CHORUS.
How so?
ANTIGONE.
He died, so willed he, in a foreign land.
Lapped in kind earth he sleeps his long last sleep,
And o’er his grave friends weep.
How great our lost these streaming eyes can tell,
This sorrow naught can quell.
Thou hadst thy wish ’mid strangers thus to die,
But I, ah me, not by.
ISMENE.
Alas, my sister, what new fate
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
Befalls us orphans desolate?
CHORUS.
His end was blessed; therefore, children, stay
Your sorrow. Man is born to fate a prey.
ANTIGONE.
(Str. 2)
Sister, let us back again.
ISMENE.
Why return?
ANTIGONE.
My soul is fain—
ISMENE.
Is fain?
ANTIGONE.
To see the earthy bed.
ISMENE.
Sayest thou?