Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/239

Rh Guard. Ah me!

How dire it is, in thinking, false to think!

Creon. Prate about thinking: but unless ye show

To me the doers, ye shall say ere long

That scoundrel gains still work their punishment. [Exit.

Guard. God send we find him! Should we find him not,

As well may be, (for this must chance decide,)

You will not see me coming here again;

For now, being safe beyond all hope of mine,

Beyond all thought, I owe the Gods much thanks. [Exit.

Chor. Many the forms of life,

Wondrous and strange to see,

But nought than man appears

More wondrous and more strange.

He, with the wintry gales,

O'er the white foaming sea,

'Mid wild waves surging round,

Wendeth his way across:

Earth, of all Gods, from ancient days the first,

Unworn and undecayed.

He, with his ploughs that travel o'er and o'er,

Furrowing with horse and mule,

Wears ever year by year.

The thoughtless tribe of birds,

The beasts that roam the fields,

The brood in sea-depths born,

He takes them all in nets

Knotted in snaring mesh,

Man, wonderful in skill.

And by his subtle arts

He holds in sway the beasts