Page:Sophocles - Seven Plays, 1900.djvu/57

687–723]

That thou art wrong in this; though in another,

It may be such a word were not unmeet.

But as thy son, ’tis surely mine to scan

Men’s deeds, and words, and muttered thoughts toward thee.

Fear of thy frown restrains the citizen

In talk that would fall harshly on thine ear.

I under shadow may o’erhear, how all

Thy people mourn this maiden, and complain

That of all women least deservedly

She perishes for a most glorious deed.

‘Who, when her own true brother on the earth

Lay weltering after combat in his gore,

Left him not graveless, for the carrion fowl

And raw-devouring field-dogs to consume—

Hath she not merited a golden praise?’

Such the dark rumour spreading silently.

Now, in my valuing, with thy prosperous life,

My father, no possession can compare.

Where can be found a richer ornament

For children, than their father’s high renown?

Or where for fathers, than their children’s fame?

Nurse not one changeless humour in thy breast,

That nothing can be right but as thou sayest.

Whoe’er presumes that he alone hath sense,

Or peerless eloquence, or reach of soul,

Unwrap him, and you’ll find but emptiness.

’Tis no disgrace even to the wise to learn

And lend an ear to reason. You may see

The plant that yields where torrent waters flow

Saves every little twig, when the stout tree

Is torn away and dies. The mariner

Who will not ever slack the sheet that sways

The vessel, but still tightens, oversets,

And so, keel-upward, ends his voyaging.

Relent, I pray thee, and give place to change.

If any judgement hath informed my youth,

I grant it noblest to be always wise,

But,—for omniscience is denied to man—

’Tis good to hearken to admonishment.