CHORUS.
O thou true heart, O child of Oedipus,
Be not, in wrath, too like the man whose name
Murmurs an evil omen! ’Tis enough
That Cadmus’ clan should strive with Argos’ host,
For blood there is that can atone that stain!
But—brother upon brother dealing death—
Not time itself can expiate the sin!
ETEOCLES.
If man find hurt, yet clasp his honour still,
’Tis well; the dead have honour, nought beside.
Hurt, with dishonour, wins no word of praise!
CHORUS.
Ah, what is thy desire?
Let not the lust and ravin of the sword
Bear thee adown the tide accursed, abhorred!
Fling off thy passion’s rage, thy spirit’s prompting dire!
ETEOCLES.
Nay—since the god is urgent for our doom,
Let Laius’ house, by Phoebus loathed and scorned,
Follow the gale of destiny, and win
Its great inheritance, the gulf of hell!
CHORUS.
Ruthless thy craving is—
Craving for kindred and forbidden blood
To be outpoured—a sacrifice imbrued
With sin, a bitter fruit of murderous enmities!
ETEOCLES.
Yea, my own father’s fateful Curse proclaims—
A ghastly presence, and her eyes are dry—
Strike! honour is the prize, not life prolonged!
CHORUS.
Ah, be not urged of her! for none shall dare
To call thee coward, in thy throned estate!
Will not the Fury in her sable pall
Pass outward from these halls, what time the gods
Welcome a votive offering from our hands?
ETEOCLES.
The gods! long since they hold us in contempt,
Scornful of gifts thus offered by the lost!
Why should we fawn and flinch away from doom?
CHORUS.
Now, when it stands beside thee! for its power
May, with a changing gust of milder mood,
Temper the blast that bloweth wild and rude
And frenzied, in this hour!
ETEOCLES.
Ay, kindled by the curse of Oedipus—
All too prophetic, out of dreamland came
The vision, meting out our sire’s estate!