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Chor. Ah! ah! again the crash

Rolls piercingly around.

Be pitiful, Ο God, be pitiful,

If thou bring'st darkness on our mother-land;

And may I find thee gracious evermore,

Nor, looking on a man accursèd, reap

A boon that profits not.

King Zeus, I call on thee!

Œdip. Is your chief near? And will he find me, children,

Still living, still with wonted powers of mind?

Antig. What secret would'st thou to his soul confide?

Œdip. I would fain give the good I promised him,

Some poor return for all that I received.

Chor. Come, come, my son, come quick,

Though on the valley's edge

Thou consecrat'st the hearth for sacrifice

To Ocean's lord, Poseidon, come thou quick;

For lo! the stranger fain would give to thee,

Thy city, and thy friends, just meed of thanks

For kind acts done. Come, haste,

Haste onward, Ο my king.

Thes. What means this mingled din? For lo! full plain,

My subjects' voice, and clear the stranger's too.

Is it the thunderbolt of Zeus, or shower

Of hail bursts on you? When Heaven sends storm like this,

All wild conjectures seem most probable.