Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/295

 That city thou canst never storm, but first

Shalt fall, thou and thy brother, blood-imbrued.

Such curse I lately launched against you twain,

Such curse I now invoke to fight for me,

That ye may learn to honour those who bare thee

Nor flout a sightless father who begat

Degenerate sons—these maidens did not so.

Therefore my curse is stronger than thy “throne,”

Thy “suppliance,” if by right of laws eterne

Primeval Justice sits enthroned with Zeus.

Begone, abhorred, disowned, no son of mine,

Thou vilest of the vile I and take with thee

This curse I leave thee as my last bequest:—

Never to win by arms thy native land,

No, nor return to Argos in the Vale,

But by a kinsman’s hand to die and slay

Him who expelled thee. So I pray and call

On the ancestral gloom of Tartarus

To snatch thee hence, on these dread goddesses

I call, and Ares who incensed you both

To mortal enmity. Go now proclaim

What thou hast heard to the Cadmeians all,

Thy staunch confederates—this the heritage

That Oedipus divideth to his sons.

Thy errand, Polyneices, liked me not

From the beginning; now go back with speed.

Woe worth my journey and my baffled hopes!

Woe worth my comrades! What a desperate end

To that glad march from Argos! Woe is me! 273