Creon.

The dark-songed Sphinx was here. We had no heed

Of distant sorrows, having death so near.

Oedipus.

It falls on me then. I will search and clear

This darkness.—Well hath Phoebus done, and thou

Too, to recall that dead king, even now,

And with you for the right I also stand,

To obey the God and succour this dear land.

Nor is it as for one that touches me

Far off; ’tis for mine own sake I must see

This sin cast out. Whoe’er it was that slew

Laïus, the same wild hand may seek me too:

And caring thus for Laïus, is but care

For mine own blood.—Up! Leave this altar-stair,

Children. Take from it every suppliant bough.

Then call the folk of Thebes. Say, ’tis my vow

To uphold them to the end. So God shall crown

Our greatness, or for ever cast us down.

[He goes in to the Palace.

Priest.

My children, rise.—The King most lovingly

Hath promised all we came for. And may He

Who sent this answer, Phoebus, come confessed

Helper to Thebes, and strong to stay the pest.

[The suppliants gather up their boughs and stand at the side. The chorus of Theban elders enter.

Chorus.

[They speak of the Oracle which they have not yet heard, and cry to Apollo by his special cry “I-ê.”

A Voice, a Voice, that is borne on the Holy Way!

What art thou, O Heavenly One, O Word of the Houses of Gold?

Thebes is bright with thee, and my heart it leapeth; yet is it cold,

And my spirit faints as I pray.

I- ê! I-ê!

What task, O Affrighter of Evil, what task shall thy people essay?

One new as our new-come affliction,

Or an old toil returned with the years?

Unveil thee, thou dread benediction,

Hope’s daughter and Fear’s.

[They pray to Athena, Artemis, and Apollo.

Zeus-Child that knowest not death, to thee I pray,

O Pallas; next to thy Sister, who calleth Thebes her own,

Artemis, named of Fair Voices, who sitteth her orbèd throne

In the throng of the market way:

And I-ê! I-ê!

Apollo, the Pure, the Far-smiter; O Three that keep evil away,

If of old for our city’s desire,

When the death-cloud hung close to her brow,

Ye have banished the wound and the fire,

Oh! come to us now!

[They tell of the Pestilence.

Wounds beyond telling; my people sick unto death;

And where is the counsellor, where is the sword of thought?

And Holy Earth in her increase perisheth:

The child dies and the mother awaketh not.

I-ê! I-ê!

We have seen them, one on another, gone as a bird is gone,

Souls that are flame; yea, higher,

Swifter they pass than fire,

To the rocks of the dying Sun.

[They end by a prayer to Athena,

Their city wasteth unnumbered; their children lie

Where death hath cast them, unpitied, unwept upon.

The altars stand, as in seas of storm a high

Rock standeth, and wives and mothers grey thereon

Weep, weep and pray.

Lo, joy-cries to fright the Destroyer; a flash in the dark they rise,

Then die by the sobs overladen.

Send help, O heaven-born Maiden,

Let us look on the light of her eyes!

[To Zeus, that he drive out the Slayer,

And Ares, the abhorred

Slayer, who bears no sword,

But shrieking, wrapped in fire, stands over me,

Make that he turn, yea, fly

Broken, wind-wasted, high

Down the vexed hollow of the Vaster Sea;

Or back to his own Thrace,

To harbour shelterless.

Where Night hath spared, he bringeth end by day.

Him, Him, O thou whose hand

Beareth the lightning brand,

O Father Zeus, now with thy thunder, slay and slay!

[To Apollo, Artemis, and Dionysus.

Where is thy gold-strung bow,

O Wolf-god, where the flow

Of living shafts unconquered, from all ills

Our helpers? Where the white

Spears of thy Sister’s light,

Far-flashing as she walks the wolf-wild hills?

And thou, O Golden-crown,

Theban and named our own,

O Wine- gleam, Voice of Joy, for ever more

Ringed with thy Maenads white,

Bacchus, draw near and smite,

Smite with thy glad-eyed flame the God whom Gods abhor.