_Tir._ We must no more than Fate commissions us To tell; yet something, and of moment, I'll unfold, If that the god would wake; I feel him now, Like a strong spirit charmed into a tree, That leaps, and moves the wood without a wind: The roused god, as all this while he lay Entombed alive, starts and dilates himself; He struggles, and he tears my aged trunk With holy fury; my old arteries burst; My rivell'd skin, Like parchment, crackles at the hallowed fire; I shall be young again:--Manto, my daughter, Thou hast a voice that might have saved the bard Of Thrace, and forced the raging bacchanals, With lifted prongs, to listen to thy airs. O charm this god, this fury in my bosom, Lull him with tuneful notes, and artful strings, With powerful strains; Manto, my lovely child, Sooth the unruly godhead to be mild. SONG TO APOLLO. _Phoebus, god beloved by men, At thy dawn, every beast is roused in his den; At thy setting, all the birds of thy absence complain, And we die, all die, till the morning comes again. Phoebus, god beloved by men! Idol of the eastern kings, Awful as the god who flings His thunder round, and the lightning wings; God of songs, and Orphean strings, Who to this mortal bosom brings All harmonious heavenly things! Thy drowsy prophet to revive, Ten thousand thousand forms before him drive: With chariots and horses all o'fire awake him, Convulsions, and furies, and prophesies shake him: Let him tell it in groans, though he bend with the load, Though he burst with the weight of the terrible god._ _Tir._ The wretch, who shed the blood of old Labdacides, Lives, and is great; But cruel greatness ne'er was long. The first of Laius' blood his life did seize, And urged his fate, Which else had lasting been and strong. The wretch, who Laius killed, must bleed or fly; Or Thebes, consumed with plagues, in ruins lie. _OEdip._ The first of Laius' blood! pronounce the person; May the god roar from thy prophetic mouth, That even the dead may start up, to behold; Name him, I say, that most accursed wretch, For, by the stars, he dies! Speak, I command thee; By Phoebus, speak; for sudden death's his doom: Here shall he fall, bleed on this very spot; His name, I charge thee once more, speak. _Tir._ 'Tis lost, Like what we think can never shun remembrance; Yet of a sudden's gone beyond the clouds. _OEdip._ Fetch it from thence; I'll have't, wheree'er it be. _Cre._ Let me entreat you, sacred sir, be calm, And Creon shall point out the great offender. 'Tis true, respect of nature might enjoin Me silence, at another time; but, oh, Much more the power of my eternal love! That, that should strike me dumb; yet Thebes, my country-- I'll break through all, to succour thee, poor city! O, I must speak. _OEdip._ Speak then, if aught thou knowest, As much thou seem'st to know,--delay no longer.