But when, in the fulness of days, he knew of his bridal unblest, A twofold horror he wrought, in the frenzied despair of his breast— Debarred from the grace of the banquet, the service of goblets of gold, He flung on his children a curse for the splendour they dared to withhold, A curse prophetic and bitter—_The glory of wealth and of pride, With iron, not gold, in your hands, ye shall come, at the last, to divide!_ Behold, how a shudder runs through me, lest now, in the fulness of time, The house-fiend awake and return, to mete out the measure of crime! Enter THE SPY. THE SPY. Take heart, ye daughters whom your mothers’ milk Made milky-hearted! lo, our city stands, Saved from the yoke of servitude: the vaunts Of overweening men are silent now, And the State sails beneath a sky serene, Nor in the manifold and battering waves Hath shipped a single surge, and solid stands The rampart, and the gates are made secure, Each with a single champion’s trusty guard. So in the main and at six gates we hold A victory assured; but, at the seventh, The god that on the seventh day was born, Royal Apollo, hath ta’en up his rest To wreak upon the sons of Oedipus Their grandsire’s wilfulness of long ago. CHORUS. What further woefulness besets our home? THE SPY. The home stands safe—but ah, the princes twain— CHORUS. Who? what of them? I am distraught with fear. THE SPY. Hear now, and mark! the sons of Oedipus— CHORUS. Ah, my prophetic soul! I feel their doom. THE SPY. Have done with questions!—with their lives crushed out— CHORUS. Lie they out yonder? the full horror speak! Did hands meet hands more close than brotherly? Came fate on each, and in the selfsame hour? THE SPY. Yea, blotting out the lineage ill-starred! Now mix your exultation and your tears, Over a city saved, the while its lords, Twin leaders of the fight, have parcelled out With forged arbitrament of Scythian steel The full division of their fatherland, And, as their father’s imprecation bade, Shall have their due of land, a twofold grave. So is the city saved; the earth has drunk Blood of twin princes, by each other slain. CHORUS. O mighty Zeus and guardian powers, The strength and stay of Cadmus’ towers! Shall I send forth a joyous cry, _Hail to the lord of weal renewed?_ Or weep the misbegotten twain, Born to a fatal destiny? Each numbered now among the slain, Each dying in ill fortitude, Each _truly named_, each _child of feud?_ O dark and all-prevailing ill, That broods o’er Oedipus and all his line, Numbing my heart with mortal chill! Ah me, this song of mine, Which, Thyad-like, I woke, now falleth still, Or only tells of doom, And echoes round a tomb!