Page:Sophocles - Seven Plays, 1900.djvu/67

1070–11006]

Unsanctified and godlessly forlorn.

Such violence the powers beneath will bear

Not even from the Olympian gods. For thee

The avengers wait. Hidden but near at hand,

Lagging but sure, the Furies of the grave

Are watching for thee to thy ruinous harm,

With thine own evil to entangle thee.

Look well to it now whether I speak for gold!

A little while, and thine own palace-halls

Shall flash the truth upon thee with loud noise

Of men and women, shrieking o’er the dead.

And all the cities whose unburied sons,

Mangled and torn, have found a sepulchre

In dogs or jackals or some ravenous bird

That stains their incense with polluted breath,

Are forming leagues in troublous enmity.

Such shafts, since thou hast stung me to the quick,

I like an archer at thee in my wrath

Have loosed unerringly—carrying their pang,

Inevitable, to thy very heart.

Now, sirrah! lead me home, that his hot mood

Be spent on younger objects, till he learn

To keep a safer mind and calmer tongue.

. Sire, there is terror in that prophecy.

He who is gone, since ever these my locks,

Once black, now white with age, waved o’er my brow,

Hath never spoken falsely to the state.

. I know it, and it shakes me to the core.

To yield is dreadful: but resistingly

To face the blow of fate, is full of dread.

. The time calls loud on wisdom, good my lord.

. What must I do? Advise me. I will obey.

. Go and release the maiden from the vault,

And make a grave for the unburied dead.

. Is that your counsel? Think you I will yield?

. With all the speed thou mayest: swift harms from heaven

With instant doom o’erwhelm the froward man.

. Oh! it is hard. But I am forced to this

Against myself. I cannot fight with Destiny.