Phoenissae, or Thebaïs: Act III

Jocasta: Oh, fortunate Agave! for she bore,Within the hand which did the deed, the spoil,The horrid spoil of her dismembered son,A raging Maenad. Yea, she did the deed;But naught in all her sinfulness did sheSave that one crime. It is my least of sinsThat I am guilty; this my greater crime,That I have made another sinful too.But even this seems light when I reflectThat I have given birth to sinful sons.Till now 'twas wanting to my sum of woeThat I should love my country's enemy.Three times has winter put away his snows,And thrice have Ceres' golden harvests fall'nBeneath the sickle, since my hapless sonIn exile wanders, robbed of fatherland,And craves assistance from the Grecian kings.He has become Adrastus' son-in-law,Whose sway is o'er the waters of the seaWhich Isthmus cleaves. Adrastus even nowIs leading on his tribes, and with him marchSeven other royal hosts. Ah, woe is me,I know not what I ought to wish or say.My exiled son with justice claims his shareOf empire, but he seeks it wrongfully.How shall I pray? I count them both my sons,And yet, alas, without impiety,Can I for neither pray. If for one sonI call a blessing down, 'tis but a curseUpon the other's head. Yet this I know:Although I love them both with equal love,My heart inclines toward the better cause,The worser fortune, ever favoring himWho suffers more; for this is fortune's wayTo win the wretched to their own again.

Messenger: O queen, while thou dost utter these complaints,And spend'st the precious time in useless tears,With weapons drawn the battle lines approach.The trumpet's blare incites to bloody war,And even now the eagles are advanced.The kings in seven-fold battle are arrayed,While the sons of Thebes with equal spirit goTo meet the enemy. With hurrying tread,Now here, now there, advance the soldiery.Behold, dark clouds of dust obscure the day,And from the plain dense, smokelike billows rise,Which earth, beneath the tread of countless hoofs,Sends rolling heavenward. And through the dust,If terror-stricken eyes can see aright,The hostile standards shine; with lifted spearsThe foremost ranks advance; while banners gleam,Bearing the names of famous generals wroughtIn golden characters.Then haste, O queen:Unto the warring brothers love restore,Give peace to all, and by a mother's handsPrevent the conflict of these impious bands.

Antigone: O mother, haste thee, haste on flying feet;Hold back their weapons, from my brothers' handsStrike down the swords, and 'twixt their deadly pointsThy bared breast interpose. Then, mother, haste;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 slayMust slay his mother first. At my commandThe son whose heart is moved by pietyWill lay aside his arms; the impious sonMust first make war on me. These fiery youthsWill I, although a woman, old, restrain.Within my sight shall be no impious deed;Or, if within my sight one impious deedCan be committed--then shall two be done.

Antigone: Now gleam the advancing standards, near at hand;And loud the hostile battle-cry resounds.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 throughthe air,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 boardOf that stern Thracian king, will catch me upAlong the lofty highways of the air,And cast me headlong 'twixt th' opposing lines?

Messenger [looking after her]: Like some wild creature reft ofsense 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,Which in unswerving course athwart the skyDarts on its fiery way: with maddened hasteThe queen has sped her flight, and even nowHas 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,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' handsThey still are poised. The frantic mother now,Her white hair torn with grieving, speaks to them,Beseaches their reluctant, stubborn wills,And wets their knees with tears. Too long they bide:Such halting bodes the mother's prayers denied.