The Seven Plays in English Verse
by Sophocles
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Born at Colonos probably 495 B.C. Died 406 B.C.

The present translation was first published in 'The World's Classics' in 1906.

Sie hoeren nicht die folgenden Gesaenge, Die Seelen, denen ich die ersten sang.




* * * * *


In 1869, having read the Antigone with a pupil who at the time had a passion for the stage, I was led to attempt a metrical version of the Antigone, and, by and by, of the Electra and Trachiniae.[1] I had the satisfaction of seeing this last very beautifully produced by an amateur company in Scotland in 1877; when Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin may be said to have 'created' the part of Deanira. Thus encouraged, I completed the translation of the seven plays, which was published by Kegan Paul in 1883 and again by Murray in 1896. I have now to thank Mr. Murray for consenting to this cheaper issue.

The seven extant plays of Sophocles have been variously arranged. In the order most frequently adopted by English editors, the three plays of the Theban cycle, Oedipus Tyrannus, Oedipus Coloneus, and Antigone, have been placed foremost.

In one respect this is obviously convenient, as appearing to present continuously a connected story. But on a closer view, it is in two ways illusory.

1. The Antigone is generally admitted to be, comparatively speaking, an early play, while the Oedipus Coloneus belongs to the dramatist's latest manner; the first Oedipus coming in somewhere between the two. The effect is therefore analogous to that produced on readers of Shakespeare by the habit of placing Henry VI after Henry IV and V. But tragedies and 'histories' or chronicle plays are not in pari materia.

2. The error has been aggravated by a loose way of speaking of 'the Theban Trilogy', a term which could only be properly applicable if the three dramas had been produced in the same year. I have therefore now arranged the seven plays in an order corresponding to the most probable dates of their production, viz. Antigone, Aias, King Oedipus, Electra, Trachiniae, Philoctetes, and Oedipus at Colonos. A credible tradition refers the Antigone to 445 B.C. The Aias appears to be not much later—it may even be earlier—than the Antigone. The Philoctetes was produced in 408 B.C., when the poet was considerably over eighty. The Oedipus at Colonos has always been believed to be a composition of Sophocles' old age. It is said to have been produced after his death, though it may have been composed some years earlier. The tragedy of King Oedipus, in which the poet's art attained its maturity, is plausibly assigned to an early year of the Peloponnesian war (say 427 B.C.), the Trachiniae to about 420 B.C. The time of the Electra is doubtful; but Professor Jebb has shown that, on metrical grounds, it should be placed after, rather than before, King Oedipus. Even the English reader, taking the plays as they are grouped in this volume, may be aware of a gradual change of manner, not unlike what is perceptible in passing from Richard II to Macbeth, and from Macbeth to The Winter's Tale or Cymbeline. For although the supposed date of the Antigone was long subsequent to the poet's first tragic victory, the forty years over which the seven plays are spread saw many changes of taste in art and literature.

Footnote: 1 Three Plays of Sophocles: Blackwood, 1873.

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I. The Hellenic spirit has been repeatedly characterized as simple Nature-worship. Even the Higher Paganism has been described as 'in other words the purified worship of natural forms.'[1] One might suppose, in reading some modern writers, that the Nymphs and Fauns, the River-Gods and Pan, were at least as prominent in all Greek poetry as Zeus, Apollo, and Athena, or that Apollo was only the sweet singer and not also the prophet of retribution.

The fresh and unimpaired enjoyment of the Beautiful is certainly the aspect of ancient life and literature which most attracted the humanists of the sixteenth century, and still most impresses those amongst ourselves who for various reasons desire to point the contrast between Paganism and Judaism. The two great groups of forces vaguely known as the Renaissance and the Revolution have both contributed to this result. Men who were weary of conventionality and of the weight of custom 'heavy as frost and deep almost as life,' have longed for the vision of 'Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade,' or to 'hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.' Meanwhile, that in which the Greeks most resembled us, 'the human heart by which we live,' for the very reason that it lies so near to us, is too apt to be lost from our conception of them. Another cause of this one-sided view is the illusion produced by the contemplation of statuary, together with the unapproachable perfection of form which every relic of Greek antiquity indisputably possesses.

But on turning from the forms of Greek art to the substance of Greek literature, we find that Beauty, although everywhere an important element, is by no means the sole or even the chief attribute of the greatest writings, nor is the Hellenic consciousness confined within the life of Nature, unless this term is allowed to comprehend man with all his thoughts and aspirations. It was in this latter sense that Hegel recognized the union of depth with brightness in Greek culture: 'If the first paradise was the paradise of nature, this is the second, the higher paradise of the human spirit, which in its fair naturalness, freedom, depth and brightness here comes forth like a bride out of her chamber. The first wild majesty of the rise of spiritual life in the East is here circumscribed by the dignity of form, and softened into beauty. Its depth shows itself no longer in confusion, obscurity, and inflation, but lies open before us in simple clearness. Its brightness (Heiterkeit) is not a childish play, but covers a sadness which knows the baldness of fate but is not by that knowledge driven out of freedom and measure.' Hegel's Werke, vol. XVI. p. 139 (translated by Prof. Caird). The simplicity of Herodotus, for example, does not exclude far reaching thoughts on the political advantages of liberty, nor such reflections on experience as are implied in the saying of Artabanus, that the transitoriness of human life is the least of its evils. And in what modern writing is more of the wisdom of life condensed than in the History of Thucydides? It is surely more true to say of Greek literature that it contains types of all things human, stamped with the freshness, simplicity, and directness which belong to first impressions, and to the first impressions of genius.

Now the 'thoughts and aspirations,' which are nowhere absent from Greek literature, and make a centre of growing warmth and light in its Periclean period—when the conception of human nature for the first time takes definite shape—have no less of Religion in them than underlay the 'creed outworn'. To think otherwise would be an error of the same kind as that 'abuse of the word Atheism' against which the author of the work above alluded to protests so forcibly.

Religion, in the sense here indicated, is the mainspring and vital principle of Tragedy. The efforts of Aeschylus and Sophocles were sustained by it, and its inevitable decay through the scepticism which preceded Socrates was the chief hindrance to the tragic genius of Euripides. Yet the inequality of which we have consequently to complain in him is redeemed by pregnant hints of something yet 'more deeply interfused,' which in him, as in his two great predecessors, is sometimes felt as 'modern,' because it is not of an age but for all time. The most valuable part of every literature is something which transcends the period and nation out of which it springs.

On the other hand, much that at first sight seems primitive in Greek tragedy belongs more to the subject than to the mode of handling. The age of Pericles was in advance of that in which the legends were first Hellenized and humanized, just as this must have been already far removed from the earliest stages of mythopoeic imagination. The reader of Aeschylus or Sophocles should therefore be warned against attributing to the poet's invention that which is given in the fable.

An educated student of Italian painting knows how to discriminate—say in an Assumption by Botticelli—between the traditional conventions, the contemporary ideas, and the refinements of the artist's own fancy. The same indulgence must be extended to dramatic art. The tragedy of King Lear is not rude or primitive, although the subject belongs to prehistoric times in Britain. Nor is Goethe's Faust mediaeval in spirit as in theme. So neither is the Oedipus Rex the product of 'lawless and uncertain thoughts,' notwithstanding the unspeakable horror of the story, but is penetrated by the most profound estimate of all in human life that is saddest, and all that is most precious.

Far from being naive naturalists after the Keats fashion, the Greek tragic poets had succeeded to a pessimistic reaction from simple Pagan enjoyment; they were surrounded with gloomy questionings about human destiny and Divine Justice, and they replied by looking steadily at the facts of life and asserting the supreme worth of innocence, equity, and mercy.

They were not philosophers, for they spoke the language of feeling; but the civilization of which they were the strongest outcome was already tinged with influences derived from early philosophy— especially from the gnomic wisdom of the sixth century and from the spirit of theosophic speculation, which in Aeschylus goes far even to recast mythology. The latter influence was probably reinforced, through channels no longer traceable, by the Eleusinian worship, in which the mystery of life and death and of human sorrow had replaced the primitive wonder at the phenomena of the year.

And whatever elements of philosophic theory or mystic exaltation the drama may have reflected, it was still more emphatically the repository of some of the most precious traditions of civilized humanity—traditions which philosophy has sometimes tended to extenuate, if not to destroy.

Plato's Gorgias contains one of the most eloquent vindications of the transcendent value of righteousness and faithfulness as such. But when we ask, 'Righteousness in what relation?'—'Faithfulness to whom?'— the Gorgias is silent; and when the vacant outline is filled up in the Republic, we are presented with an ideal of man's social relations, which, although it may be regarded as the ultimate development of existing tendencies, yet has no immediate bearing on any actual condition of the world.

The ideal of the tragic poet may be less perfect; or rather he does not attempt to set before us abstractedly any single ideal. But the grand types of character which he presents to the world are not merely imaginary. They are creatures of flesh and blood, men and women, to whom the unsullied purity of their homes, the freedom and power of their country, the respect and love of their fellow-citizens, are inestimably dear. From a Platonic, and still more from a Christian point of view, the best morality of the age of Pericles is no doubt defective. Such counsels of perfection as 'Love your enemies', or 'A good man can harm no one, not even an enemy',—are beyond the horizon of tragedy, unless dimly seen in the person of Antigone. The coexistence of savage vindictiveness with the most affectionate tenderness is characteristic of heroes and heroines alike, and produces some of the most moving contrasts. But the tenderness is no less deep and real for this, and while the chief persons are thus passionate, the Greek lesson of moderation and reasonableness is taught by the event, whether expressed or not by the mouth of sage or prophet or of the 'ideal bystander'.

Greek tragedy, then, is a religious art, not merely because associated with the festival of Dionysus, nor because the life which it represented was that of men who believed, with all the Hellenes, in Zeus, Apollo, and Athena, or in the power of Moira and the Erinyes,— not merely because it represented

'the dread strife Of poor humanity's afflicted will Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny,'

but much more because it awakened in the Athenian spectator emotions of wonder concerning human life, and of admiration for nobleness in the unfortunate—a sense of the infinite value of personal uprightness and of domestic purity—which in the most universal sense of the word were truly religious,—because it expressed a consciousness of depths which Plato never fathomed, and an ideal of character which, if less complete than Shakespeare's, is not less noble. It is indeed a 'rough' generalization that ranks the Agamemnon with the Adoniazusae as a religious composition.

II. This spiritual side of tragic poetry deserves to be emphasized both as the most essential aspect of it, and as giving it the most permanent claim to lasting recognition. And yet, apart from this, merely as dramas, the works of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides will never cease to be admired. These poets are teachers, but they teach through art. To ask simply, as Carlyle once did, 'What did they think?' is not the way to understand or learn from them.

Considered simply as works of art, the plays of Sophocles stand alone amongst dramatic writings in their degree of concentration and complex unity.

1. The interest of a Sophoclean drama is always intensely personal, and is almost always centred in an individual destiny. In other words, it is not historical or mythical, but ethical. Single persons stand out magnificently in Aeschylus. But the action is always larger than any single life. Each tragedy or trilogy resembles the fragment of a sublime Epic poem. Mighty issues revolve about the scene, whether this is laid on Earth or amongst the Gods, issues far transcending the fate of Orestes or even of Prometheus. In the perspective painting of Sophocles, these vast surroundings fall into the background, and the feelings of the spectator are absorbed in sympathy with the chief figure on the stage, round whom the other characters—the members of the chorus being included—are grouped with the minutest care.

2. In this grouping of the persons, as well as in the conduct of the action, Sophocles is masterly in his use of pathetic contrast. This motive must of course enter into all tragedy—nothing can be finer than the contrast of Cassandra to Clytemnestra in the Agamemnon,—but in Sophocles it is all-pervading, and some of the minor effects of it are so subtle that although inevitably felt by the spectator they are often lost upon the mere reader or student. And every touch, however transient, is made to contribute to the main effect.

To recur once more to the much-abused analogy of statuary:—the work of Aeschylus may be compared to a colossal frieze, while that of Sophocles resembles the pediment of a smaller temple. Or if, as in considering the Orestean trilogy, the arrangement of the pediment affords the more fitting parallel even for Aeschylus, yet the forms are so gigantic that minute touches of characterization and of contrast are omitted as superfluous. Whereas in Sophocles, it is at once the finish of the chief figure and the studied harmony of the whole, which have led his work to be compared with that of his contemporary Phidias. Such comparison, however, is useful by way of illustration merely. It must never be forgotten that, as Lessing pointed out to some who thought the Philoctetes too sensational, analogies between the arts are limited by essential differences of material and of scope. All poetry represents successive moments. Its figures are never in repose. And although the action of Tragedy is concentrated and revolves around a single point, yet it is a dull vision that confounds rapidity of motion with rest.

3. Sophocles found the subjects of his dramas already embodied not only in previous tragedies but in Epic and Lyric poetry. And there were some fables, such as that of the death of Oedipus at Colonos, which seem to have been known to him only through oral tradition. For some reason which is not clearly apparent, both he and Aeschylus drew more largely from the Cyclic poets than from 'our Homer'. The inferior and more recent Epics, which are now lost, were probably more episodical, and thus presented a more inviting repertory of legends than the Iliad and Odyssey.

Arctinus of Lesbos had treated at great length the story of the House of Thebes. The legend of Orestes, to which there are several allusions, not always consistent with each other, in the Homeric poems, had been a favourite and fruitful subject of tradition and of poetical treatment in the intervening period. Passages of the Tale of Troy, in which other heroes than Achilles had the pre-eminence, had been elaborated by Lesches and other Epic writers of the Post-Homeric time. The voyage of the Argonauts, another favourite heroic theme, supplied the subjects of many dramas which have disappeared. Lastly, the taking of Oechalia by Heracles, and the events which followed it, had been narrated in a long poem, in which one version of that hero's multiform legend was fully set forth.

The subjects of the King Oedipus, Oedipus at Colonos, and Antigone, are taken from the Tale of Thebes, the Aias and the Philoctetes are founded on incidents between the end of the Iliad and the taking of Troy, the Electra represents the vengeance of Orestes, the crowning event in the tale of 'Pelops' line', the Trachiniae recounts the last crisis in the life of Heracles.

4. Of the three Theban plays, the Antigone was first composed, although its subject is the latest. Aeschylus in the Seven against Thebes had already represented the young heroine as defying the victorious citizens who forbade the burial of her brother, the rebel Polynices. He allowed her to be supported in her action by a band of sympathizing friends. But in the play of Sophocles she stands alone, and the power which she defies is not that of the citizens generally, but of Creon, whose will is absolute in the State. Thus the struggle is intensified, and both her strength and her desolation become more impressive, while the opposing claims of civic authority and domestic piety are more vividly realized, because either is separately embodied in an individual will. By the same means the situation is humanized to the last degree, and the heart of the spectator, although strained to the uttermost with pity for the heroic maiden whose life when full of brightest hopes was sacrificed to affection and piety, has still some feeling left for the living desolation of the man, whose patriotic zeal, degenerating into tyranny, brought his city to the brink of ruin, and cost him the lives of his two sons and of his wife, whose dying curse, as well as that of Haemon, is denounced upon him.

In the Oedipus Tyrannus, Sophocles goes back to the central crisis of the Theban story. And again he fixes our attention, not so much on the fortunes of the city, or of the reigning house, as on the man Oedipus, his glory and his fall.—

'O mirror of our fickle state Since man on earth unparalleled! The rarer thy example stands, By how much from the top of wondrous glory, Strongest of mortal men, To lowest pitch of abject fortune thou art fallen[2].

The horror and the pity of it are both enhanced by the character of Oedipus—his essential innocence, his affectionateness, his uncalculating benevolence and public spirit;—while his impetuosity and passionateness make the sequel less incredible.

The essential innocence of Oedipus, which survives the ruin of his hopes in this world, supplies the chief motive of the Oedipus at Colonos. This drama, which Sophocles is said to have written late in life, is in many ways contrasted with the former Oedipus. It begins with pity and horror, and ends with peace. It is only in part founded on Epic tradition, the main incident belonging apparently to the local mythology of the poet's birthplace. It also implies a later stage of ethical reflection, and in this respect resembles the Philoctetes; it depends more on lyrical and melodramatic effects, and allows more room for collateral and subsidiary motives than any other of the seven. Yet in its principal theme, the vindication or redemption of an essentially noble spirit from the consequences of error, it repeats a note which had been struck much earlier in the Aias with great force, although with some crudities of treatment which are absent from the later drama.

5. In one of the Epic poems which narrated the fall of Troy, the figure of Aias was more prominent than in the Iliad. He alone and unassisted was there said to have repulsed Hector from the ships, and he had the chief share, although in this he was aided by Odysseus, in rescuing the dead body of Achilles. Yet Achilles' arms were awarded by the votes of the chieftains, as the prize of valour, not to Aias, but to Odysseus. This, no doubt, meant that wisdom is better than strength. But the wisdom of Odysseus in these later Epics was often less nobly esteemed than in the Iliad and Odyssey, and was represented as alloyed with cunning.

Aias has withdrawn with his Salaminians, in a rage, from the fight, and after long brooding by the ships his wrath has broken forth into a blaze which would have endangered the lives of Odysseus and the Atridae, had not Athena in her care for them changed his anger into madness. Hence, instead of slaying the generals, he makes havoc amongst the flocks and herds, which as the result of various forays were the common property of the whole army. The truth is discovered by Odysseus with the help of Athena, and from being next to Achilles in renown, Aias becomes the object of universal scorn and hatred. The sequel of this hour of his downfall is the subject of the Aias of Sophocles. After lamenting his fate, the hero eludes the vigilance of his captive bride Tecmessa, and of his Salaminian mariners, and, in complete solitude, falls upon his sword. He is found by Tecmessa and by his half-brother Teucer, who has returned too late from a raid in the Mysian highlands. The Atridae would prohibit Aias' funeral; but Odysseus, who has been specially enlightened by Athena, advises generous forbearance, and his counsel prevails. The part representing the disgrace and death of Aias is more affecting to modern readers than the remainder of the drama. But we should bear in mind that the vindication of Aias after death, and his burial with undiminished honours, had an absorbing interest for the Athenian and Salaminian spectator.

Philoctetes also is rejected by man and accepted by Destiny. The Argives in his case, as the Thebans in the case of Oedipus, are blind to the real intentions of the Gods.

The Philoctetes, like the Oedipus at Colonos, was a work of Sophocles' old age; and while it can hardly be said that the fire of tragic feeling is abated in either of these plays, dramatic effect is modified in both of them by the influence of the poet's contemplative mood. The interest of the action in the Philoctetes is more inward and psychological than in any other ancient drama. The change of mind in Neoptolemus, the stubborn fixity of will in Philoctetes, contrasted with the confiding tenderness of his nature, form the elements of a dramatic movement at once extremely simple and wonderfully sustained. No purer ideal of virtuous youth has been imagined than the son of Achilles, who in this play, though sorely tempted, sets faithfulness before ambition.

6. In the Electra, which, though much earlier than the Philoctetes, is still a work of his mature genius, our poet appears at first sight to be in unequal competition with Aeschylus. If the Theban trilogy of the elder poet had remained entire, a similar impression might have been produced by the Oedipus Tyrannus. It is best to lay such comparisons aside, and to consider the work of Sophocles simply on its own merits. The subject, as he has chosen to treat it, is the heroic endurance of a woman who devotes her life to the vindication of intolerable wrongs done to her father, and the restoration of her young brother to his hereditary rights. Hers is the human agency which for this purpose works together with Apollo. But the divine intention is concealed from her. She suffers countless indignities from her father's enemies, of whom her own mother is the chief. And, at length, all her hopes are shattered by the false tidings that Orestes is no more. Even then she does not relinquish her resolve. And the revulsion from her deep sorrow to extremity of joy, when she finds Orestes at her side and ready to perform the act of vengeance in his own person, is irresistably affecting, even when the play is only read.

Sophocles is especially great in the delineation of ideal female characters. The heroic ardour of Antigone, and the no less heroic persistence and endurance of Electra, are both founded on the strength of their affection. And the affection in both cases is what some moderns too have called the purest of human feelings, the love of a sister for a brother. Another aspect of that world-old marvel, 'the love of women,' was presented in Aias' captive bride, Tecmessa. This softer type also attains to heroic grandeur in Deanira, the wronged wife of Heracles, whose fatal error is caused by the innocent working of her wounded love.

It is strange that so acute a critic as A.W. Schlegel should have doubted the Sophoclean authorship of the Trachiniae. If its religious and moral lessons are even less obtrusive than those of either Oedipus and of the Antigone, there is no play which more directly pierces to the very heart of humanity. And it is a superficial judgement which complains that here at all events our sympathies are distracted between the two chief persons, Deanira and Heracles. To one passion of his, to one fond mistake of hers, the ruin of them both is due. Her love has made their fates inseparable. And the spectator, in sharing Hyllus' grief, is afflicted for them both at once. We may well recognize in this treatment of the death of Heracles the hand of him who wrote—

[Greek: su kai dikaion adikous phrenas paraspas epi loba, ..., ... amachos gar empaizei theos Aphrodita[3].]

7. It is unnecessary to expatiate here on the merits of construction in which these seven plays are generally acknowledged to be unrivalled; the natural way in which the main situation is explained, the suddenness and inevitableness of the complications, the steadily sustained climax of emotion until the action culminates, the preservation of the fitting mood until the end, the subtlety and effectiveness of the minor contrasts of situation and character[4].

But it may not be irrelevant to observe that the 'acting qualities' of Sophocles, as of Shakespeare, are best known to those who have seen him acted, whether in Greek, as by the students at Harvard[5] and Toronto[6], and more recently at Cambridge[7], or in English long ago by Miss Helen Faucit (since Lady Martin[8]), or still earlier and repeatedly in Germany, or in the French version of the Antigone by MM. Maurice and Vacquerie (1845) or of King Oedipus by M. Lacroix, in which the part of OEdipe Roi was finely sustained by M. Geoffroy in 1861, and by M. Mounet Sully in 1881[9]. With reference to the latter performance, which was continued throughout the autumn season, M. Francisque Sarcey wrote an article for the Temps newspaper of August 15, 1881, which is full of just and vivid appreciation. At the risk of seeming absurdly 'modern', I will quote from this article some of the more striking passages.

'Ce troisieme et ce quatrieme actes, les plus emouvants qui se soient jamais produits sur aucune scene, se composent d'une suite de narrations, qui viennent l'une apres l'autre frapper au coeur d'OEdipe, et qui ont leur contrecoup dans l'ame des spectateurs. Je ne sais qu'une piece au monde qui soit construite de la sorte, c'est l'Ecole des Femmes. Ce rapprochement vous paraitra singulier, sans doute.... Mais ... c'est dans le vieux drame grec comme dans la comedie du maitre francais une trouvaille de genie....

'Sophocle a voulu, apres des emotions si terribles, apres des angoisses si seches, ouvrir la source des larmes: il a ecrit un cinquieme acte....

'Les yeux creves d'OEdipe ne sont qu'un accident, ou, si vous aimez mieux, un accessoire, Le poete, sans s'arreter a ce detail, a mis sur les levres de son heros toute la gamme des sentiments douloureux qu'excite une si prodigieuse infortune....

'A la lecture, elle est un pen longue cette scene de lamentations. Au theatre, on n'a pas le temps de la trouver telle: on pleure de toute son ame et de tous ses yeux. C'est qu'apres avoir eu le coeur si longtemps serre comme dans un etau, on epreuve comme un soulagement a sentir en soi jaillir la source des larmes. Sophocle, qui semble avoir ete le plus malin des dramaturges, comme il est le plus parfait des ecrivains dramatiques, a cherche la un effet de contraste dont l'effet est immanquant sur le public.'

These and other like remarks of one of the best-known critics of the Parisian stage show that the dramatic art of Sophocles is still a living power.

I am well aware how feeble and inadequate the present attempted reproduction must appear to any reader who knows the Greek original. There is much to be said for the view of an eminent scholar who once declared that he would never think of translating a Greek poet. But the end of translating is not to satisfy fastidious scholars, but to make the classics partially accessible to those whose acquaintance with them would otherwise be still more defective. Part of this version of Sophocles was printed several years ago in an imperfect form. The present volume contains the seven extant plays entire. As the object has been to give the effect of each drama as a whole, rather than to dwell on particular 'beauties' (which only a poet can render), the fragments have not been included. But the reader should bear in mind that the seven plays are less than a tithe of the work produced by the poet in his lifetime.

It may very possibly be asked why verse has been employed at all. Why not have listened to Carlyle's rough demand, 'Tell us what they thought; none of your silly poetry'? The present translator can only reply that he began with prose, but soon found that, for tragic dialogue in English, blank verse appeared a more natural and effective vehicle than any prose style which he could hope to frame. And with the dialogue in verse, it was impossible to have the lyric parts in any sort of prose, simply because the reader would then have felt an intolerable incongruity. These parts have therefore been turned into such familiar lyric measures as seemed at once possible and not unsuitable. And where this method was found impracticable, as sometimes in the Commoi, blank metres have again been used,—with such liberties as seemed appropriate to the special purpose. The writer's hope throughout has been, not indeed fully to transfuse the poetry of Sophocles into another tongue, but to make the poet's dramatic intention to be understood and felt by English readers. One more such endeavour may possibly find acceptance at a time when many causes have combined to awaken a fresh interest at once in dramatic literature and in Hellenic studies.

The reader who is hitherto unacquainted with the Greek drama, should be warned that the parts assigned to the 'Chorus' were often distributed among its several members, who spoke or chanted, singly or in groups, alternately or in succession. In some cases, but not in all, Ch. 1, Ch. 2, &c., have been prefixed, to indicate such an arrangement.

Footnotes: 1 [Sir John Seeley's] Natural Religion, p. 79.

2 Milton, Samson Agonistes, 164-169.

3 'Thou drawest awry Just minds to wrong and ruin ... ... With resistless charm Great Aphrodite mocks the might of men.' Antigone.

4 Cf. Sophocles in Green's 'Classical Writers.' Macmillan & Co.

5 Oed. Tyr., 1881.

6 Antigone, 1882.

7 Ajax, Nov. 1882.

8 Antigone, 1845.

9 The performance of Greek plays (as of the Agamemnon at Oxford in 1880) is not altogether a new thing in England. The author of Ion, Mr. Serjeant Talfourd, in his Notice prefixed to that drama in 1836, mentions, amongst other reasons for having intended to dedicate it to Dr. Valpy, 'the exquisite representations of Greek Tragedy, which he superintended,' and which 'made his images vital.' At a still earlier time, 'the great Dr. Parr' had encouraged his pupils at Stanmore to recite the dialogue of Greek tragedies before an audience and in costume. It would be ungrateful to omit all reference here to some performances of the Trachiniae in English in Edinburgh and St. Andrews in 1877, which, though not of a public nature, are still remembered with delight by those who were present at them, and were really the first of a series.

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ANTIGONE,} Daughters of Oedipus and Sisters of Polynices ISMENE, } and Eteocles. CHORUS of Theban Elders. CREON, King of Thebes. A Watchman. HAEMON, Son of Creon, betrothed to Antigone. TIRESIAS, the blind Prophet. A Messenger. EURYDICE, the Wife of Creon. Another Messenger.

SCENE. Before the Cadmean Palace at Thebes.

Note. The town of Thebes is often personified as Thebe.

Polynices, son and heir to the unfortunate Oedipus, having been supplanted by his younger brother Eteocles, brought an army of Argives against his native city, Thebes. The army was defeated, and the two brothers slew each other in single combat. On this Creon, the brother- in-law of Oedipus, succeeding to the chief power, forbade the burial of Polynices. But Antigone, sister of the dead, placing the dues of affection and piety before her obligation to the magistrate, disobeyed the edict at the sacrifice of her life. Creon carried out his will, but lost his son Haemon and his wife Eurydice, and received their curses on his head. His other son, Megareus, had previously been devoted as a victim to the good of the state.



ANTIGONE. Own sister of my blood, one life with me, Ismene, have the tidings caught thine ear? Say, hath not Heaven decreed to execute On thee and me, while yet we are alive, All the evil Oedipus bequeathed? All horror, All pain, all outrage, falls on us! And now The General's proclamation of to-day— Hast thou not heard?—Art thou so slow to hear When harm from foes threatens the souls we love?

ISMENE. No word of those we love, Antigone, Painful or glad, hath reached me, since we two Were utterly deprived of our two brothers, Cut off with mutual stroke, both in one day. And since the Argive host this now-past night Is vanished, I know nought beside to make me Nearer to happiness or more in woe.

ANT. I knew it well, and therefore led thee forth The palace gate, that thou alone mightst hear.

ISM. Speak on! Thy troubled look bodes some dark news.

ANT. Why, hath not Creon, in the burial-rite, Of our two brethren honoured one, and wrought On one foul wrong? Eteocles, they tell, With lawful consecration he lays out, And after covers him in earth, adorned With amplest honours in the world below. But Polynices, miserably slain, They say 'tis publicly proclaimed that none Must cover in a grave, nor mourn for him; But leave him tombless and unwept, a store Of sweet provision for the carrion fowl That eye him greedily. Such righteous law Good Creon hath pronounced for thy behoof— Ay, and for mine! I am not left out!—And now He moves this way to promulgate his will To such as have not heard, nor lightly holds The thing he bids, but, whoso disobeys, The citizens shall stone him to the death. This is the matter, and thou wilt quickly show If thou art noble, or fallen below thy birth.

ISM. Unhappy one! But what can I herein Avail to do or undo?

ANT. Wilt thou share The danger and the labour? Make thy choice.

ISM. Of what wild enterprise? What canst thou mean?

ANT. Wilt thou join hand with mine to lift the dead?

ISM. To bury him, when all have been forbidden? Is that thy thought?

ANT. To bury my own brother And thine, even though thou wilt not do thy part. I will not be a traitress to my kin.

ISM. Fool-hardy girl! against the word of Creon?

ANT. He hath no right to bar me from mine own.

ISM. Ah, sister, think but how our father fell, Hated of all and lost to fair renown, Through self-detected crimes—with his own hand, Self-wreaking, how he dashed out both his eyes: Then how the mother-wife, sad two-fold name! With twisted halter bruised her life away, Last, how in one dire moment our two brothers With internecine conflict at a blow Wrought out by fratricide their mutual doom. Now, left alone, O think how beyond all Most piteously we twain shall be destroyed, If in defiance of authority We traverse the commandment of the King! We needs must bear in mind we are but women, Never created to contend with men; Nay more, made victims of resistless power, To obey behests more harsh than this to-day. I, then, imploring those beneath to grant Indulgence, seeing I am enforced in this, Will yield submission to the powers that rule, Small wisdom were it to overpass the bound.

ANT. I will not urge you! no! nor if now you list To help me, will your help afford me joy. Be what you choose to be! This single hand Shall bury our lost brother. Glorious For me to take this labour and to die! Dear to him will my soul be as we rest In death, when I have dared this holy crime. My time for pleasing men will soon be over; Not so my duty toward the Dead! My home Yonder will have no end. You, if you will, May pour contempt on laws revered on High.

ISM. Not from irreverence. But I have no strength To strive against the citizens' resolve.

ANT. Thou, make excuses! I will go my way To raise a burial-mound to my dear brother.

ISM. Oh, hapless maiden, how I fear for thee!

ANT. Waste not your fears on me! Guide your own fortune.

ISM. Ah! yet divulge thine enterprise to none, But keep the secret close, and so will I.

ANT. O Heavens! Nay, tell! I hate your silence worse; I had rather you proclaimed it to the world.

ISM. You are ardent in a chilling enterprise.

ANT. I know that I please those whom I would please.

ISM. Yes, if you thrive; but your desire is bootless.

ANT. Well, when I fail I shall be stopt, I trow!

ISM. One should not start upon a hopeless quest.

ANT. Speak in that vein if you would earn my hate And aye be hated of our lost one. Peace! Leave my unwisdom to endure this peril; Fate cannot rob me of a noble death.

ISM. Go, if you must—Not to be checked in folly, But sure unparalleled in faithful love! [Exeunt

CHORUS (entering). Beam of the mounting Sun! I 1 O brightest, fairest ray Seven-gated Thebe yet hath seen! Over the vale where Dirce's fountains run At length thou appearedst, eye of golden Day, And with incitement of thy radiance keen Spurredst to faster flight The man of Argos hurrying from the fight. Armed at all points the warrior came, But driven before thy rising flame He rode, reverting his pale shield, Headlong from yonder battlefield.

In snow-white panoply, on eagle wing, [Half-Chorus He rose, dire ruin on our land to bring, Roused by the fierce debate Of Polynices' hate, Shrilling sharp menace from his breast, Sheathed all in steel from crown to heel, With many a plumed crest.

Then stooped above the domes, I 2 With lust of carnage fired, And opening teeth of serried spears Yawned wide around the gates that guard our homes; But went, or e'er his hungry jaws had tired On Theban flesh,—or e'er the Fire-god fierce Seizing our sacred town Besmirched and rent her battlemented crown. Such noise of battle as he fled About his back the War-god spread; So writhed to hard-fought victory The serpent[1] struggling to be free.

High Zeus beheld their stream that proudly rolled [Half-Chorus Idly caparisoned[2] with clanking gold: Zeus hates the boastful tongue: He with hurled fire down flung One who in haste had mounted high, And that same hour from topmost tower Upraised the exulting cry.

Swung rudely to the hard repellent earth II 1 Amidst his furious mirth He fell, who then with flaring brand Held in his fiery hand Came breathing madness at the gate In eager blasts of hate. And doubtful swayed the varying fight Through the turmoil of the night, As turning now on these and now on those Ares hurtled 'midst our foes, Self-harnessed helper[3] on our right.

Seven matched with seven, at each gate one, [Half-Chorus Their captains, when the day was done, Left for our Zeus who turned the scale, The brazen tribute in full tale:— All save the horror-burdened pair, Dire children of despair, Who from one sire, one mother, drawing breath, Each with conquering lance in rest Against a true born brother's breast, Found equal lots in death.

But with blithe greeting to glad Thebe came II 2 She of the glorious name, Victory,—smiling on our chariot throng With eyes that waken song Then let those battle memories cease, Silenced by thoughts of peace. With holy dances of delight Lasting through the livelong night Visit we every shrine, in solemn round, Led by him who shakes the ground, Our Bacchus, Thebe's child of light.

LEADER OF CHORUS. But look! where Creon in his new-made power, Moved by the fortune of the recent hour, Comes with fresh counsel. What intelligence Intends he for our private conference, That he hath sent his herald to us all, Gathering the elders with a general call?

Enter CREON.

CREON. My friends, the noble vessel of our State, After sore shaking her, the Gods have sped On a smooth course once more. I have called you hither, By special messengers selecting you From all the city, first, because I knew you Aye loyal to the throne of Laius; Then, both while Oedipus gave prosperous days, And since his fall, I still beheld you firm In sound allegiance to the royal issue. Now since the pair have perished in an hour, Twinned in misfortune, by a mutual stroke Staining our land with fratricidal blood, All rule and potency of sovereign sway, In virtue of next kin to the deceased, Devolves on me. But hard it is to learn The mind of any mortal or the heart, Till he be tried in chief authority. Power shows the man. For he who when supreme Withholds his hand or voice from the best cause, Being thwarted by some fear, that man to me Appears, and ever hath appeared, most vile. He too hath no high place in mine esteem, Who sets his friend before his fatherland. Let Zeus whose eye sees all eternally Be here my witness. I will ne'er keep silence When danger lours upon my citizens Who looked for safety, nor make him my friend Who doth not love my country. For I know Our country carries us, and whilst her helm Is held aright we gain good friends and true. Following such courses 'tis my steadfast will To foster Thebe's greatness, and therewith In brotherly accord is my decree Touching the sons of Oedipus. The man— Eteocles I mean—who died for Thebes Fighting with eminent prowess on her side, Shall be entombed with every sacred rite That follows to the grave the lordliest dead. But for his brother, who, a banished man, Returned to devastate and burn with fire The land of his nativity, the shrines Of his ancestral gods, to feed him fat With Theban carnage, and make captive all That should escape the sword—for Polynices, This law hath been proclaimed concerning him: He shall have no lament, no funeral, But he unburied, for the carrion fowl And dogs to eat his corse, a sight of shame. Such are the motions of this mind and will. Never from me shall villains reap renown Before the just. But whoso loves the State, I will exalt him both in life and death.

CH. Son of Menoeceus, we have heard thy mind Toward him who loves, and him who hates our city. And sure, 'tis thine to enforce what law thou wilt Both on the dead and all of us who live.

CR. Then be ye watchful to maintain my word.

CH. Young strength for such a burden were more meet.

CR. Already there be watchers of the dead.

CH. What charge then wouldst thou further lay on us?

CR. Not to give place to those that disobey.

CH. Who is so fond, to be in love with death?

CR. Such, truly, is the meed. But hope of gain Full oft ere now hath been the ruin of men.

WATCHMAN (entering). My lord, I am out of breath, but not with speed. I will not say my foot was fleet. My thoughts Cried halt unto me ever as I came And wheeled me to return. My mind discoursed Most volubly within my breast, and said— Fond wretch! why go where thou wilt find thy bane? Unhappy wight! say, wilt thou bide aloof? Then if the king shall hear this from another, How shalt thou 'scape for 't? Winding thus about I hasted, but I could not speed, and so Made a long journey of a little way. At last 'yes' carried it, that I should come To thee; and tell thee I must needs; and shall, Though it be nothing that I have to tell. For I came hither, holding fast by this— Nought that is not my fate can happen to me.

CR. Speak forth thy cause of fear. What is the matter?

WATCH. First of mine own part in the business. For I did it not, nor saw the man who did, And 'twere not right that I should come to harm.

CR. You fence your ground, and keep well out of danger; I see you have some strange thing to declare.

WATCH. A man will shrink who carries words of fear.

CB. Let us have done with you. Tell your tale, and go.

WATCH. Well, here it is. The corse hath burial From some one who is stolen away and gone, But first hath strown dry dust upon the skin, And added what religious rites require.

CR. Ha! What man hath been so daring in revolt?

WATCH. I cannot tell. There was no mark to show— No dint of spade, or mattock-loosened sod,— Only the hard bare ground, untilled and trackless. Whoe'er he was, the doer left no trace. And, when the scout of our first daylight watch Showed us the thing, we marvelled in dismay. The Prince was out of sight; not in a grave, But a thin dust was o'er him, as if thrown By one who shunned the dead man's curse. No sign Appeared of any hound or beast o' the field Having come near, or pulled at the dead body. Then rose high words among us sentinels With bickering noise accusing each his mate, And it seemed like to come to blows, with none To hinder. For the hand that thus had wrought Was any of ours, and none; the guilty man Escaped all knowledge. And we were prepared To lift hot iron with our bare palms; to walk Through fire, and swear by all the Gods at once That we were guiltless, ay, and ignorant Of who had plotted or performed this thing. When further search seemed bootless, at the last One spake, whose words bowed all our heads to the earth With fear. We knew not what to answer him, Nor how to do it and prosper. He advised So grave a matter must not be concealed, But instantly reported to the King. Well, this prevailed, and the lot fell on me, Unlucky man! to be the ministrant Of this fair service. So I am present here, Against my will and yours, I am sure of that. None love the bringer of unwelcome news.

CH. My lord, a thought keeps whispering in my breast, Some Power divine hath interposed in this.

CR. Cease, ere thou quite enrage me, and appear Foolish as thou art old. Talk not to me Of Gods who have taken thought for this dead man! Say, was it for his benefits to them They hid his corse, and honoured him so highly, Who came to set on fire their pillared shrines, With all the riches of their offerings, And to make nothing of their land and laws? Or, hast thou seen them honouring villany? That cannot be. Long time the cause of this Hath come to me in secret murmurings From malcontents of Thebes, who under yoke Turned restive, and would not accept my sway. Well know I, these have bribed the watchmen here To do this for some fee. For nought hath grown Current among mankind so mischievous As money. This brings cities to their fall: This drives men homeless, and moves honest minds To base contrivings. This hath taught mankind The use of wickedness, and how to give An impious turn to every kind of act. But whosoe'er hath done this for reward Hath found his way at length to punishment. If Zeus have still my worship, be assured Of that which here on oath I say to thee— Unless ye find the man who made this grave And bring him bodily before mine eye, Death shall not be enough, till ye have hung Alive for an example of your guilt, That henceforth in your rapine ye may know Whence gain is to be gotten, and may learn Pelf from all quarters is not to be loved. For in base getting, 'tis a common proof, More find disaster than deliverance.

WATCH. Am I to speak? or must I turn and go?

CR. What? know you not your speech offends even now?

WATCH. Doth the mind smart withal, or only the ear?

CR. Art thou to probe the seat of mine annoy?

WATCH. If I offend, 'tis in your ear alone, The malefactor wounds ye to the soul.

CR. Out on thee! thou art nothing but a tongue.

WATCH. Then was I ne'er the doer of this deed.

CR. Yea, verily: self-hired to crime for gold.

WATCH. Pity so clear a mind should clearly err!

CR. Gloze now on clearness! But unless ye bring The burier, without glozing ye shall tell, Craven advantage clearly worketh bane.

WATCH. By all means let the man be found; one thing I know right well:—caught or not caught, howe'er Fate rules his fortune, me you ne'er will see Standing in presence here. Even now I owe Deep thanks to Heaven for mine escape, so far Beyond my hope and highest expectancy. [Exeunt severally

CHORUS. Many a wonder lives and moves, but the wonder of all is man, I 1 That courseth over the grey ocean, carried of Southern gale, Faring amidst high-swelling seas that rudely surge around, And Earth, supreme of mighty Gods, eldest, imperishable, Eternal, he with patient furrow wears and wears away As year by year the plough-shares turn and turn,— Subduing her unwearied strength with children of the steed[4].

And wound in woven coils of nets he seizeth for his prey I 2 The aery tribe of birds and wilding armies of the chase, And sea-born millions of the deep—man is so crafty-wise. And now with engine of his wit he tameth to his will The mountain-ranging beast whose lair is in the country wild; And now his yoke hath passed upon the mane Of horse with proudly crested neck and tireless mountain bull.

Wise utterance and wind-swift thought, and city-moulding mind, II 1 And shelter from the clear-eyed power of biting frost, He hath taught him, and to shun the sharp, roof-penetrating rain,— Full of resource, without device he meets no coming time; From Death alone he shall not find reprieve; No league may gain him that relief; but even for fell disease, That long hath baffled wisest leech, he hath contrived a cure.

Inventive beyond wildest hope, endowed with boundless skill, II 2 One while he moves toward evil, and one while toward good, According as he loves his land and fears the Gods above. Weaving the laws into his life and steadfast oath of Heaven, High in the State he moves but outcast he, Who hugs dishonour to his heart and follows paths of crime Ne'er may he come beneath my roof, nor think like thoughts with me.

LEADER OF CHORUS What portent from the Gods is here? My mind is mazed with doubt and fear. How can I gainsay what I see? I know the girl Antigone, O hapless child of hapless sire! Didst thou, then, recklessly aspire To brave kings' laws, and now art brought In madness of transgression caught?

Enter Watchman, bringing in ANTIGONE

WATCH. Here is the doer of the deed—this maid We found her burying him. Where is the King?

CH. Look, he comes forth again to meet thy call.

Enter CREON.

CR. What call so nearly times with mine approach?

WATCH. My lord, no mortal should deny on oath, Judgement is still belied by after thought When quailing 'neath the tempest of your threats, Methought no force would drive me to this place But joy unlook'd for and surpassing hope Is out of bound the best of all delight, And so I am here again,—though I had sworn I ne'er would come,—and in my charge this maid, Caught in the act of caring for the dead Here was no lot throwing, this hap was mine Without dispute. And now, my sovereign lord, According to thy pleasure, thine own self Examine and convict her. For my part I have good right to be away and free From the bad business I am come upon.

CR. This maiden! How came she in thy charge? Where didst thou find her?

WATCH. Burying the prince. One word hath told thee all.

CR. Hast thou thy wits, and knowest thou what thou sayest?

WATCH. I saw her burying him whom you forbade To bury. Is that, now, clearly spoken, or no?

CR. And how was she detected, caught, and taken?

WATCH. It fell in this wise. We were come to the spot, Bearing the dreadful burden of thy threats; And first with care we swept the dust away From round the corse, and laid the dank limbs bare: Then sate below the hill-top, out o' the wind, Where no bad odour from the dead might strike us, Stirring each other on with interchange Of loud revilings on the negligent In 'tendance on this duty. So we stayed Till in mid heaven the sun's resplendent orb Stood high, and the heat strengthened. Suddenly, The Storm-god raised a whirlwind from the ground, Vexing heaven's concave, and filled all the plain, Rending the locks of all the orchard groves, Till the great sky was choked withal. We closed Our lips and eyes, and bore the God-sent evil. When after a long while this ceased, the maid Was seen, and wailed in high and bitter key, Like some despairing bird that hath espied Her nest all desolate, the nestlings gone. So, when she saw the body bare, she mourned Loudly, and cursed the authors of this deed. Then nimbly with her hands she brought dry dust, And holding high a shapely brazen cruse, Poured three libations, honouring the dead. We, when we saw, ran in, and straightway seized Our quarry, nought dismayed, and charged her with The former crime and this. And she denied Nothing;—to my delight, and to my grief. One's self to escape disaster is great joy; Yet to have drawn a friend into distress Is painful. But mine own security To me is of more value than aught else.

CR. Thou, with thine eyes down-fastened to the earth! Dost thou confess to have done this, or deny it?

ANT. I deny nothing. I avow the deed.

CR. (to Watchman). Thou may'st betake thyself whither thou wilt, Acquitted of the grievous charge, and free. (to ANTIGONE) And thou,—no prating talk, but briefly tell, Knew'st thou our edict that forbade this thing?

ANT. I could not fail to know. You made it plain.

CR. How durst thou then transgress the published law?

ANT. I heard it not from Heaven, nor came it forth From Justice, where she reigns with Gods below. They too have published to mankind a law. Nor thought I thy commandment of such might That one who is mortal thus could overbear The infallible, unwritten laws of Heaven. Not now or yesterday they have their being, But everlastingly, and none can tell The hour that saw their birth. I would not, I, For any terror of a man's resolve, Incur the God-inflicted penalty Of doing them wrong. That death would come, I knew Without thine edict;—if before the time, I count it gain. Who does not gain by death, That lives, as I do, amid boundless woe? Slight is the sorrow of such doom to me. But had I suffered my own mother's child, Fallen in blood, to be without a grave, That were indeed a sorrow. This is none. And if thou deem'st me foolish for my deed, I am foolish in the judgement of a fool.

CH. Fierce shows the maiden's vein from her fierce sire; Calamity doth not subdue her will.

CR. Ay, but the stubborn spirit first doth fall. Oft ye shall see the strongest bar of steel, That fire hath hardened to extremity, Shattered to pieces. A small bit controls The fiery steed. Pride may not be endured In one whose life is subject to command. This maiden hath been conversant with crime Since first she trampled on the public law; And now she adds to crime this insolence, To laugh at her offence, and glory in it. Truly, if she that hath usurped this power Shall rest unpunished, she then is a man, And I am none. Be she my sister's child, Or of yet nearer blood to me than all That take protection from my hearth, the pair Shall not escape the worst of deaths. For know, I count the younger of the twain no less Copartner in this plotted funeral: And now I bid you call her. Late I saw her Within the house, beyond herself, and frantic. —Full oft when one is darkly scheming wrong, The disturbed spirit hath betrayed itself Before the act it hides.—But not less hateful Seems it to me, when one that hath been caught In wickedness would give it a brave show.

ANT. Wouldst thou aught more of me than merely death?

CR. No more. 'Tis all I claim. Death closes all.

ANT. Why then delay? No talk of thine can charm me, Forbid it Heaven! And my discourse no less Must evermore sound noisome to thine ear. Yet where could I have found a fairer fame Than giving burial to my own true brother? All here would tell thee they approve my deed, Were they not tongue-tied to authority. But kingship hath much profit; this in chief, That it may do and say whate'er it will.

CR. No Theban sees the matter with thine eye.

ANT. They see, but curb their voices to thy sway

CR. And art thou not ashamed, acting alone?

ANT. A sister's piety hath no touch of shame.

CR. Was not Eteocles thy brother too?

ANT. My own true brother from both parents' blood.

CR. This duty was impiety to him.

ANT. He that is dead will not confirm that word.

CR. If you impart his honours to the vile.

ANT. It was his brother, not a slave, who fell.

CR. But laying waste the land for which he fought.

ANT. Death knows no difference, but demands his due.

CR. Yet not equality 'twixt good and bad.

ANT. Both may be equal yonder; who can tell?

CR. An enemy is hated even in death.

ANT. Love, and not hatred, is the part for me.

CR. Down then to death! and, if you must, there love The dead. No woman rules me while I live.

CH. Now comes Ismene forth. Ah, see, From clouds above her brow The sister-loving tear Is falling wet on her fair cheek, Distaining all her passion-crimson'd face!


CR. And thou, that like a serpent coiled i' the house Hast secretly been draining my life-blood,— Little aware that I was cherishing Two curses and subverters of my throne,— Tell us, wilt thou avouch thy share in this Entombment, or forswear all knowledge of it?

ISM. If her voice go therewith, I did the deed, And bear my part and burden of the blame.

ANT. Nay, justice will not suffer that. You would not, And I refused to make you mine ally.

ISM. But now in thy misfortune I would fain Embark with thee in thy calamity.

ANT. Who did the deed, the powers beneath can tell. I care not for lip-kindness from my kin.

ISM. Ah! scorn me not so far as to forbid me To die with thee, and honour our lost brother.

ANT. Die not with me, nor make your own a deed you never touched! My dying is enough.

ISM. What joy have I in life when thou art gone?

ANT. Ask Creon there. He hath your care and duty.

ISM. What can it profit thee to vex me so?

ANT. My heart is pained, though my lip laughs at thee.

ISM. What can I do for thee now, even now?

ANT. Save your own life. I grudge not your escape.

ISM. Alas! and must I be debarred thy fate?

ANT. Life was the choice you made. Mine was to die.

ISM. I warned thee——

ANT. Yes, your prudence is admired On earth. My wisdom is approved below.

ISM. Yet truly we are both alike in fault.

ANT. Fear not; you live. My life hath long been given To death, to be of service to the dead.

CR. Of these two girls, the one hath lost her wits: The other hath had none since she was born.

ISM. My lord, in misery, the mind one hath Is wont to be dislodged, and will not stay.

CR. You have ta'en leave of yours at any rate, When you cast in your portion with the vile.

ISM. What can life profit me without my sister?

CR. Say not 'my sister'; she is nothing now.

ISM. What? wilt thou kill thy son's espousal too?

CR. He may find other fields to plough upon.

ISM. Not so as love was plighted 'twixt them twain.

CR. I hate a wicked consort for my son.

ANT. O dearest Haemon! how thy father wrongs thee!

CR. Thou and thy marriage are a torment to me.

CH. And wilt thou sever her from thine own son?

CR. 'Tis death must come between him and his joy,

CH. All doubt is then resolved: the maid must die,

CR. I am resolved; and so, 'twould seem, are you. In with her, slaves! No more delay! Henceforth These maids must have but woman's liberty And be mewed up; for even the bold will fly When they see Death nearing the house of life. [ANTIGONE and ISMENE are led into the palace.

CHORUS. Blest is the life that never tasted woe. I 1 When once the blow Hath fallen upon a house with Heaven-sent doom, Trouble descends in ever-widening gloom Through all the number of the tribe to flow; As when the briny surge That Thrace-born tempests urge (The big wave ever gathering more and more) Runs o'er the darkness of the deep, And with far-searching sweep Uprolls the storm-heap'd tangle on the shore, While cliff to beaten cliff resounds with sullen roar.

The stock of Cadmus from old time, I know, I 2 Hath woe on woe, Age following age, the living on the dead, Fresh sorrow falling on each new-ris'n head, None freed by God from ruthless overthrow. E'en now a smiling light Was spreading to our sight O'er one last fibre of a blasted tree,— When, lo! the dust of cruel death, Tribute of Gods beneath, And wildering thoughts, and fate-born ecstasy, Quench the brief gleam in dark Nonentity.

What froward will of man, O Zeus! can check thy might? II 1 Not all-enfeebling sleep, nor tireless months divine, Can touch thee, who through ageless time Rulest mightily Olympus' dazzling height. This was in the beginning, and shall be Now and eternally, Not here or there, but everywhere, A law of misery that shall not spare.

For Hope, that wandereth wide, comforting many a head, II 2 Entangleth many more with glamour of desire: Unknowing they have trode the fire. Wise was the famous word of one who said, 'Evil oft seemeth goodness to the mind An angry God doth blind.' Few are the days that such as he May live untroubled of calamity.

LEADER OF CHORUS. Lo, Haemon, thy last offspring, now is come, Lamenting haply for the maiden's doom, Say, is he mourning o'er her young life lost, Fiercely indignant for his bridal crossed?


CR. We shall know soon, better than seers could teach us. Can it be so, my son, that thou art brought By mad distemperature against thy sire, On hearing of the irrevocable doom Passed on thy promised bride? Or is thy love Thy father's, be his actions what they may?

HAEMON. I am thine, father, and will follow still Thy good directions; nor would I prefer The fairest bride to thy wise government.

CR. That, O my son! should be thy constant mind, In all to bend thee to thy father's will. Therefore men pray to have around their hearths Obedient offspring, to requite their foes With harm, and honour whom their father loves; But he whose issue proves unprofitable, Begets what else but sorrow to himself And store of laughter to his enemies? Make not, my son, a shipwreck of thy wit For a woman. Thine own heart may teach thee this;— There's but cold comfort in a wicked wife Yoked to the home inseparably. What wound Can be more deadly than a harmful friend? Then spurn her like an enemy, and send her To wed some shadow in the world below! For since of all the city I have found Her only recusant, caught in the act, I will not break my word before the State. I will take her life. At this let her invoke The god of kindred blood! For if at home I foster rebels, how much more abroad? Whoso is just in ruling his own house, Lives rightly in the commonwealth no less: But he that wantonly defies the law, Or thinks to dictate to authority, Shall have no praise from me. What power soe'er The city hath ordained, must be obeyed In little things and great things, right or wrong. The man who so obeys, I have good hope Will govern and be governed as he ought, And in the storm of battle at my side Will stand a faithful and a trusty comrade. But what more fatal than the lapse of rule? This ruins cities, this lays houses waste, This joins with the assault of war to break Full numbered armies into hopeless rout; And in the unbroken host 'tis nought but rule That keeps those many bodies from defeat, I must be zealous to defend the law, And not go down before a woman's will. Else, if I fall, 'twere best a man should strike me; Lest one should say, 'a woman worsted him.'

CH. Unless our sense is weakened by long time, Thou speakest not unwisely.

HAEM. O my sire, Sound wisdom is a God implanted seed, Of all possessions highest in regard. I cannot, and I would not learn to say 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 few 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.

CH. My lord, 'twere wise, if thou wouldst learn of him In reason; and thou, Haemon, from thy sire! Truth lies between you.

CR. Shall our age, forsooth, Be taught discretion by a peevish boy?

HAEM. Only in what is right. Respects of time Must be outbalanced by the actual need.

CR. To cringe to rebels cannot be a need.

HAEM. I do not claim observance for the vile.

CR. Why, is not she so tainted? Is 't not proved?

HAEM. All Thebes denies it.

CR. Am I ruled by Thebes?

HAEM. If youth be folly, that is youngly said.

CR. Shall other men prescribe my government?

HAEM. One only makes not up a city, father.

CR. Is not the city in the sovereign's hand?

HAEM. Nobly you'd govern as the desert's king.

CR. This youngster is the woman's champion.

HAEM. You are the woman, then—for you I care.

CR. Villain, to bandy reasons with your sire!

HAEM. I plead against the unreason of your fault.

CR. What fault is there in reverencing my power?

HAEM. There is no reverence when you spurn the Gods.

CR. Abominable spirit, woman-led!

HAEM. You will not find me following a base guide.

CR. Why, all your speech this day is spent for her.

HAEM. For you and me too, and the Gods below.

CR. She will not live to be your wife on earth.

HAEM. I know, then, whom she will ruin by her death.

CR. What, wilt thou threaten, too, thou audacious boy?

HAEM. It is no threat to answer empty words.

CR. Witless admonisher, thou shalt pay for this!

HAEM. Thou art my sire, else would I call thee senseless.

CR. Thou woman's minion! mince not terms with me,

HAEM. Wouldst thou have all the speaking on thy side?

CR. Is 't possible? By yon heaven! thou'lt not escape, For adding contumely to words of blame. Bring out the hated thing, that she may die Immediately, before her lover's face!

HAEM. Nay, dream not she shall suffer in my sight Nor shalt thou ever see my face again Let those stay with you that can brook your rage! [Exit

CH. My lord, he is parted swiftly in deep wrath! The youthful spirit offended makes wild work.

CR. Ay, let him do his worst. Let him give scope To pride beyond the compass of a man! He shall not free these maidens from their doom.

CH. Is death thy destination for them both?

CR. Only for her who acted. Thou art right.

CH. And what hast thou determined for her death?

CH. Where human footstep shuns the desert ground, I'll hide her living in a cave like vault, With so much provender as may prevent Pollution from o'ertaking the whole city And there, perchance, she may obtain of Death, Her only deity, to spare her soul, Or else in that last moment she will learn 'Tis labour lost to worship powers unseen. [Exit CREON

CHORUS Love, never foiled in fight! 1 Warrior Love, that on Wealth workest havoc! Love, who in ambush of young maid's soft cheek All night keep'st watch!—Thou roamest over seas. In lonely forest homes thou harbourest. Who may avoid thee? None! Mortal, Immortal, All are o'erthrown by thee, all feel thy frenzy.

Lightly thou draw'st awry 2 Righteous minds into wrong to their ruin Thou this unkindly quarrel hast inflamed 'Tween kindred men—Triumphantly prevails The heart-compelling eye of winsome bride, Compeer of mighty Law Throned, commanding. Madly thou mockest men, dread Aphrodite.

LEADER OF CHORUS. Ah! now myself am carried past the bound Of law, nor can I check the rising tear, When I behold Antigone even here Touching the quiet bourne where all must rest.

Enter ANTIGONE guarded.

ANT. Ye see me on my way, I 1 O burghers of my father's land! With one last look on Helios' ray, Led my last path toward the silent strand. Alive to the wide house of rest I go; No dawn for me may shine, No marriage-blessing e'er be mine, No hymeneal with my praises flow! The Lord of Acheron's unlovely shore Shall be mine only husband evermore.

CH. Yea, but with glory and fame,— Not by award of the sword, Not with blighting disease, But by a law of thine own,— Thou, of mortals alone, Goest alive to the deep Tranquil home of the dead.

ANT. Erewhile I heard men say, I 2 How, in far Phrygia, Thebe's friend, Tantalus' child, had dreariest end On heights of Sipylus consumed away: O'er whom the rock like clinging ivy grows, And while with moistening dew Her cheek runs down, the eternal snows Weigh o'er her, and the tearful stream renew That from sad brows her stone-cold breast doth steep. Like unto her the God lulls me to sleep.

CH. But she was a goddess born, We but of mortal line; And sure to rival the fate Of a daughter of sires Divine Were no light glory in death.

ANT. O mockery of my woe! II 1 I pray you by our fathers' holy Fear, Why must I hear Your insults, while in life on earth I stand, O ye that flow In wealth, rich burghers of my bounteous land? O fount of Dirce, and thou spacious grove, Where Thebe's chariots move! Ye are my witness, though none else be nigh, By what enormity of lawless doom, Without one friendly sigh, I go to the strong mound of yon strange tomb,— All hapless, having neither part nor room With those who live or those who die!

CH. Thy boldness mounted high, And thou, my child, 'gainst the great pedestal Of Justice with unmeasured force didst fall. Thy father's lot still presseth hard on thee.

ANT. That pains me more than all. II 2 Ah! thou hast touched my father's misery Still mourned anew, With all the world-famed sorrows on us rolled Since Cadmus old. O cursed marriage that my mother knew! O wretched fortune of my sire, who lay Where first he saw the day! Such were the authors of my burdened life; To whom, with curses dowered, never a wife, I go to dwell beneath. O brother mine, thy princely marriage-tie Hath been thy downfall, and in this thy death Thou hast destroyed me ere I die.

CH. 'Twas pious, we confess, Thy fervent deed. But he, who power would show, Must let no soul of all he rules transgress. A self-willed passion was thine overthrow.

ANT. Friendless, uncomforted of bridal lay, III Unmourned, they lead me on my destined way. Woe for my life forlorn! I may not see The sacred round of yon great light Rising again to greet me from the night; No friend bemoans my fate, no tear hath fallen for me!

Enter CREON.

CR. If criminals were suffered to complain In dirges before death, they ne'er would end. Away with her at once, and closing her, As I commanded, in the vaulty tomb, Leave her all desolate, whether to die, Or to live on in that sepulchral cell. We are guiltless in the matter of this maid; Only she shall not share the light of day.

ANT. O grave! my bridal chamber, prison-house Eterne, deep-hollowed, whither I am led To find mine own,—of whom Persephone Hath now a mighty number housed in death:— I last of all, and far most miserably, Am going, ere my days have reached their term! Yet lives the hope that, when I go, most surely Dear will my coming be, father, to thee, And dear to thee, my mother, and to thee, Brother! since with these very hands I decked And bathed you after death, and ministered The last libations. And I reap this doom For tending, Polynices, on thy corse. Indeed I honoured thee, the wise will say. For neither, had I children, nor if one I had married were laid bleeding on the earth, Would I have braved the city's will, or taken This burden on me. Wherefore? I will tell. A husband lost might be replaced; a son, If son were lost to me, might yet be born; But, with both parents hidden in the tomb, No brother may arise to comfort me. Therefore above all else I honoured thee, And therefore Creon thought me criminal, And bold in wickedness, O brother mine! And now by servile hands, for all to see, He hastens me away, unhusbanded, Before my nuptial, having never known Or married joy or tender motherhood. But desolate and friendless I go down Alive, O horror! to the vaults of the dead. For what transgression of Heaven's ordinance? Alas! how can I look to Heaven? on whom Call to befriend me? seeing that I have earned, By piety, the meed of impious?— Oh! if this act be what the Gods approve, In death I may repent me of my deed; But if they sin who judge me, be their doom No heavier than they wrongly wreak on me!

CH. With unchanged fury beats the storm of soul That shakes this maiden.

CR. Then for that, be sure Her warders shall lament their tardiness.

ANT. Alas! I hear Death's footfall in that sound.

CR. I may not reassure thee.—'Tis most true.

ANT. O land of Thebe, city of my sires, Ye too, ancestral Gods! I go—I go! Even now they lead me to mine end. Behold! Founders of Thebes, the only scion left Of Cadmus' issue, how unworthily, By what mean instruments I am oppressed, For reverencing the dues of piety. [Exit guarded

CHORUS. Even Danae's beauty left the lightsome day. I 1 Closed in her strong and brass-bound tower she lay In tomb-like deep confine. Yet she was gendered, O my child! From sires of noblest line, And treasured for the Highest the golden rain. Fated misfortune hath a power so fell: Not wealth, nor warfare wild, Nor dark spray-dashing coursers of the main Against great Destiny may once rebel.

He too in darksome durance was compressed, I 2 King of Edonians, Dryas' hasty son[5], In eyeless vault of stone Immured by Dionysus' hest, All for a wrathful jest. Fierce madness issueth in such fatal flower. He found 'twas mad to taunt the Heavenly Power, Chilling the Maenad breast Kindled with Bacchic fire, and with annoy Angering the Muse that in the flute hath joy.

And near twin rocks that guard the Colchian sea, II 1 Bosporian cliffs 'fore Salmydessus rise, Where neighbouring Ares from his shrine beheld Phineus' two sons[6] by female fury quelled. With cursed wounding of their sight-reft eyes, That cried to Heaven to 'venge the iniquity. The shuttle's sharpness in a cruel hand Dealt the dire blow, not struck with martial brand.

But chiefly for her piteous lot they pined, II 2 Who was the source of their rejected birth. She touched the lineage of Erechtheus old; Whence in far caves her life did erst unfold, Cradled 'mid storms, daughter of Northern wind, Steed-swift o'er all steep places of the earth. Yet even on her, though reared of heavenly kind, The long-enduring Fates at last took hold.

Enter TIRESIAS, led by a boy.

TIRESIAS. We are come, my lords of Thebes, joint wayfarers, One having eyes for both. The blind must still Thus move in frail dependence on a guide.

CR. And what hath brought thee, old Tiresias, now?

TI. I will instruct thee, if thou wilt hear my voice.

CR. I have not heretofore rejected thee.

TI. Therefore thy pilotage hath saved this city.

CR. Grateful experience owns the benefit.

TI. Take heed. Again thou art on an edge of peril.

CR. What is it? How I shudder at thy word!

TI. The tokens of mine art shall make thee know. As I was sitting on that ancient seat Of divination, where I might command Sure cognisance of every bird of the air, I heard strange clamouring of fowl, that screeched In furious dissonance; and, I could tell, Talons were bloodily engaged—the whirr Of wings told a clear tale. At once, in fear, I tried burnt sacrifice at the high altar: Where from the offering the fire god refused To gleam; but a dank humour from the bones Dripped on the embers with a sputtering fume. The gall was spirited high in air, the thighs Lay wasting, bared of their enclosing fat. Such failing tokens of blurred augury This youth reported, who is guide to me, As I to others. And this evil state Is come upon the city from thy will: Because our altars—yea, our sacred hearths— Are everywhere infected from the mouths Of dogs or beak of vulture that hath fed On Oedipus' unhappy slaughtered son. And then at sacrifice the Gods refuse Our prayers and savour of the thigh-bone fat— And of ill presage is the thickening cry Of bird that battens upon human gore Now, then, my son, take thought. A man may err; But he is not insensate or foredoomed To ruin, who, when he hath lapsed to evil, Stands not inflexible, but heals the harm. The obstinate man still earns the name of fool. Urge not contention with the dead, nor stab The fallen. What valour is 't to slay the slain? I have thought well of this, and say it with care; And careful counsel, that brings gain withal, Is precious to the understanding soul.

CR. I am your mark, and ye with one consent All shoot your shafts at me. Nought left untried, Not even the craft of prophets, by whose crew I am bought and merchandised long since. Go on! Traffic, get gain, electrum from the mine Of Lydia, and the gold of Ind! Yet know, Grey-beard! ye ne'er shall hide him in a tomb. No, not if heaven's own eagle chose to snatch And bear him to the throne supreme for food, Even that pollution should not daunt my heart To yield permission for his funeral. For well know I defilement ne'er can rise From man to God. But, old Tiresias, hear! Even wisest spirits have a shameful fall That fairly speak base words for love of gain.

TI. Ah! where is wisdom? who considereth?

CR. Wherefore? what means this universal doubt?

TI. How far the best of riches is good counsel!

CR. As far as folly is the mightiest bane.

TI. Yet thou art sick of that same pestilence.

CR. I would not give the prophet blow for blow.

TI. What blow is harder than to call me false?

CR. Desire of money is the prophet's plague.

TI. And ill-sought lucre is the curse of kings.

CR. Know'st thou 'tis of thy sovereign thou speak'st this?

TI. Yea, for my aid gives thee to sway this city.

CR. Far seeing art thou, but dishonest too.

TI. Thou wilt provoke the utterance of my tongue To that even thought refused to dwell upon.

CR. Say on, so thou speak sooth, and not for gain.

TI. You think me likely to seek gain from you?

CR. You shall not make your merchandise on me!

TI. Not many courses of the racing sun Shalt thou fulfil, ere of thine own true blood Thou shalt have given a corpse in recompense For one on earth whom thou hast cast beneath, Entombing shamefully a living soul, And one whom thou hast kept above the ground And disappointed of all obsequies, 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. [Exit

CH. 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.

CR. 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.

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

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

CH. Go and release the maiden from the vault, And make a grave for the unburied dead.

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

CH. With all the speed thou mayest: swift harms from heaven With instant doom o'erwhelm the froward man.

CR. Oh! it is hard. But I am forced to this Against myself. I cannot fight with Destiny.

CH. Go now to do it. Trust no second hand.

CR. Even as I am, I go. Come, come, my people. Here or not here, with mattocks in your hands Set forth immediately to yonder hill! And, since I have ta'en this sudden turn, myself, Who tied the knot, will hasten to unloose it. For now the fear comes over me, 'tis best To pass one's life in the accustomed round. [Exeunt

CHORUS. O God of many a name! I 1 Filling the heart of that Cadmeian bride With deep delicious pride, Offspring of him who wields the withering flame! Thou for Italia's good Dost care, and 'midst the all-gathering bosom wide[7] Of Deo dost preside; Thou, Bacchus, by Ismenus' winding waters 'Mongst Thebe's frenzied daughters, Keep'st haunt, commanding the fierce dragon's brood.

Thee o'er the forked hill I 2 The pinewood flame beholds, where Bacchai rove, Nymphs of Corycian grove, Hard by the flowing of Castalia's rill. To visit Theban ways, By bloomy wine-cliffs flushing tender bright 'Neath far Nyseian height Thou movest o'er the ivy-mantled mound, While myriad voices sound Loud strains of 'Evoe!' to thy deathless praise.

For Thebe thou dost still uphold, II 1 First of cities manifold, Thou and the nymph whom lightning made Mother of thy radiant head. Come then with healing for the violent woe That o'er our peopled land doth largely flow, Passing the high Parnassian steep Or moaning narrows of the deep!

Come, leader of the starry quire II 2 Quick-panting with their breath of fire! Lord of high voices of the night, Child born to him who dwells in light, Appear with those who, joying in their madness, Honour the sole dispenser of their gladness, Thyiads of the Aegean main Night-long trooping in thy train.

Enter Messenger.

MESS. Neighbours of Cadmus and Amphion's halls, No life of mortal, howsoe'er it stand, Shall once have praise or censure from my mouth; Since human happiness and human woe Come even as fickle Fortune smiles or lours; And none can augur aught from what we see. Creon erewhile to me was enviable, Who saved our Thebe from her enemies; Then, vested with supreme authority, Ruled her aright; and flourish'd in his home With noblest progeny. What hath he now? Nothing. For when a man is lost to joy, I count him not to live, but reckon him A living corse. Riches belike are his, Great riches and the appearance of a King; But if no gladness come to him, all else Is shadow of a vapour, weighed with joy.

CH. What new affliction heaped on sovereignty Com'st thou to tell?

MESS. They are dead; and they that live Are guilty of the death.

CH. The slayer, who? And who the slain? Declare.

MESS. Haemon is dead, And by a desperate hand.

CH. His own, or Creon's?

MESS. By his own hand, impelled with violent wrath At Creon for the murder of the maid.

CH. Ah, Seer! how surely didst thou aim thy word!

MESS. So stands the matter. Make of it what ye list.

CH. See, from the palace cometh close to us Creon's unhappy wife, Eurydice. Is it by chance, or heard she of her son?


EURYDICE. Ye men of Thebes, the tidings met mine ear As I was coming forth to visit Pallas With prayerful salutation. I was loosening The bar of the closed gate, when the sharp sound Of mine own sorrow smote against my heart, And I fell back astonied on my maids And fainted. But the tale? tell me once more; I am no novice in adversity.

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