Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/169



Child of an old blind sire, Antigone,

What region, say, whose city have we reached?

Who will provide to-day with scanted dole

This wanderer? ’Tis little that he craves,

And less obtains—that less enough for me;

For I am taught by suffering to endure,

And the long years that have grown old with me,

And last not least, by true nobility.

My daughter, if thou seest a resting place

On common ground or by some sacred grove,

Stay me and set me down. Let us discover

Where we have come, for strangers must inquire

Of denizens, and do as they are bid.

Long-suffering father, Oedipus, the towers

That fence the city still, methinks, are far;

But where we stand is surely holy ground;

A wilderness of laurel, olive, vine;

Within a feathered flock of nightingales

Are warbling. On this native seat of rock

Rest' for an old man thou hast travelled far.

Guide these dark steps and seat me there secure. 147