University of Virginia Library

SCENE THE SECOND.

Antigone, Jocasta.
Joc.
Antigone ... thou speakest not ... thy face
Is pale with hues of death. Oh, I have heard it,
That silence, that excruciating silence!

Ant.
To a dire strife it yielded.

Joc.
Are they dead ...
My sons? ...

Ant.
One only ...

Joc.
Which then lives? Ah, traitor,
I will myself ...

Ant.
The combat I espied
From yon high tower: he fell upon the earth
Immersed in blood.

Joc.
Which? ... speak ...

Ant.
Eteocles.

Joc.
Thus Polinices hath fulfilled his promise,
Thus died: ... thus shunn'd the execrable fight?
Ah, miscreant! Thy abominable rage
Thou then designedst to indulge, and cheat
Thy mother. Tremble, for I yet am living;
And from thy breast that impious heart I gave thee
Will tear with my own hands.

Ant.
Thou know'st not all:
Thy blame of Polinices is misplaced.

Joc.
I blame the living: he alone is guilty.

Ant.
Who knows if yet he lives! ah, wretched mother,
If thou hast strength to listen, thou wilt learn,
That he was more unfortunate than guilty.
Scarce had he gain'd the plain, when round him press'd
A valiant band of Argive warriors,
Who, emulously, to the sky sent up
A dreadful shout, announcing victory.
In a remote part of the plain the battle
Raged yet in doubtful conflict; in the midst
Eteocles rose eminent: prepared,
In front, to cope with him Adrastes stood;
And his heart, full of lofty hardihood,
Tydeus. Polinices, with swift feet,
Towards the mingled contest ran: alarm
Before him flew; and death pursued his steps,
To right, to left, in front, in thousand shapes,
And frightful all, a thousand deaths he dealt;
Nor was the death he sought to him allotted.
Where'er he turned his steps the Thebans wavered,
Yielded, and fled; and hoped, by flight, to gain
Opprobrious safety. From the flying troops
Eteocles leaps forth in furious guise,
And with a terrible accent he exclaims,
“To Polinices!” With precipitous rage
His steps he traces, and at last he finds him ...

Joc.
Alas! oh dreadful! ... Did the other fly?

Ant.
How could he fly from such ferocious pride?
Eteocles in haughty scorn broke forth;
Taxed him with cowardice; defiance breathed;
And by mere force dared him to single combat.
“Thebans,” he cried with a tremendous voice,
“Thebans and Argives, cease your guilty rage!
“Ye have descended to the field of battle
“In our contention, prodigal of life:
“Ours is the strife, be ours the forfeiture.
“Let us, ourselves, to a conclusion bring
“This unjust waste of blood, e'en in your presence,
“And on this field of death. And thou, whom I
“Should no more call my brother, do thou spare
“The blood of Thebes; thy hate, thy rage, thy sword,
“All—all—on me let fall—on me alone.”
To speak and leap with fury to the charge,
Were actions of one instant.

Joc.
Infamous! ...
But how? to such a combat was the field,
By those armed multitudes, surrendered tamely?

Ant.
An universal fear, at such a sight,
Palsied the troops. Commingled as they were,
Stupid, immoveable, both armies stood
Spectators of the contest. Drunk with blood
And fury, of his own life quite regardless,
Provided his antagonist he slew,
Eteocles upon his wretched brother
Falls with his sword, and all his strength collects.
For a long time, intent to ward his blows,
Stands Polinices; generously he fears
More for his wretched brother than himself,
Refusing to attack him. But, at length,
Seeing his brother obstinately chace him,
And press upon him more and more, and force him,
He cries, “I call to witness Heaven and Thebes,
“Thou will'st it.” While to Heaven his eyes he raised,
And thus exclaim'd, his sword he onward thrust;
The hovering furies guide the reckless blow
To pierce the bosom of Eteocles.
He falls. Upon his brother spouts his blood:
Who, seeing this, towards his own breast turned
The bloody, smoking sword ... I saw no more ...
My senses, almost, at the cruel deed
Forsook me; thick mists swam before my eyes;
I flew, with tottering steps, and came to thee ...
Alas! what will the consummation be
Of this most fatal incident? ...

Joc.
'Twill be,
Doubt not, one worthy of our family!
Ah, leave the care of that to the fell rage,
The fury, of the persecuting gods.
But who comes towards us? What do I behold?
Dying Eteocles is hither borne.

Ant.
His warriors on each side support his steps!

Joc.
Ah, with what death-like slowness he advances!

Ant.
Yonder, see Polinices in his train! ...