"Since o'er each deed, upon the Olympian throne, Mercy sits joint presider with great Jove, Let her, oh father, also take her stand Within thy soul--and judge me! The past sins Yet have their cure--ah, would they had recall! Why are you voiceless? Speak to me, my father? Turn not away--will you not answer me?" etc. Oedipus retains his silence in spite of the prayers of his beloved Antigone, and Polynices proceeds to narrate the wrongs he has undergone from Eteocles, and, warming with a young warrior's ardour, paints the array that he has mustered on his behalf--promises to restore Oedipus to his palace--and, alluding to the oracle, throws himself on his father's pardon. Then, at last, outspeaks Oedipus, and from reproach bursts into curses. "And now you weep; you wept not at these woes Until you wept your own. But I--I weep not. These things are not for tears, but for Endurance. My son is like his sire--a parricide! Toil, exile, beggary--daily bread doled out From stranger hands--these are your gifts, my son! My nurses, guardians--they who share the want, Or earn the bread, are daughters; call them not Women, for they to me are men. Go to! Thou art not mine--I do disclaim such issue. Behold, the eyes of the avenging God Are o'er thee! but their ominous light delays To blast thee yet. March on--march on--to Thebes! Not--not for thee, the city and the throne; The earth shall first be reddened with thy blood-- Thy blood and his, thy foe--thy brother! Curses! Not for the first time summoned to my wrongs-- Curses! I call ye back, and make ye now Allies with this old man! * * * * * * Yea, curses shall possess thy seat and throne, If antique Justice o'er the laws of earth Reign with the thunder-god. March on to ruin! Spurned and disowned--the basest of the base-- And with thee bear this burden: o'er thine head I pour a prophet's doom; nor throne nor home Waits on the sharpness of the levelled spear: Thy very land of refuge hath no welcome; Thine eyes have looked their last on hollow Argos. Death by a brother's hand--dark fratricide, Murdering thyself a brother--shall be thine. Yea, while I curse thee, on the murky deep Of the primeval hell I call! Prepare These men their home, dread Tartarus! Goddesses, Whose shrines are round me--ye avenging Furies! And thou, oh Lord of Battle, who hast stirred Hate in the souls of brethren, hear me--hear me!-- And now, 'tis past!--enough!--depart and tell The Theban people, and thy fond allies, What blessings, from his refuge with the Furies, The blind old Oedipus awards his sons!" [352]