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? _Enter_ EURYDICE. 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.