fashioned not to fight with men: And next, that we must needs be patient, Submitting to the stronger, and obey, However harsh, all mandates of the King. For my part, then, entreating those below To pardon, forasmuch as I am forced, I shall obey the ruler; for, to be Unduly active, sister, is not wise.

Antigone . I shall not urge thee. Nay, more—e’en if thou Shouldst seek to render active aid to me, Unwelcome now as my ally thou ’lt come. Do thou, be thou, as seemeth good; but I Shall bury him: thus glorious shall I die. Belovéd, I shall lie with him beloved, My crime against the State a pious deed. For longer those in Hades must I please Below than those in life, since yonder world Will always be my home. But if thou wilt, Do thou the laws that gods in honor hold, Dishonor.

Ismene . Dishonor them I do not. But brave the State—I have no strength for that.

Antigone . Have this for thy excuse!—I, then; shall go And make a tomb for my belovéd brother.

Ismene . Unhappy. sister! Oh, how I fear for thee!

Antigone . Fear not for me, Direct thy course aright.

Ismene . Well, then, divulge, at least, thy plan to none; Keep it securely hid, and so shall I.

Antigone . For shame! Nay, tell it loud to all the world! Far greater foe thou ’lt be, if thou dost not.

Ismene . A fiery heart for chilling deeds hast thou.

Antigone . I know that I but please whom I should please.

Ismene . Thou hast the will, but not the strength, perchance.

Antigone . Well, when my strength gives way, the end will come.

Ismene . One should not e’en pursue a hopeless quest.

Antigone . Speak thus, and hated wilt thou be by me, And hated justly too by him that ’s gone. Leave me and this unwisdom that is mine To suffer this thou fear’st. To suffer? Naught There is that I shall suffer in this world That equals suffering an ignoble death; And nothing shall I suffer by this act That will deprive me of a glorious death.

Ismene . Go, if thou wilt; in folly truly, though, Yet truly dear to dear ones dost thou go.

CHORUS.

FIRST STROPHE.

O beam of sun, the fairest That ever dawned on Thebes, And ray of light the rarest That ever shone on all Within the Seven Gates! Day’s open eye and golden gleam, Thou ’rt come at last o’er Dirce’s stream, And from our casamates In mad career to headlong flight The warriors that in bucklers white From Argos sallied forth with bristling spears Thou hast repulsed and freed us from our fears.

FIRST SYSTEMA.

Against our land the savage warrior came, In Polyneices’ quarrel, by his claim To the throne aroused; For the cause he espoused A shrill-screaming eagle in flight, With an army strong, Crest and helmets along, He sped to our land on a pinion of white.

FIRST ANTISTROPHE.

And o’er our dwellings hovered Around the Seven Ports, With outspread wings he covered, Athirst for blood, our town And girdling battlements. But hungry back he flew before He had glutted his maw with gore Or the beetling crown-defence Of towers had been seized with pine-fed fame. Lo! loud the clang of battle came Behind him, routed by the dragon foe Which wrestled and was found tog hard to throw.

SECOND SYSTEMA.

For Zeus abominates the loud-mouthed vaunt, And when he saw those warriors come and flaunt, With arrogant pride, Clanking gold beside, Their spears in the face of their foes, With the thunderbolt To the earth he smote From the rampart their chief as he rose.

SECOND STROPHE.

Hurled back came crashing down upon the ground That warrior rushing on with furious bound, Who now but late Was breathing hate With the flaming torch in hand; But naught availed those frenzied threats, For mighty Ares helped and in Ruin’s nets Caught the chiefs of that Argive band.

THIRD SYSTEMA.

For seven captains stationed at the gates With seven matched, save two of cruel fates, Left the tribute of arms To the God who alarms To the rout,—but the twain, who were born Of one sire, of one mother, Drave their spears in each other, At one stroke of the sovereignty shorn.

SECOND ANTISTROPHE.

Since Victory hath come, the glorious, With joy responsive, O Thebes victorious, Now all the toil And all the moil Of the recent wars forget; Now visit all the sacred shrines with song And dance, and Bacchus leading, all night long The measures in motion set.

Chorus Leader .

But look where cometh the king of the land, The son of Menœcus, Creon, whose hand Holds the sceptre of empire but recently given To him by the changes and fortunes of heaven. What counsel in mind is he now revolving? What problem for us to help him in solving, That to this convocation He by a proclamation Hath summoned this council of elders?

Creon enters through the central door of the palace, with two attendants .

Sirs, safely have the gods our ship of state, That labored hard in troubled seas, again Made steady: and by special summons you Of all the people chosen I have called Apart; for, first, I knew how you revered With constant loyalty the royal power Of Laius; and then, when Œdipus Our vessel steered, and after his downfall Still faithful to the children, staunch in heart. Since now yon sons of his are slain, struck down In mutual slaughter by a double doom, Each brother’s hand stained by a brother’s blood, The throne and all its powers now fall to me, As nearest living relative to them. ’T is not in human power to gauge the heart And soul and mind of any man, before He show himself in law and government And in authority is tested well. For whosoever grasps the helm of state And clings not to the best of counsel, fear Engaoling ’tween his teeth and lips his tongue, Doth seem to me, hath always seemed, most base; But whoso cares for country less than friend Lives not in my regard. For I,—let Zeus Who always sees all things, my witness be— Could never hold my peace, if I should see Misfortune coming to my people, woe Instead of safety; nor could make that man My friend, who is my country’s foe; for she It is that bears us safe, and only while She sails an even keel can we gain friends. Such are the precepts guiding me to make This city prosperous; and now in strict Accord with these, an edict I have published Touching the sons of Œdipus: the one, Eteocles, who lost his life for Thebes In gallant fight and winning high renown, Shall be enshrined in earth with every rite That comes to heroes in the world below And crowned with all the honors due the dead: Whereas his brother Polyneices, who Returned, though banished, and essayed to burn With fire and sack the city. of his sires, And wreck the temples of his father’s gods, Essayed to satiate his thirst with blood Of kindred, and to put upon the rest The yoke of slavery,—for him no dirge, No rite, his carcass shall be left for dogs And vultures foul to feed upon and make A ghastly sight for human eyes to see.— This is my royal will and high command. For never while I rule shall wicked men Exceed the just in honor, but whoso Doth bear good will to Thebes, in life and death Alike from me high honor shall receive.

Chorus . Such is thy pleasure, son of Menoeceus, Towards Thebes’s enemy and toward her friend. Full jurisdiction hast thou o’er the dead, And over all us Thebans who still live.

Creon . See to it then that no one breaks this law.

Chorus . Impose this task upon some younger men.

Creon . To watch the corpse? Already they are there.

Chorus . What further mandate, then, hast thou to give?

Creon . Range not yourselves with those who disobey.

Chorus . No man ’s so foolish that he yearns to die.

Creon . Death is the wages, of a truth. Yet hope Of gain hath oft brought men to doom.

Watchman enters R. from Antigone’s exit .

Watchman . My lord, I will not say that I have plied A nimble foot and come all out of breath, So fleet was I; for often did I halt In anxious thought, and wheel about to take The back road in my coming; for I heard A voice within me saying many things: Fool! Do n’t you know you ’ll catch it, if you go? You wretch! Stopping again? If Creon learns This from another, do n’t you know you ’ll smart?” Debating “yea” and “nay” I came with slow Reluctant steps, and though the road was short, It turned out long. The “yea,” at last, However, won the day—to come to thee; It may be nothing, what I have to tell; Yet I will tell it; for I have a grip On this one faith: whatever will be, will be, I ’ll suffer naught save what ’s foredoomed for me.

Creon . Well, then, what is ’t that troubles you so sore?

Watchman . I ’ll tell my own case first, my whole connection With the affair—I did not do the deed, Nor did I see who did, and it would be Unfair for harm to come to me for this.

Creon . Your aim is shrewdly good to keep yourself Out of harm’s reach! You must have startling news.

Watchman . I have indeed—and hesitate to tell.

Creon . Out with it—stop this nonsense—and be off.

Watchman . Well, here it is—the corpse—somebody ’s strewn Dry dust—just now—upon the flesh, with rites And offerings to the dead—and gone.

Creon . What ’s that? What man could dare to brave my will?

Watchman . I know not; for there was no dint of pick, No earth thrown up by mattock, but the ground Was hard, unbroken, dry, untracked by wheels,— Whoe’er the doer was, he left no trace. And when the first day-watchman pointed out The thing, dismay and wonder fell on all. The corpse had disappeared from view, not shut Within a pile of earth, but sprinkled light With dust, as cast by one who feared a curse. It had been quickly done, for neither dog Nor beast of prey had had the time to come And rend the body, since no track was there. Recriminations followed thick and fast And loud among us, guard accusing guard, And from high words it might have come to blows, With none to quell the strife,—for every man Was guilty, though it could be proved on none. Prepared we were to take up red-hot iron, To walk through fire, and swear by all the gods That we had neither done the deed, nor knew What man had planned, or thus accomplished it, And finally, when we had searched in vain, One spake, who moved us all to bend our heads To earth in fear; since we could not gainsay His words, nor did we see how, if we failed To heed his counsel, we could ‘scape mischance. For he insisted that the deed must be Reported to the King and not concealed. And this prevailed, and me, most luckless wight, The lot condemned to win the prize. So here I am, unwilling and unwelcome, I am sure, For no man loves a bearer of bad news.

Chorus . My lord, a voice within me long hath been A-whispering, haply gods’ hands here are seen.

Creon . Stay!—ere you fill me full of wrath, and prove A dotard by your talk, not merely old. Prate not about the gods to me, and say They have regard for this dead man. Did they Prize him so high for faithful services That they would seek to hide the corpse of him Who came to burn their colonnaded shrines, Their votive offerings, to devastate Their land, and break to fragments all the laws? Gods honor wicked men? Impossible!— No! When my edict first was spread abroad, I heard some mutterings from malcontents That tossed their heads in secret, and refused To bear the yoke in loyalty to me, Intolerant of rule and restive. Now I ’m thoroughly convinced the watchmen here Were bribed by these and brought to do this deed. For true it is, no evil ever grew In current use among mankind, like money, This sacks and ruins cities, this drives men From home, makes nature fall into revolt, And by its base corrupting influence Trains erstwhile honest souls to set themselves To dirty practices, plants in the hearts Of men the seed of every wickedness And teaches them to know all godless deeds. But those who wrought this thing, seduced by gold, Will all be caught, or soon or late, and find That disobedience brings its punishment. And now, as Zeus has still my reverence, Mark this—upon my oath I say it—Find The very man that made this grave and bring Him here in person, here before my eyes, Or death shall be too light a purishment, But first, hung up alive, you shall disclose The truth about this outrage, that next time With better knowledge you may go To get your lucre, and may learn that gold Is not to be obtained from every source, How much so e’er you love the touch of gold. You'll learn that more are brought to woe and pain, Than happiness by their ill-gotten gain.

Watchman . I ’ve leave to speak? Or must I turn and go?

Creon . Do you not see your speech offends. me much?

Watchman . Pierced in the heart, or only in the ear?

Creon . Why should you mark where my displeasure lies?

Watchman . The doer pains your heart, and I your ears.

Creon . Pah! What a natural spendthrift of his tongue.

Watchman . Perhaps, but I did not the deed you charge.

Creon . You did, I know, and sold yourself for gold.

Watchman . To think so good a judge should judge amiss!

Creon . Deliver judgments on my judgment, glib Of tongue,—but if the culprits in this deed You do not soon produce, you ’ll soon affirm That treacherous gains bring punishment to rogues.

Watchman . May he be found!—None hopes it more than I. But found or not—for chance will settle that— One thing is sure: you ’ll never catch me here. For I, e’en now escaped beyond all hope And expectation, deeply thank the gods.

[ Watchman exit R.

CHORUS.

FIRST STROPHE.

Wonders are manifold; Nothing so wondrous as Man! He it is that is bold Mid the surges high to sail, Blown by the stormy gale, White crests of Ocean to span. Earth, the unwearied, too, Highest of gods, supreme, Man wears away as through All the years plowing the ground, He follows round and round The slowly furrowing team.

FIRST ANTISTROPHE.

Light-minded tribes of birds He snares in meshes fine, Savage beasts in their herds And the brood of the deepest sea, Leads to captivity, Man with his crafty mind. Beasts from the mountain lair, Roaming the hills, he takes; Lays the yoke on their shaggy hair, On the necks of horses proud; Mountain-bulls bellowing loud Yoked to the plow he breaks.

SECOND STROPHE.

And speech has he taught him, and wind-swift thought, And order and law for government; And shelter from missiles of frost and sleet he hath wrought, Resourceful in all—his resources are spent, When he seeks to escape from Death; Man so wise Vicissitudes numberless conquers at will, And cures for baffling diseases he well can devise, Save for Death—Death alone e’er bates his skill.

SECOND ANTISTROPHE.

Inventive and skilful, with subtlety passing belief, Moves he now to the good and now to the ill. Upholding the justice of heaven he comes not to grief, And the vows to the gods he hath sworn to fulfil; For whoso upholds the laws of the land, Incorruptible, sinless, an outcast never shall roam; A city hath he, and proudly his city doth stand— May the wicked ne’er share my city, my home!

Enter the Watchman, with Antigone under arrest .

Amazing sight! What is this I see? I know her well—Antigone! O, ill-starred child of ill-starred sire, I cannot credit news so dire. A prisoner? Oh, surely thou Hast not been caught in folly? How Couldst thou be guilty of this deed, And fail the king’s command to heed?

Watchman . The culprit ’s caught at last and here she is. We found her burying him. But where’s the king?

Creon re-enters from C. palace door, through which he has gone before the second choral ode .

Chorus . Look where he opportune comes forth again.

Creon . My coming opportune? Why, what has chanced?

Watchman . My lord, a man should never take an oath He will or will not, for his first intent Is falsified by after-thought. A vow I could have taken that you would not find Me in a hurry to come back, o’erwhelmed By those dire threats of yours, but no delight Can be compared in fulness with the joy That unexpected doth outrun our hopes; So I am here—though under solemn oath Not to return—and bring with me this maid, Who in the act of paying burial rites Unto the dead was seized. This time no lots Were cast; but this good bit of luck was mine And not another’s. Now, Sir, here she is: Take, try, and as you will, examine her. But I should have full quittance of all blame.

Creon . Her? Taken prisoner? In what way and where?

Watchman . Burying the dead. There’s nothing more to tell.

Creon . Is ’t true? D’ ye speak aright and mean it too?

Watchman . I saw this maiden bury him whom you Forbade—the corpse. Is that distinct and clear?

Creon . How was she seen, how taken in the act?

Watchman . Here ’s how it tame about. When we arrived, Upon all those dire threats of yours Weighing most heavily, we swept away The dust that covered still the corpse, and left The dark form thus exposed. Then we sat down To windward by a hill-top, that the smell From the dead body might not reach us, man Still urging man to vigilance with loud And frequent interchange of threats, if one Should shirk his duty. Thus it was, so long As to the middle. of the sky the orb Resplendent of the sun was climbing high To scorch us. Suddenly a whirlwind rose, That set the sky all in confusion, raised A cloud of dust that filled the plain, and rent The foliage of the wooded plain, until The spacious sky was choked withal. With eyes Tight shut we bore the god-sent plague. ’T was long Before it passed. We looked, and lo! the maid Was wailing there, the sharp cry of a bird In bitterness, when it beholds the nest All empty, and the nestlings gone. So she, When she beheld the body bare, screamed loud, Wailing, and on the doers of the deed Dire curses imprecating. In her hands She quickly brought some thirsty dust, held high A shapely hammered jug of bronze, and poured Libations three to crown the dead. Straightway We dashed down on our quarry, closing in; But she was naught dismayed, and when we charged Her with the former acts and these as well, She made no movement to deny the charge,— Joy to my heart indeed, but sorrow, too, For greater joy there ’s none can be than this, To get one’s self well out of trouble, pain No greater than to get a friend well in. Nevertheless, the safety of my friend I value not so highly as my own.

Creon . You—you, I say, that stand with drooping head, Do you avow the deed, or do you disavow?

Antigone . I did the deed, the charge do not deny.

To the Watchman .

Creon . You may retire and go where’er you list, From heavy imputation quite exempt.

[ The Watchman exit R.

To Antigone .

But you,—speak not at length, yet briefly say, You knew my edict had forbidden this?

Antigone . I knew. How could I not? ’T was known to all.

Creon . And you cared not, but dared to break the law?

Antigone . I did; for well I knew that he who made that Proclamation was not Zeus—I knew That Justice, dwelling with the gods below, Such laws for men to keep had ne’er laid down; Nor did I think your proclamation had Such force that laws unwritten of the gods, Unchanging, mortal man could overpass. For not to-day, nor yesterday, they live, But evermore, so long that no man knows The time they ’ve been in force. ’T was not for me, In fear of man, or king, to violate These institutions and the penalty Then due the gods to pay. That I must die I knew full well (and, pray, why should I not?) Your edict published or still unproclaimed. The penalty you have in mind Impose. I count it gain to die forthwith, For whoso lives in misery worse than death, As I, what else can death but profit be? Tell me what blessings have I here alive That I should fear to die. To me ’t is naught; But if my mother’s son I had endured To see a corpse unburied lie, that would Indeed have caused me grave concern, whereas At this I have no sense of pain. And now If haply I do seem to you to play The fool, it seems to me almost that I This charge of folly from a fool incur.

Chorus . In this the child betrays her parentage: To evils dire she knows not how to yield.

Creon . But dispositions overstiff may break And hardest iron, heated by the fire, And highly tempered, oft will crack and snap; And by a trifling curb highmettled steeds Are oft obedient made. No claim for pride Has one, when he is but his neighbor’s slave; This girl knows how to show us insolence,— Her first insult was to transgress the law, And now a second, after this appears, To laugh and boast at having done the deed. In sooth I am no man—the man is she , If she unpunished can defy the law. What boots it if she be my sister’s child? Were she still nearer to me than my own, Nor she nor sister shall escape a doom Most dire,—for both are equally to blame. Go ye and call the other; for but now I saw her reft of reason, raving mad. The mind is oft detected ere its plots Devised in darkness can be carried out. Whoso convicted glorifies his crime I hate no less than one who hides his sin.

Antigone . Seek you a greater penalty than death?

Creon . Not I. When I have that, no more I seek.

Antigone . Then why delay? You see your words by me Are not approved, and may I ne’er behold the day When words like these with my approval meet. My views shall never be subscribed by you, Nor yours by me. And yet how could I win A nobler glory than by laying him, My dear unburied brother, in the tomb? All here their commendation would bestow, Were not their tongues by fear of you engaoled. No part of royalty’s estate exceeds Supreme authority in words and deeds.

Creon . No other Theban sees it so but you.

Antigone . The others too, but they suppress their thoughts.

Creon . And you feel otherwise and unashamed?

Antigone . A filial pious act contains no shame.

Creon . Was he not brother, too, that fell his foe?

Antigone . Aye, true, his parents, they were also mine.

Creon . Why act then with impiety to him?

Antigone . The dead man will not say he deems it so.

Creon . He will; he sees you treat them both alike.

Antigone . It was my brother , not a slave that died.

Creon . But he laid waste the land, the other saved.

Antigone . But partial laws to Hades are unknown.

Creon . Yet equal rites the bad should not obtain.

Antigone . Who knows if that be felt as just below?

Creon . A foe can never be a friend—e’en dead.

Antigone . My heart admits no hate, but love for both.

Creon . To Hades then, and love, if love you must, For while I live no woman masters me.

Ismene enters from the palace door L., under arrest .

Chorus . Lo, yonder at the door appears Ismene shedding silver tears; From clouds of sorrow on her brow That shade and mar her beauty now The rain in drops her cheek bedews, Which crimson drops of blood suffuse.

Creon . And you, you viper lurking in my house, And sucking my life’s blood, though unobserved, I did not know that I was nurturing here Two pests, in insurrection ’gainst my throne— Come, tell me now, will you still further own That you participated in the act Of burial, or maintain you knew it not?

Ismene . I did the deed; if she concurs,—I share My part and bear the burden of the charge.

Antigone . But justice will not, though I should, consent; Since you would not, no share can I allow.

Ismene . Yet in thy troubles I am not ashamed To make myself the sharer of thy doom.

Antigone . The dead and Hades know who did the deed; I love not her who loves in words alone.

Ismene . Refuse not, sister, my entreaty now To die with thee and consecrate the dead.

Antigone . Nay, share not thou my death, and do not claim The deeds untouched by thee! Suffice my death.

Ismene . What joy in life for me bereft of thee?

Antigone . Ask Creon. He is thy concern and care.

Ismene . When naught is to be gained, why pain me thus?

Antigone . Pain truly do I feel, if I mock thee.

Ismene . O how can I but serve thee even now?

Antigone . By ’scaping death thyself—I grudge it not.

Ismene . Ah! Must I acquiesce, not die with thee?

Antigone . Thy choice was made to live, but mine to die.

Ismene . But not without my protest made that choice.

Antigone . Thy course was praised by these, by those my own.

Ismene . Yet thy offense no greater is than mine.

Antigone . Be brave, and live—my soul hath long been dead That so I might now chiefly serve those gone.

Creon . Of these two maidens one has lost her wits, The other had none from her day of birth.

Ismene . The sense that one is born with ne’er abides, O king, but leaves its seat, when mishap comes.

Creon . Yours did, when you mishapped to do misdeeds.

Ismene . What life is life to me, bereft of her?

Creon . Say naught of her, for she no longer lives.

Ismene . What! Will you slay your son’s affianced bride?

Creon . Yes. There are other fields for him to plow.

Ismene . But ne’er such love and plighted troth as theirs.

Creon . My son shall never have a wicked wife.

Antigone . O dearest Hæmon! by your father wronged!

Creon . Have done with you and with your ‘plighted troth’!

Ch. Leader . And will you really rob your son of her?

Creon . Nay, ’t is the Grave shall stop their wedding.

Ch. Leader . The sentence, then, is passed that she must die?

Creon . By your vote and by mine! No more delay! Slaves, take them in! From this time on they Within doors must be kept, as women should. For verily the bold will oft essay When they see Death approach, to run away.

CHORUS.

FIRST STROPHE.

Oh! blessed are they whose days are free from trouble and sorrow! On the house once shaken of heaven will fall a curse on the morrow, A curse to abide, e’en unto the next generation, As when the fierce blasts of Thrace, as they form The huge waves, driving on through darkness and storm, From the depths rolling up the black sand, even so tribulation Surges o'er that house—waves pouring Full on the banks and the rocks Wind-swept with sullen roaring And loud resounding shocks.

FIRST ANTISTROPHE.

So I see on the house of the Labdacidæ woe upon woe, On the living fresh billows of sorrow from troubles of eld ever we flow; And release there is none to the home of the child from the home of the father, But some god overthrows the whole line, no soul Obtaineth deliv’rance from dole; For the last light of hope which was spread o’er the root, now another Fell scythe from the gods infernal Mows down by speech unrestrained; For the house destruction eternal The infatuate heart hath gained.

SECOND STROPHE.

Thy power, O Zeus, can the trespass of man control? Even sleep that bends all to its will is unable, And the unwearied months of the gods,—nay, stable Is thy throne in Olympus, while countless ages roll, And high In the dazzling sheen of the sky Thou dwellest forever. This law holds good for the past, It holds for to-day and to-morrow: For a man in store there is sorrow, If he gaineth too much,—nothing vast Can come Without a curse in the sum Of man’s life and endeavor.

SECOND ANTISTROPHE.

For hope that wanders so wide encourageth those, And to these it bringeth but gladness and cheer, While to others disaster and many a tear, Frustrated their foolish desires, which the fates oppose, And they Walk on unaware of the day Till they step in the fire. Some sage hath uttered this word: Oft evil seems good to the vain Whom the god leadeth on to bane, Blind and deaf, hath not seen, hath not heard, And lo! Into mischief and woe He plunges entire.

Chorus . But look where Hæmon, of thy sons The last and youngest, yonder comes. Is he lamenting, In anguish resenting The fraud, Antigone’s ’spousal denied, The cruel doom of his promised bride.

[ Hæmon enters L.

Creon . We soon shall know more sure than seers can tell. My son, thou ’rt certainly not come in rage Against thy father, hearing our just doom Irrevocable passed on thy betrothed? Or are we dear to thee, do what we may?

Hæmon . Thou art my father; rules that thou dost give For my direction, I obey, for thy Good guidance I esteem a greater gain To me than any marriage I could make.

Creon . Ay, this, my son, should ever be thy thought, To let thy father’s will in all come first. For this men, pray to rear within their homes The children born to them all dutiful, That they pay back in kind their father’s foe, Their father’s friend such equal honer’ show. But he to whom is born a worthless child, What else hath he but trouble for himself Begot and exultation for his foes? Therefore, my son, let not a woman’s charm Allure thee so that mere desire for her Will cast thy reason out, for be assured An evil woman in thy home to share Thy bed affords a chill embrace. What sore More ulcerous and painful far can be Than this—a faithless friend. O cast away The loathsome thing, and let this girl, as though She were thine enemy, go down to Hades And find a bridegroom there. For since alone Of all the Thebans I have captured her In flagrant insubordination, death Shall be her punishment—my word I gave— I will_not_break it. Therefore let her call Her Zeus of kindred blood to witness. ’S death! If kith and kindred I o’erlook when they Become unruly, how much more must I Expect rebellion then away from home! For he that in his own household is just Will prove to be an upright citizen; But he that disregards and breaks the law, Or thinks that he can dictate to his rulers, No praise from me will e’er obtain. Whomso The city places in command, that man Must be obeyed in great things and in small, Or right or wrong, and whosoever thus obeys, Would, I feel sure, be competent to rule, And in the storm of battle, when once placed, Will hold his post, and by his comrade’s side Stand dauntless and unflinching. Greater bane There is not than the lack of discipline. This ruins cities, this makes desolate The home, ’t is this that breaks the allies’ ranks And routs them; while it is obedience That in the ranks of the unconquered saves Most lives. Hence we must stand for discipline, Defeat ne’er suffer from a woman’s hand; For if we fall from power, if fall we must, ’T is better far to be o’erthrown by man, And not be taunted “mastered by a woman.”