the whole tale—was Polybus,

In Corinth King; my mother Meropê

Of Dorian line. And I was held to be

The proudest in Corinthia, till one day

A thing befell: strange was it, but no way

Meet for such wonder and such rage as mine.

A feast it was, and some one flushed with wine

Cried out at me that I was no true son

Of Polybus. Oh, I was wroth! That one

Day I kept silence, but the morrow morn

I sought my parents, told that tale of scorn

And claimed the truth; and they rose in their pride

And smote the mocker. … Aye, they satisfied

All my desire; yet still the cavil gnawed

My heart, and still the story crept abroad.

At last I rose—my father knew not, nor

My mother—and went forth to Pytho’s floor

To ask. And God in that for which I came

Rejected me, but round me, like a flame,

His voice flashed other answers, things of woe,

Terror, and desolation. I must know

My mother’s body and beget thereon

A race no mortal eye durst look upon,

And spill in murder mine own father’s blood.

I heard, and, hearing, straight from where I stood,

No landmark but the stars to light my way,

Fled, fled from the dark south where Corinth lay,

To lands far off, where never I might see

My doom of scorn fulfilled. On bitterly

I strode, and reached the region where, so saith

Thy tale, that King of Thebes was struck to death. …

Wife, I will tell thee true. As one in daze

I walked, till, at the crossing of three ways,

A herald, like thy tale, and o’er his head

A man behind strong horses charioted

Met me. And both would turn me from the path,

He and a thrall in front. And I in wrath

Smote him that pushed me—’twas a groom who led

The horses. Not a word the master said,

But watched, and as I passed him on the road

Down on my head his iron-branchèd goad

Stabbed. But, by heaven, he rued it! In a flash

I swung my staff and saw the old man crash

Back from his car in blood. … Then all of them

I slew.

Oh, if that man’s unspoken name

Had aught of Laïus in him, in God’s eye

What man doth move more miserable than I,

More dogged by the hate of heaven! No man, kin

Nor stranger, any more may take me in;

No man may greet me with a word, but all

Cast me from out their houses. And withal

’Twas mine own self that laid upon my life

These curses.—And I hold the dead man’s wife

In these polluting arms that spilt his soul. …

Am I a thing born evil? Am I foul

In every vein? Thebes now doth banish me,

And never in this exile must I see

Mine ancient folk of Corinth, never tread

The land that bore me; else my mother’s bed

Shall be defiled, and Polybus, my good

Father, who loved me well, be rolled in blood.

If one should dream that such a world began

In some slow devil’s heart, that hated man,

Who should deny him?—God, as thou art clean,

Suffer not this, oh, suffer not this sin

To be, that e’er I look on such a day!

Out of all vision of mankind away

To darkness let me fall ere such a fate

Touch me, so unclean and so desolate!

Leader.

I tremble too, O King; but till thou hear

From him who saw, oh, let hope conquer fear.

Oedipus.

One shred of hope I still have, and therefore

Will wait the herdsman’s coming. ’Tis no more.

Jocasta.

He shall come. But what further dost thou seek?

Oedipus.

This. If we mark him close and find him speak

As thou hast, then I am lifted from my dread.

Jocasta.

What mean’st thou? Was there something that I said …?

Oedipus.

Thou said’st he spoke of robbers, a great band,

That slaughtered Laïus’ men. If still he stand

To the same tale, the guilt comes not my way.

One cannot be a band. But if he say

One lonely loin-girt man, then visibly

This is God’s finger pointing toward me.

Jocasta.

Be sure of this. He told the story so

When first he came. All they that heard him know,

Not only I. He cannot change again

Now. And if change he should, O Lord of men,

No change of his can make the prophecy

Of Laïus’ death fall true. He was to die

Slain by my son. So Loxias spake. … My son!

He slew no man, that poor deserted one

That died. … And I will no more turn mine eyes

This way nor that for all their prophecies.

Oedipus.

Woman, thou counsellest well. Yet let it not

Escape thee. Send and have the herdsman brought.

Jocasta.

That will I.—Come. Thou knowest I ne’er would do

Nor think of aught, save thou wouldst have it so.