The Chorus

Well hath he done who hath seized happiness!For little do the all-containing hours,Though opulent, freely give,--Who, weighing that life wellFortune presents unprayed,Declines her ministry, and carves his own;And, justice not infringed,Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law.

He does well too, who keeps that clew the mildBirth-goddess and the austere Fates first gave.For, from the day when theseBring him, a weeping child,First to the light, and markA country for him, kinsfolk, and a home,Unguided he remains,Till the Fates come again, this time with death.

In little companies,And, our own place once left,Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid,By city and household grouped, we live; and many shocksOur order heaven-ordainedMust every day endure,--Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars.Besides what waste he makes,The all-hated, order-breaking,Without friend, city, or home,--Death, who dissevers all.

Him then I praise, who daresTo self-selected goodPrefer obedience to the primal lawWhich consecrates the ties of blood; for these, indeed,Are to the gods a care:That touches but himself.For every day man may be linked and loosedWith strangers; but the bondOriginal, deep-inwound,Of blood, can he not bind,Nor, if fate binds, not bear.

But hush! Hæmon, whom Antigone,Robbing herself of life in burying,Against Creon’s law, Polynices,Robs of a loved bride,--pale, imploring,Waiting her passage,Forth from the palace hitherward comes.