Scene.—Before the Palace of Oedipus at Thebes. A crowd of suppliants of all ages are waiting by the altar in front and on the steps of the Palace; among them the Priest of Zeus. As the Palace door opens and Oedipus comes out all the suppliants with a cry move towards him in attitudes of prayer, holding out their olive branches, and then become still again as he speaks.
Oedipus.
My children, fruit of Cadmus’ ancient tree New springing, wherefore thus with bended knee Press ye upon us, laden all with wreaths And suppliant branches? And the city breathes Heavy with incense, heavy with dim prayer And shrieks to affright the Slayer.—Children, care For this so moves me, I have scorned withal Message or writing: seeing ’tis I ye call, ’Tis I am come, world-honoured Oedipus. Old Man, do thou declare—the rest have thus Their champion—in what mood stand ye so still, In dread or sure hope? Know ye not, my will Is yours for aid ’gainst all? Stern were indeed The heart that felt not for so dire a need.
Priest.
O Oedipus, who holdest in thy hand My city, thou canst see what ages stand At these thine altars; some whose little wing Scarce flieth yet, and some with long living O’erburdened; priests, as I of Zeus am priest, And chosen youths: and wailing hath not ceased Of thousands in the market-place, and by Athena’s two-fold temples and the dry Ash of Ismênus’1 portent-breathing shore. For all our ship, thou see’st, is weak and sore Shaken with storms, and no more lighteneth Her head above the waves whose trough is death. She wasteth in the fruitless buds of earth, In parchèd herds and travail without birth Of dying women: yea, and midst of it A burning and a loathly god hath lit Sudden, and sweeps our land, this Plague of power; Till Cadmus’ house grows empty, hour by hour, And Hell’s house rich with steam of tears and blood. O King, not God indeed nor peer to God We deem thee, that we kneel before thine hearth, Children and old men, praying; but of earth A thing consummate by thy star confessed Thou walkest and by converse with the blest; Who came to Thebes so swift, and swept away The Sphinx’s song, the tribute of dismay, That all were bowed beneath, and made us free. A stranger, thou, naught knowing more than we, Nor taught of any man, but by God’s breath Filled, thou didst raise our life. So the world saith; So we say.
Therefore now, O Lord and Chief, We come to thee again; we lay our grief On thy head, if thou find us not some aid. Perchance thou hast heard Gods talking in the shade Of night, or eke some man: to him that knows, Men say, each chance that falls, each wind that blows Hath life, when he seeks counsel. Up, O chief Of men, and lift thy city from its grief; Face thine own peril! All our land doth hold Thee still our saviour, for that help of old: Shall they that tell of thee hereafter tell “By him was Thebes raised up, and after fell!” Nay, lift us till we slip no more. Oh, let That bird of old that made us fortunate Wing back; be thou our Oedipus again. And let thy kingdom be a land of men, Not emptiness. Walls, towers, and ships, they all Are nothing with no men to keep the wall.
Oedipus.
My poor, poor children! Surely long ago I have read your trouble. Stricken, well I know, Ye all are, stricken sore: yet verily Not one so stricken to the heart as I. Your grief, it cometh to each man apart For his own loss, none other’s; but this heart For thee and me and all of us doth weep. Wherefore it is not to one sunk in sleep Ye come with waking. Many tears these days For your sake I have wept, and many ways Have wandered on the beating wings of thought. And, finding but one hope, that I have sought And followed. I have sent Menoikeus’ son, Creon, my own wife’s brother, forth alone To Apollo’s House in Delphi, there to ask What word, what deed of mine, what bitter task, May save my city.
And the lapse of days Reckoned, I can but marvel what delays His journey. ’Tis beyond all thought that thus He comes not, beyond need. But when he does, Then call me false and traitor, if I flee Back from whatever task God sheweth me.
Priest.
At point of time thou speakest. Mark the cheer Younder. Is that not Creon drawing near?
[They all crowd to gaze where Creon is approaching in the distance.
Oedipus.
O Lord Apollo, help! And be the star That guides him joyous as his seemings are!
Priest.
Oh! surely joyous! How else should he bear That fruited laurel wreathed about his hair?