Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/257

Rh And we are mortals, born of mortal seed.

And lo! for one who liveth but to die,

To gain like doom with those of heavenly race,

Is great and strange to hear.

Antig. Ye mock me then. Alas! Why wait ye not,

By all our fathers' Gods, I ask of you,

Till I have passed away,

But flout me while I live?

Ο city that I love,

Ο men that claim as yours

That city stored with wealth,

Ο Dirkè, fairest fount,

Ο grove of Thebes, that boasts her chariot host,

I bid you witness all,

How, with no friends to weep,

By what stern laws condemned,

I go to that strong dungeon of the tomb,

For burial strange, ah me!

Nor dwelling with the living, nor the dead.

Chor. Forward and forward still to farthest verge

Of daring hast thou gone,

And now, Ο child, thou hast rushed violently

Where Right erects her throne;

Surely thou payest to the uttermost

Thy father's debt of guilt.

Antig. Ah! thou hast touched the quick of all my grief,

The thrice-told tale of all my father's woe,

The fate which dogs us all,

The old Labdakid race of ancient fame.

Woe for the curses dire

Of that defilèd bed,

With foulest incest stained,

My mother's with my sire,

Whence I myself have sprung, most miserable.