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But now to hear of thee, who more distressed?
Who more acquainted with fierce misery,
Assaulted by disasters manifest,
Than thou in this thy day of agony?
Most noble, most renowned!–Yet one same room
Heard thy first cry, and in thy prime of power,
Received thee, harbouring both bride and groom,
And bore it silently till this dread hour.
How could that furrowing of thy father’s field
Year after year continue unrevealed?

Time hath detected thine unwitting deed,
Time, who discovers all with eyes of fire,
Accusing thee of living without heed
In hideous wedlock husband, son, and sire.
Ah would that we, thou child of Laius born,
Ah would that we had never seen thee nigh!
E’er since we knew thee who thou art, we mourn
Exceedingly with cries that rend the sky.
For, to tell truth, thou didst restore our life
And gavest our soul sweet respite after strife.

[Enter Messenger.]

MESS.
O ye who in this land have ever held
Chief honour, what an object of dire woe
Awaits your eyes, your ears! What piercing grief
Your hearts must suffer, if as kinsmen should
Ye still regard the house of Laius!
Not Phasis, nor the Danube’s rolling flood,
Can ever wash away the stain and purge
This mansion of the horror that it hides.
–And more it soon shall give to light, not now
Unconsciously enacted. Of all ill,
Self-chosen sorrows are the worst to bear.

CH.
What hast thou new to add? the weight of grief
From that we know burdens the heart enough.

MESS.
Soon spoken and soon heard is the chief sum.
Jocasta’s royal head is sunk in death.

CH.
The hapless queen! What was the fatal cause?

MESS.
Her own determination. You are spared
The worst affliction, not being there to see.
Yet to the height of my poor memory’s power
The wretched lady’s passion you shall hear.
When she had passed in her hot mood within
The vestibule, straight to the bridal room
She rushes, tearing with both hands her hair.
Then having entered, shutting fast the door,
She called aloud on Laius, long dead,
With anguished memory of that birth of old
Whereby the father fell, leaving his queen
To breed a dreadful brood for his own son.
And loudly o’er the bed she wailed, where she,
In twofold wedlock, hapless, had brought forth
Husband from husband, children from a child.
We could not know the moment of her death,
Which followed soon, for Oedipus with cries
Broke in, and would not let us see her end,
But held our eyes as he careered the hall,
Demanding arms, and where to find his wife,–
No, not his wife, but fatal mother-croft,
Cropped doubly with himself and his own seed.
And in his rage some god directed him
To find her:–’twas no man of us at hand.
Then with a fearful shout, as following
His leader, he assailed the folding-doors;
And battering inward from the mortised bolts
The bending boards, he burst into the room:
Where high suspended we beheld the queen,
In twisted cordage resolutely swung.
He all at once on seeing her, wretched king!
Undid the pendent noose, and on the ground
Lay the ill-starred queen. Oh, then ’twas terrible
To see what followed–for he tore away
The tiring-pins wherewith she was arrayed,
And, lifting, smote his eyeballs to the root,
Saying, Nevermore should they behold the evil
His life inherited from that past time,
But all in dark henceforth should look upon
Features far better not beheld, and fail
To recognize the souls he had longed to know.
Thus crying aloud, not once but oftentimes
He drave the points into his eyes; and soon
The bleeding pupils moistened all his beard,
Nor stinted the dark flood, but all at once
The ruddy hail poured down in plenteous shower.
Thus from two springs, from man and wife together,
Rose the joint evil that is now o’erflowing.
And the old happiness in that past day
Was truly happy, but the present hour
Hath pain, crime, ruin:–whatsoe’er of ill
Mankind have named, not one is absent here.