Grim Death opes wide his greedy jaws, 165 And all his baleful wings outspreads. And he who plies that swollen stream In his roomy skiff, though his age is fresh And hardy, scarce can raise his arms, O'erwearied with his constant toil And the passage of the endless throng. 170 'Tis even rumored that the dog Hath burst the chains of Taenara, And through our fields is wandering. Now dreadful prodigies appear: The earth gives out a rumbling sound, And ghosts go stealing through the groves, Larger than mortal forms; and twice 175 The trees of our Cadmean woods Have trembled sore and shed their snows; Twice Dirce flowed with streams of blood; And in the stilly night we heard The baying of Amphion's hounds. Oh, cruel, strange new form of death, 180 And worse than death! The sluggish limbs Are with a weary languor seized; The sickly cheek with fever burns, And all the head with loathsome sores Is blotched. Now heated vapors rise And scorch with fever's flames the brain Within the body's citadel, And the throbbing temples swell with blood. 185 The eyeballs start; the accurséd fire Devours the limbs; the ears resound, And from the nostrils dark blood drips And strains apart the swelling veins. 190 Now quick convulsions rend and tear The inmost vitals. Now to their burning hearts they strain Cold stones to soothe their agony; And they, whom laxer care permits, Since they who should control are dead, The fountains seek, and feed their thirst 195 With copious draughts. The smitten throng All prostrate at the altars lie And pray for death; and this alone The gods, compliant, grant to them. Men seek the sacred fanes, and pray, Not that the gods may be appeased, But glutted with their feast of death. 200 [Creon _is seen approaching_.] But who with hasty step the palace seeks? Is this our Creon, high in birth and deed, Or does my sickened soul see false for true? 'Tis Creon's self, in answer to our prayer. 205 FOOTNOTES: [1] Reading, _caudam_. ACT II [_Enter_ Creon.] _Oedipus_: I quake with horror, and I fear to know The tendency of fate. My trembling soul Strives 'neath a double load; for joy and grief Lie mingled still in dark obscurity. I shrink from knowing what I long to know. Wherefore, O brother of my consort, speak; 210 And if to weary hearts thou bring'st relief, With quickened utterance thy news proclaim. _Creon_: In dark obscurity the answer lies. _Oedipus_: Who gives me doubtful succor grants me none.