_Antigone:_ O mother, haste thee, haste on flying feet; Hold back their weapons, from my brothers' hands Strike down the swords, and 'twixt their deadly points Thy bared breast interpose. Then, mother, haste; 405 Or stop the war, or be thou first to fall. _Jocasta:_ I go, I go, and 'twixt their swords will stand, And there unto their points expose my life. And he who shall his brother seek to slay Must slay his mother first. At my command The son whose heart is moved by piety Will lay aside his arms; the impious son 410 Must first make war on me. These fiery youths Will I, although a woman, old, restrain. Within my sight shall be no impious deed; Or, if within my sight one impious deed Can be committed--then shall two be done. [_Exit toward the scene of conflict._] _Antigone:_ Now gleam the advancing standards, near at hand; And loud the hostile battle-cry resounds. 415 A moment, and the impious deed is done. O mother, speed thee with thy prayers. But see! You would suppose them by my weeping moved, So slowly do the arméd lines advance. _Messenger:_ The lines move slowly, but the leaders haste. _Jocasta_ [_hurrying onward_]: What wingéd wind will speed me through the air, 420 Bearing me onward with the storm's mad whirl? What monstrous Sphinx or dark Stymphalian bird, Whose spreading wings blot out the light of day, Will bear me on its space-consuming wings? What Harpy, hovering o'er the royal board Of that stern Thracian king, will catch me up Along the lofty highways of the air, 425 And cast me headlong 'twixt th' opposing lines? _Messenger_ [_looking after her_]: Like some wild creature reft of sense she goes. Swift as an arrow shot by Parthian hand, Or as a ship which boisterous winds impel, Or as the flight of falling star from heaven, 430 Which in unswerving course athwart the sky Darts on its fiery way: with maddened haste The queen has sped her flight, and even now Has ta'en her stand between th' opposing lines. The battle pauses yet a little while, O'ercome at sight of those maternal tears. And now the hosts, on mutual slaughter bent, 435 Stand with their weapons balanced in their hands: Peace wins the day; the threat'ning points are lowered; The swords are sheathed. But in the brothers' hands They still are poised. The frantic mother now, Her white hair torn with grieving, speaks to them, 440 Beseaches their reluctant, stubborn wills, And wets their knees with tears. Too long they bide: Such halting bodes the mother's prayers denied. FOOTNOTES: [7] Reading, _ultra suum scelus hoc cucurrit_. ACT IV [_On the field before Thebes, between the battle lines._]