Oedipus
Oedipus
Headnote
Oedipus is Seneca’s tragedy of a man fleeing a prophecy straight into its fulfillment, and of a city dying while its king hunts the killer who is himself. The legend is the most famous in Greek tragedy: Oedipus, told by the Delphic oracle that he would kill his father and marry his mother, flees the home of Polybus and Merope of Corinth — the parents he believes his own — and on the road kills an old stranger, solves the riddle of the Sphinx that is throttling Thebes, and takes the vacant throne and its widowed queen Jocasta as his reward. Years later a plague falls on Thebes, the oracle demands that the unavenged murderer of the former king Laius be driven out, and the hunt that follows uncovers, link by link, that Laius was Oedipus’ father, Jocasta his mother, and the children of his marriage his own brothers and sisters. Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus is the inescapable model, the masterpiece of the slow, ironic detective-plot; Seneca writes against it as much as from it, keeping the recognition’s architecture but pouring into it the Silver-Latin taste for horror, declamation, and the supernatural made visible.
Where Sophocles opens on a king confident and active, Seneca opens on a king already half-broken by dread. The prologue is a monologue of foreboding — Oedipus at dawn over the stricken city, certain that the contagion is somehow his and that the throne he won is a trap — and the play’s first long set-piece is not action but the plague itself, the chorus’s catalogue of a Thebes where the sacrificial victims rot on the altar, the rivers run dry, and the dead outnumber the graves. The disease is the play’s pressure and its clock: every scene unfolds against a city that is visibly perishing, and Oedipus’ search for the cause is at once a public duty and the unwitting excavation of his own guilt.
Seneca’s distinctive additions are two great scenes of the uncanny, both staged where Sophocles only reports or omits. The first is the extispicy: Tiresias, blind, has his daughter Manto describe the sacrifice for him, and the omens are monstrous — the flame splits and will not rise, the victims bleed backward, and the entrails are found reversed and doubled, an unwed heifer pregnant within the slaughtered cow, Nature herself turned inside out as a sign of the unnatural thing at the city’s center. When the organs refuse to name the killer, Tiresias turns to necromancy, and the play’s central panel is Creon’s messenger-speech reporting the raising of the dead in a black grove by the Dircaean valley: the earth gaping, the parade of Thebes’ own monstrous ghosts — Zethus and Amphion, Niobe counting her dead children, Agave and the torn Pentheus — and at last the ghost of Laius himself, bloodied and raving, who names his son as the bloody king and the city’s pollution and pronounces the curse that the rest of the action merely carries out. Seneca makes external and spectacular what Sophocles kept internal: the doom is not discovered so much as it rises out of the ground and speaks.
The recognition proper compresses Sophocles’ two messengers — the old Corinthian who reveals that Polybus has died a natural death and that Merope was never Oedipus’ true mother, and the Theban herdsman Phorbas who exposed the infant on Cithaeron with his ankles pierced — into a single tightening interrogation, with Jocasta’s warnings to leave the truth buried sounding under it. The catastrophe is then split and intensified. Oedipus’ self-blinding is given in full to a messenger and rendered with unflinching anatomical violence — the king debating whether mere death is punishment enough, choosing instead a living darkness, and gouging the eyes out root and socket with hooked hands. And then, against the Greek tradition, Seneca keeps Jocasta alive to confront her blinded son onstage and to kill herself before us, driving the sword not into breast or throat but into “the roomy womb that bore husband and sons.” The play ends not on a god or a restored order but on Oedipus groping out of the city alone, claiming the plague as his to carry off — “come with me, with me” — and leading Disease, Wasting, Plague, and Pain away like an escort. The Stoic frame is explicit in the fate-ode that frames the close (“By the fates we are driven: yield to the fates”), but the spectacle refuses consolation: the prophecy is true, the god is called a liar all the same, and the cure for the city is the king’s expulsion of himself.
The translation renders the verse in clear modern English lines, keeping the line structure of the Latin and the line-for-line cut of the stichomythia, and imposing no English meter or rhyme; the choral odes — the plague-catalogue, the long hymn to Bacchus with its world-spanning geography, the ode on Thebes’ inherited guilt from Cadmus and the sown men to Actaeon, the Horatian ode on the safe middle way with its Icarus, and the closing ode on fate — are left to register through their syntax rather than any English metrical imitation. Section numbers approximate the line numbering by which the play is cited; the transmitted text carries several lacunae (marked in the editions and passed over here) and a few corruptions, which are translated for sense. The gods are kept Roman (Jupiter, Phoebus, Phoebe, Dis, Neptune, Bacchus, Hecate), and the dense realia of the odes — the Spartoi sown from the dragon’s teeth, the Bassarids and thyiads, the Tyrrhenian pirates turned to dolphins, the Thermodontian Amazons — are preserved in the body, with named persons, places, peoples, and doctrines carried in the glossary.
Now Titan returns, the night driven off but uncertain, and his ray rises mournful through a squalid cloud; bearing a grim light with its grief-kindling flame he will look down on homes laid waste by the greedy plague, and day will show the slaughter that the night has made. Does anyone rejoice in a throne? O deceiving good, how much evil you hide behind how soft a face! As the high ridges forever catch the winds, and the swell of even a calm sea beats the cliff that with its rocks parts the vast straits, so lofty empires lie open to Fortune. How well I had fled the scepter of my father Polybus! freed of cares, an exile, fearless, roving — heaven and the gods my witnesses — I stumbled into a kingdom. I dread the unspeakable: that by my own hand my father be slain; of this the Delphic laurels warn me, and they charge me with another, a greater crime. Is there any sin greater than a father butchered? O wretched love — shame forbids me to speak the doom — Phoebus threatens the son with his father’s chamber and the dreadful bed, the incestuous, unholy torch; this was the fear that drove me from my father’s realm. Not as a runaway did I leave my own hearth-gods: trusting myself too little, Nature, I set your laws in safety. When you shudder at great horrors, fear even what you believe cannot come to pass: I dread it all, and do not trust myself to myself.
Iam nocte Titan dubius expulsa redit et nube maestus squalida exoritur iubar, lumenque flamma triste luctifica gerens prospiciet avida peste solatas domos, stragemque quam nox fecit ostendet dies. Quisquamne regno gaudet? O fallax bonum, quantum malorum fronte quam blanda tegis! ut alta ventos semper excipiunt iuga rupemque saxis vasta dirimentem freta quamvis quieti verberat fluctus maris, imperia sic excelsa Fortunae obiacent. quam bene parentis sceptra Polybi fugerant! curis solutus exul, intrepidus, vagans (caelum deosque testor) in regnum incidi: infanda timeo: ne mea genitor manu perimatur; hoc me Delphicae laurus monent, aliudque nobis maius indicunt scelus. est maius aliquod patre mactato nefas? pro misera pietas (eloqui fatum pudet», thalamos parentis Phoebus et diros toros gnato minatur impia incestos face; hic me paternis expulit regnis timor. non ego penates profugus excessi meos: parum ipse fidens mihimet in tuto tua, natura, posui iura. cum magna horreas, quod posse fieri non putes metuas tamen: cuncta expavesco meque non credo mihi.
Already, already the fates are at work to move some blow against me; for what am I to think, when this pestilence of Cadmus, hostile to his people, raised to slaughter so far and wide, spares me alone? For what evil am I kept back? Amid the ruins of the city, amid funerals ever to be wept with new tears, amid the people heaped in piles, I stand unharmed — Phoebus’ accused, no doubt. Could you hope that to crimes so great a healthy kingdom would be given? I have made the very sky guilty. No gentle breeze fans with cool breath these hearts panting with fire, no light Zephyrs blow, but Titan swells the flames of the scorching Dog-star, pressing the back of the Nemean lion. The water has deserted the rivers, the color the grass, and Dirce is dry, the thin Ismenos trickles and barely wets the bare shallows with its meager stream. Dim through the sky glides the sister of Phoebus, and the gloomy world goes pale with a clouded day. No star glitters on the clear nights, but a heavy, black vapor broods upon the lands: an infernal cast of features has veiled the citadels of the gods and the highest houses. Ripened Ceres denies her fruit, and though she trembles golden with tall ears of grain, on her parched stalk the barren harvest dies. No part is exempt and free of the destruction, but every age alike and either sex goes down, and the deadly plague joins young men to old and fathers to their sons; one torch burns man and wife, and the funerals lack their bitter weeping and lament. Indeed the stubborn ruin of so great an evil has dried the eyes, and — as happens at the last — the tears have died: a sick father carries this one to the final fire, a mad mother bears that one and hurries to fetch another for the same pyre. Indeed in the midst of grief new grief springs up, and around the funeral new funeral-rites collapse; then they burn their own dead on another’s flames; fire is snatched away: the wretched have no shame. No hallowed bones lie covered by their separate mounds: to have burned at all is enough — how small a share goes to ashes? Earth fails the graves, now the woods deny the pyres, no prayers, no skill relieves the stricken: the healers fall, the sickness drags down its own aid.
Iam iam aliquid in nos fata moliri parant, nam quid rear quod ista Cadmeae lues infesta genti strage tam late edita mihi parcit uni? cui reservamur malo? inter ruinas urbis et semper novis deflenda lacrimis funera ac populi struem incolumis asto scilicet Phoebi reus. sperare poteras sceleribus tantis dari regnum salubre? fecimus caelum nocens. Non aura gelido lenis afflatu fovet anhela flammis corda, non Zephyri leves spirant, sed ignes auget aestiferi canis Titan, leonis terga Nemeaei premens. deseruit amnes umor atque herbas color aretque Dirce, tenuis Ismenos fluit et tinguit inopi nuda vix unda vada. obscura caelo labitur Phoebi soror, tristisque mundus nubilo pallet die. nullum serenis noctibus sidus micat, sed gravis et ater incubat terris vapor: obtexit arces caelitum ac summas domos inferna facies, denegat fructum Ceres adulta, et altis flava cum spicis tremat, arente culmo sterilis emoritur seges, nec ulla pars immunis exitio vacat, sed omnis aetas pariter et sexus ruit, iuvenesque senibus iungit et gnatis patres funesta pestis, una fax thalamos cremat fletuque acerbo funera et questu carent, quin ipsa tanti pervicax clades mali siccavit oculos, quodque in extremis solet periere lacrimae: portat hunc aeger parens supremum ad ignem, mater hunc amens gerit properatque ut alium repetat in eundem rogum, quin luctu in ipso luctus exoritur novus novaeque circa funus exsequiae cadunt, tum propria flammis corpora alienis cremant; diripitur ignis: nullus est miseris pudor. non ossa tumuli sancta discreti tegunt: arsisse satis est pars quota in cineres abit? dest terra tumulis, iam rogos silvae negant, non vota, non ars ulla correptos levant: cadunt medentes, morbus auxilium trahit.
Flung down at the altars I stretch out suppliant hands, begging an early doom, that I may outrun my collapsing fatherland and not fall after all the rest and become the last funeral of my own kingdom. O gods too cruel, O fate too heavy! Is so ready a death denied to me alone in this whole people? Then flee a realm touched by your deadly hand, leave the tears, the funerals, the plague-bearing taint of heaven that you bring with you, ill-omened guest — flee now, this instant, swiftly — even to your parents.
Adfusus aris supplices tendo manus matura poscens fata, praecurram ut prior patriam ruentem neve post omnis cadam fiamque regni funus extremum mei. o saeva nimium numina, o fatum grave! negatur uni nempe in hoc populo mihi mors tam parata? sperne letali manu contacta regna, linque lacrimas, funera, tabifica caeli vitia quae tecum invehis infaustus hospes, profuge iamdudum ocius vel ad parentes.
What good is it, husband, to weigh down our troubles with complaint? This very thing I count as kingly: to take adversity head-on, and the more uncertain the state, the more the mass of a falling empire totters, to stand the firmer, brave, with foot set sure; it is not a man’s part to turn his back on Fortune.
Quid iuvat, coniunx, mala gravare questu? regium hoc ipsum reor: adversa capere, quoque sit dubius magis status et cadentis imperi moles labet, hoc stare certo pressius fortem gradu; haud est virile terga Fortunae dare.
The charge and reproach of fear is far from me, and my courage knows no cowardly dread: if drawn swords were against me, if the bristling violence of Mavors were rushing upon me — against the fierce Giants I would bear my hands boldly to meet them. Nor did I flee the Sphinx, weaving her words in blind measures: I withstood the bloody jaws of that unspeakable seer and the ground white with scattered bones; and when from the rock above, already looming over her prey, she fitted her wings for the lash and, lashing her tail, in the manner of a savage lion gathered her threats, I demanded the riddle: it rang dreadful overhead, her jaws cracked, and impatient of delay she tore the rocks with her talon, waiting for my entrails; yet the knotted words of the lot, the tangled snares, the grim song of the winged beast — I solved them.
Abest pavoris crimen ac probrum procul, virtusque nostra nescit ignavos metus: si tela contra stricta, si vis horrida Mavortis in me rueret adversus feros audax Gigantas obvias ferrem manus. nec Sphinga caecis verba nectentem modis fugi: cruentos vatis infandae tuli rictus et albens ossibus sparsis solum; cumque e superna rupe iam praedae imminens aptaret alas verbera et caudae movens saevi leonis more conciperet minas, carmen poposci: sonuit horrendum insuper, crepuere malae, saxaque impatiens morae revulsit ungui viscera expectans mea; nodosa sortis verba et implexos dolos ac triste carmen alitis solvi ferae.
Why now, mad, do you make these late prayers for death? You were free to die: this scepter is the prize of your praise, this the reward given for the slain Sphinx. That one, that one — the dust of the cunning monster — makes war on us again; that plague now, herself destroyed, destroys Thebes. One hope of safety is left, if Phoebus shows some road of safety.
Quid sera mortis vota nunc demens facis? licuit perire, laudis hoc pretium tibi sceptrum et peremptae Sphingis haec merces datur. Ille, ille dirus callidi monstri cinis in nos rebellat, illa nunc Thebas lues perempta perdit, una iam superest salus, si quam salutis Phoebus ostendit viam.
You are dying, noble offspring of Cadmus, with the whole city; you look on lands widowed of their farmers, pitiable Thebe. Your soldier is plucked away by death, O Bacchus, your comrade all the way to the far Indians, who dared to ride across the eastern plains and plant your standards on the rim of the world: he saw the Arabs blessed with their cinnamon forests, and the horsemen wheeling, their backs to be feared for the arrows of the treacherous Parthian; he entered the shore of the reddening sea, from which Phoebus brings forth the dawn and opens the light and stains the naked Indians with his nearer flame.
Occidis, Cadmi generosa proles, urbe cum tota; viduas colonis respicis terras, miseranda Thebe. carpitur leto tuus ille, Bacche, miles, extremos comes usque ad Indos, ausus Eois equitare campis figere et mundo tua signa primo: cinnami silvis Arabas beatos vidit et versos equites, sagittis’ terga fallacis metuenda Parthi; litus intravit pelagi rubentis: promit hinc ortus aperitque lucem Phoebus et flamma propiore nudos
We, the seed of an unconquered stock, perish, we slip away as a savage fate sweeps us off; a new procession is led out to Death forever: a long line hurries to the shades, a column in mourning, and the grim file sticks fast, and for the crowd making for the tombs the seven gates have not opened wide enough. The heavy carnage stands jammed, and funeral is pressed upon close-packed funeral.
inficit Indos. Stirpis invictae genus interimus, labimur saevo rapiente fato; ducitur semper nova pompa Morti: longus ad manes properatur ordo agminis maesti, seriesque tristis haeret et turbae tumulos petenti non satis septem patuere portae. stat gravis strages premiturque iuncto
The priest had stood ready to strike the necks: while his hand on high makes the sure wound, the bull, his gold horn glittering red, sinks down sluggish; the cleft neck gaped loosened beneath the blow of the vast weight, yet no blood stained the iron: a foul discharge poured from the deep gash, a vile gore. The horse, slower in its course, in the very turning fell and threw its master forward over its shoulder.
funere funus. Colla facturus steterat sacerdos: dum manus certum parat alta vulnus, aureo taurus rutilante cornu labitur segnis; patuit sub ictu ponderis vasti resoluta cervix: nec cruor ferrum maculavit: alta turpis est plaga sanies profusa. segnior cursu sonipes in ipso
The first force struck the slow-grazing sheep: the woolly flock cropped the rich grass ill; the bull droops while the herd dies off: the shepherd fails, his flock diminished, dying among his wasting steers. The cattle, left to themselves, lie down in the fields; the deer do not fear the ravening wolves, the roar of the angry lion ceases, there is no fierceness in the shaggy bears; the lurking serpent has lost its venom: it is parched, and dies with its poison dried.
concidit gyro dominumque prono prodidit armo. Prima vis tardas tetigit bidentes: laniger pingues male carpsit herbas; taurus armento pereunte marcet: deficit pastor grege deminuto tabidos inter moriens iuvencos. incubant agris pecudes relictae; non lupos cervi metuunt rapaces, cessat irati fremitus leonis, nulla villosis feritas in ursis;
No forest, adorned with its own foliage, pours its dark shade over the mountains, the fields do not grow green with the soil’s richness, no vine bends its arms full of its own Bacchus: all things have felt our evil. The bars of deep Erebus are burst: a band of the Sisters with Tartarean torch, and Phlegethon has changed his bank: he has mingled Styx with the rivers of Sidon. Black Death opens the greedy gaping of its mouth and spreads out all its wings; and the boatman who guards the turbid streams in his roomy skiff, hard with age, the rough sailor scarcely brings back his arms wearied by the unceasing pole, worn out with ferrying the new crowd.
perdidit pestem latebrosa serpens: aret et sicco moritur veneno. Non silva sua decorata coma fundit opacas montibus umbras, non rura virent ubere glebae, non plena suo vitis Baccho bracchia curvat: omnia nostrum sensere malum. Rupere Erebi claustra profundi turba sororum face Tartarea Phlegethonque suam mutat ripam: miscuit undis Styga Sidoniis. Mors atra avidos oris hiatus pandit et omnis explicat alas; quique capaci turbida cumba flumina servat durus senio
Indeed rumor says the dog has burst the chains of Taenarian iron and wanders in our places, that the ground has bellowed, that ghosts roam through the groves, shapes larger than men; twice the Cadmean wood trembled, its snow shaken off, twice Dirce was troubled with blood, and in the silent night the hounds of Amphion howled. O dreadful face of a strange death, heavier than death: a sluggish languor binds the listless limbs, and a flush comes to the sick face, and light spots speckle the skin; then a fiery heat burns the very citadel of the body and swells the cheeks with much blood, the eyes go rigid, the ears ring, and black blood drips from the curved nostril and bursts the gaping veins; a frequent groan, shrill, shakes the inmost organs, and the cursed fire feeds on the limbs; and now they tire out the cold stones in a tight embrace; those whom a freer house, its guard borne off, allows, seek the springs, and their thirst is fed by the water poured in. The crowd lies prostrate over the altars and prays to die: this alone the kindly gods bestow; they make for the shrines, not that they might please the powers with prayer, but it is a joy to glut the gods themselves.
navita crudo vix assiduo bracchia conto lassata refert, fessus turbam vectare novam. quin Taenarii vincula ferri rupisse canem fama et nostris errare locis, mugisse solum, vaga per lucos simulacra virum maiora viris, bis Cadmeum nive discussa tremuisse nemus, bis turbatam sanguine Dircen, nocte silenti Amphionios ululasse canes. O dira novi facies leti, gravior leto: piger ignavos alligat artus languor, et aegro rubor in vultu, maculaeque cutem sparsere leves; tum vapor ipsam corporis arcem flammeus urit multoque genas sanguine tendit, oculique rigent, resonant aures stilla tque niger naris aduncae cruor et venas rumpit hiantes; intima creber viscera quassat gemitus stridens, et sacer ignis pascitur artus iamque amplexu frigida presso saxa fatigant; quos liberior domus elato custode sinit, petits fontes aliturque sitis latice ingesto. prostrata iacet turba per aras oratque mori: solum hoc faciles tribuere dei; delubra petunt haut ut voto numina placent, sed iuvat ipsos satiare deos.
Who is this making for the palace at a hurried step? Is it Creon, famous in blood and in deeds, or does my sick mind see false things for true?
Quisnam ille propero regiam gressu petit? adestne clarus anguine ac factis Creo an aeger animus falsa pro veris videt?
It is Creon, sought with all our prayers.
Adest petitus omnibus votis Creo.
I am shaken with horror, fearing where the fates incline, and my trembling breast wavers with a double feeling: when glad things lie mixed with hard in doubt, the uncertain mind, though it longs to know, is afraid. Brother of my wife, if you bring back any help to the weary, teach us in a hurried voice.
Horrore quatior, fata quo vergant timens, trepidumque gemino pectus affectu labat: ubi laeta duris mixta in ambiguo iacent, incertus animus scire cum cupiat timet. Germane nostrae coniugis, fessis opem si quam reportas, voce properata edoce.
The response lies tangled in a doubtful lot.
Responsa dubia sorte perplexa iacent.
Whoever gives uncertain safety to the afflicted denies it.
Dubiam salutem qui dat adflictis negat.
It is the Delphic god’s custom to hide his secrets in twisting riddles.
Ambage flexa Delphico mos est deo arcana tegere.
Speak, though it be in doubt: to Oedipus alone is it given to understand the ambiguous.
Fare, sit dubium licet: ambigua soli noscere Oedipodae datur.
The god commands that the royal murder be expiated by exile, and that the slain Laius be avenged: not before then will the bright day run through the sky and give us safe draughts of the clear air.
Caedem expiari regiam exilio deus, et interemptum Laium ulcisci iubet: non ante caelo lucidus curret dies haustusque tutos aetheris puri dabit.
And who was the murderer of the anointed king? Say whom Phoebus names, that he may pay the penalty.
Et quis peremptor induti regis fuit? quem memoret ede Phoebus, ut poenas luat.
May it be safe, I pray, to have spoken things dreadful to see and hear; a numbness has settled through my limbs, my cold blood congeals. When with suppliant foot I entered the hallowed temple of Phoebus and, praying duly to the power, lowered my reverent hands, the twin peak of snowy Parnassus gave a savage roar; the overhanging laurel of Phoebus trembled and shook its leaves, and suddenly the sacred water of the Castalian spring stood still, the priestess of Leto began to toss her bristling hair and to endure Phoebus’ coming; she had not yet reached the cave when there burst out, with a vast crash, a sound greater than human: “Kindly stars will return to Cadmean Thebes, if as a fugitive you leave Ismenian Dirce, stranger, guilty of the king’s murder, known to Phoebus even in infancy. Nor for you do the joys of the wicked slaughter long remain: you will wage war with yourself, leaving to your sons too shameful wars, rolled back again into the womb that bore you.”
Sit precor dixisse tutum visu et auditu horrida; torpor insedit per artus, frigidus sanguis coit. ut sacrata templa Phoebi supplici intravi pede et pias numen precatus rite summisi manus, gemina Parnasi nivalis arx trucem fremitum dedit; imminens Phoebea laurus tremuit et movit comam ac repente sancta fontis lympha Castalii stetit, incipit Letoa vates spargere horrentes comas et pati commota Phoebum; contigit nondum specum, emicat vasto fragore maior humano sonus: mitia Cadmeis remeabunt sidera Thebis, si profugus Dircen Ismenida liqueris hospes regis caede nocens, Phoebo iam notus et infans. nec tibi longa manent sceleratae gaudia caedis: tecum bella geres, natis quoque bella relinquens turpia, maternos iterum revolutus in ortus.
What I prepare to do, ordered by the gods’ warning, this it was right to render to the dead king’s ashes, that no one might violate the sacred scepter by treachery. A king must guard above all the safety of kings: no one cares for the slain whom he feared while safe.
Quod facere monitu caelitum iussus paro, functi cineribus regis hoc decuit dari, ne sancta quisquam sceptra violaret dolo. regi tuenda maxime regum est salus: curat peremptum nemo quem incolumem timet.
A greater fear shook off the care for the slain.
Curam perempti maior excussit timor.
Did any fear forbid the dutiful office?
Pium prohibuit ullus officium metus?
The Sphinx, and the grim threats of her unspeakable song.
Sphinx et nefandi carminis tristes minae.
Now let the crime be expiated at the gods’ command. Whoever of the gods looks with favor on kingdoms: you, you in whose hands lie the laws of the sheer sky, and you, greatest glory of the cloudless world, who tread the twelve signs in your changing course, who unroll the slow ages on your swift wheel, and you, his sister forever meeting your brother, night-wandering Phoebe, and you, master of the winds, who drive your dark-blue chariot across the deep sea, and you who dispose the houses void of light, be present: he by whose hand Laius fell, let no quiet dwelling, no faithful household-gods, no hospitable land receive him as an exile; let him grieve in a shameful marriage and an unholy brood; let him too slay his father with his own right hand, and let him do — what heavier thing could be wished? — whatever I have fled: there will be no room for pardon. I swear by the kingdoms which I now hold as a guest, and by those I left, and by the household gods, by you, father Neptune, who on either side play with a short wave, twin, against our land; and you, come yourself a witness to my words, who move the prophetic mouth of the Cirrhaean seer: so may my father draw out a gentle old age and render his last day untroubled on his high throne, and so may Merope know none but Polybus’ torch, as no favor shall snatch the guilty man from me.
Nunc expietur numinum imperio scelus. Quisquis deorum regna placatus vides: tu, tu penes quem iura praecipitis poli tuque, o sereni maximum mundi decus, bis sena cursu signa qui vario legis, qui tarda celeri saecula evolvis rota, sororque fratri semper occurrens tuo, noctivaga Phoebe, quique ventorum potens aequor per altum caerulos currus agis, et qui carentis luce disponis domos, adeste: cuius Laius dextra occidit, hunc non quieta tecta, non fidi lares, non hospitalis exulem tellus ferat; thalamis pudendis doleat et prole impia; hic et parentem dextera perimat sua,, faciatque (num quid gravius optari potest?) quicquid ego fugi non erit veniae locus: per regna iuro quaeque nunc hospes gero et quae reliqui perque penetrales deos, per te, pater Neptune, qui fluctu brevi utrimque nostro geminus alludis solo; et ipse nostris vocibus testis veni, fatidica vatis ora Cirrhaeae movens: ita molle senium ducat et summum diem securus alto reddat in solio parens solasque Merope noverit Polybi faces, ut nulla sontem gratia eripiet mihi.
But where the unspeakable deed was done, tell me: did he fall in open war or by ambush?
Sed quo nefandum facinus admissum loco est, memorate: aperto Marte an insidiis iacet?
Making for the leaf-bearing groves of holy Castalia he trod a path overgrown, beset with thickets, where the road branches three ways into the plains. One cuts the soil of Phocis, dear to Bacchus, from which, deserting the fields and seeking the sky, Parnassus rises two-peaked with a gently climbing slope; another goes to the lands of Sisyphus of the two seas; a third path, winding through a hollow valley, into the fields of Olenus touches the wandering waters and divides the cold ford of the Elean stream: here, as he trusted in the sudden peace, a band of robbers fell on him with the sword and did the deed in secret.
Frondifera sanctae nemora Castaliae petens calcavit artis obsitum dumis iter, trigemina qua se spargit in campos via. secat una gratum Phocidos Baccho solum, unde altus arva deserit, caelum petens, clementer acto colle Parnasos biceps; at una bimaris Sisyphi terras adit; Olenia in arva tertius trames cava convalle serpens tangit errantes aquas gelidumque dirimit amnis i Elei vadum: hic pace fretum subita praedonum manus aggressa ferro facinus occultum tulit.
At the very moment, roused by Phoebus’ lot, Tiresias, slow, hastens on a trembling knee, and his companion Manto, leading him bereft of light. Consecrated to the god, head next to Phoebus, unriddle the response; declare whom the punishment seeks.
In tempore ipso sorte Phoebea excitus Tiresia tremulo tardus accelerat genu comesque Manto luce viduatum trahens. Sacrate di vis, proximum Phoebo caput, responsa solve; fare, quem poenae petant.
That my tongue is slow to speak, that it asks for delay, you should not wonder at, great-hearted king: the truth’s great part lies hidden from one who lacks sight! But where my country calls me, where Phoebus calls, I will follow: let the fates be dug out; if my blood were green and warm, I would take the god into my breast. Drive to the altars a bull white on the back and a heifer whose neck has never been bent under the curved yoke. You, daughter, guiding your father who lacks the light, report the plain signs of the prophetic rite.
Quod tarda fatu est lingua, quod quaerit moras haut te quidem, magnanime, mirari addecet: visu carent! magna pars veri latet. sed quo vocat me patria, quo Phoebus, sequar: fata eruantur; si foret viridis mihi calidusque sanguis, pectore exciperem deum. appellite aris candidum tergo bovem curvoque numquam colla depressam iugo. tu lucis inopem, gnata, genitorem regens manifesta sacri signa fatidici refer.
A rich victim has stood before the holy altars.
Opima sanctas victima ante aras stetit.
Call the gods above to our vows with the solemn voice and pile the altars with a gift of eastern incense.
In vota superos voce sollemni voca arasque dono turis Eoi extrue.
Now I have heaped the incense on the gods’ sacred hearths.
Iam tura sacris caelitum ingessi focis.
What of the flame? Does it yet catch the heaped offerings?
Quid flamma? largas iamne comprendit dapes?
Suddenly it flashed with light, and suddenly it died.
Subito refulsit lumine et subito occidit.
Did the fire stand bright and clear and upright, and lift its pure crest to the sky and, poured out, unfold its topmost hair into the air? Or does it creep uncertain of its way around the sides and waver, turbid with rolling smoke?
Vtrumne clarus ignis et nitidus stetit rectusque purum verticem caelo tulit et summam in auras fusus explicuit comam? an latera circa serpit incertus viae et fluctuante turbidus fumo labat?
The shifting flame had no single face: as the rain-bearing Iris weaves her many colors into herself, when curved across a great span of sky she announces storms in her painted fold (you would doubt which color is missing, which is hers), blue mixed with tawny markings strayed, then blood-red; the last of it fades into darkness. But look — the fire, fighting, splits in two and parts, the embers of one single rite at discord — father, I shudder as I watch: the poured offering of Bacchus turns to blood, and a thick smoke girds the king’s head and settles, denser, around his very face and has hidden the foul light in a dense cloud. Tell what it is, father.
Non una facies mobilis flammae fuit: imbrifera qualis implicat varios sibi Iris colores, parte quae magna poli curvata picto nuntiat nimbos sinu (quis desit illi quive sit dubites color). caerulea fulvis mixta oberravit notis, sanguinea rursus; ultima in tenebras abit. sed ecce pugnax ignis in partes duas discedit et se scindit unius sacri discors favilla genitor, horresco intuens: libata Bacchi dona permutat cruor ambitque densus regium fumus caput ipsosque circa spissior vultus sedet et nube densa sordidam lucem abdidit. quid sit, parens, effare.
What could I tell, wandering amid the tumult of a stunned mind? What am I to say? They are dreadful, but evils deep below; the gods’ anger is wont to show itself by sure signs: what is this they wish to be brought forth and again wish not, and hide their fierce wrath? Something shames the gods. Bring the victims here quickly and sprinkle the bulls’ necks with the salted meal. Do they endure the rites and the hands laid on them with a calm face?
Quid fari queam inter tumultus mentis attonitae vagus? quidnam loquar? sunt dira, sed in alto mala; solet ira certis numinum ostendi notis: quid istud est quod esse prolatum volunt iterumque nolunt et truces iras tegunt? pudet deos nescio quid. huc propere admove et sparge salsa colla taurorum mola. placidone vultu sacra et admotas manus patiuntur?
The bull, lifting high his head, set toward the first risings, took fright at the day and, trembling, turns his face aside and flees the rays.
Altum taurus attollens caput primos ad ortus positus expavit diem trepidusque vultum obliquat et radios fugit.
Do they go to the ground struck by a single wound?
Vnone terram vulnere afflicti petunt?
The heifer threw herself upon the planted iron and fell at one wound, but the bull, having borne two strokes, rushes uncertain this way and that and, exhausted, scarcely forces out his struggling life.
Iuvenca ferro semet imposito induit et vulnere uno cecidit, at taurus duos perpessus ictus huc et huc dubius ruit animamque fessus vix reluctantem exprimit.
Does the blood spurt quick from a narrow wound, or does it well slow and flood the deep gashes?
Vtrum citatus vulnere angusto micat an lentus altas irrigat plagas cruor?
From this one a river poured through the very channel where the breast lies open; the other’s heavy strokes are stained with a scant shower; but turned back the blood, in plenty, returns through the mouth and eyes.
Huius per ipsam qua patet pectus viam effusus amnis, huius exiguo graves maculantur ictus imbre; sed versus retro per ora multus sanguis atque oculos redit.
These ill-omened rites rouse great terrors. But declare to us the sure marks of the entrails.
Infausta magnos sacra terrores cient. sed ede certas viscerum nobis notas.
Father, what is this? Not with the slight motion they are wont, the entrails throb agitated, but they shake my whole hands, and fresh blood leaps from the veins. The heart, sick, droops sunk deep within and lies hidden, and the veins are livid; a great part of the lobes is missing, and the rotting liver foams with black gall, and — always an omen heavy for a single rule — behold, twin heads rise upon equal swellings; yet a thin membrane hides each severed head: denying a hiding-place to things meant to be concealed, the hostile side rises with mighty strength and stretches seven veins; an oblique boundary, barring them all from turning back, cuts them off. The order is changed, nothing lies in its own seat, but all is thrust backward: no lung, no holder of breath, lies bloodless on the right side, no region of the heart on the left, no soft folds of fat spread their rich wrapping over the organs: Nature is turned about, no law holds in the womb. Let us search out whence this great stiffness in the entrails. What monstrous thing is this? An unwed heifer’s conception — and not laid in the wonted place, in an alien spot, it fills its mother; with a groan its limbs move, the weak parts quiver in a trembling rigor; a livid gore has stained the dark lobes; the foul trunks try a moving gait, and the empty body rises and with its horn makes for the sacred ministers; the entrails flee the hand. And that sound which struck you is no heavy lowing of the herd, nor do the frightened flocks bellow anywhere: the fire on the altars lows, and the hearths tremble.
Genitor, quid hoc est? non levi motu, ut solent, agitata trepidant exta, sed totas manus quatiunt novusque prosilit venis cruor. cor marcet aegrum penitus ac mersum latet liventque venae; magna pars fibris abest et felle nigro tabidum spumat iecur, ac (semper omen unico imperio grave) en capita paribus bina consurgunt toris; sed utrumque caesum tenuis abscondit caput membrana: latebram rebus occultis negans hostile valido robore insurgit latus septemque venas tendit; has omnis retro prohibens reverti limes oblicus secat. mutatus ordo est, sede nil propria iacet, sed acta retro cuncta: non animae capax in parte dextra pulmo sanguineus iacet, non laeva cordi regio, non molli ambitu omenta pingues visceri obtendunt sinus: natura versa est, nulla lex utero manet, scrutemur, unde tantus hic extis rigor. quod hoc nefas? conceptus innuptae bovis.. nec more solito positus alieno in loco, implet parentem; membra cum gemitu movet, rigore tremulo debiles artus micant; infecit atras lividus fibras cruor temptantque turpes mobilem trunci gradum, et inane surgit corpus ac sacros petit cornu ministros; viscera effugiunt manum. neque ista, quae te pepulit, armenti gravis vox est nec usquam territi resonant greges: immugit aris ignis et trepidant foci.
Set forth what these signs of the terrifying rite portend: I will drink in your words with no fearful ear. The uttermost evils tend to make men careless.
Quid ista sacri signa terrifici ferant exprome: voces aure non timida hauriam. solent extrema facere securos mala.
You will envy these evils for which you seek a remedy.
His invidebis quibus opem quaeris malis.
Tell the one thing the heaven-dwellers wish to be known — whose hand defiled itself with the slaughtered king.
Memora quod unum scire caelicolae volunt, contaminarit rege quis caeso manus.
Neither the birds that cleave the high sky on light wing, nor the fiber torn from living breasts, can rouse the name; another road must be tried: he himself must be summoned from the regions of eternal night, sent up from Erebus to point out the author of the murder. The earth must be unbarred, the implacable power of Dis entreated, the people of the infernal Styx dragged up here: declare to whom you entrust the rite; for you, in whose hands lies the kingdom’s height, it is unlawful to visit the shades.
Nec alta caeli quae levi pinna secant nec fibra vivis rapta pectoribus potest ciere nomen; alia temptanda est via: ipse evocandus noctis aeternae plagis, emissus Erebo ut caedis auctorem indicet. reseranda tellus, Ditis inplacabile numen precandum, populus infernae Stygia huc extrahendus: ede cui mandes sacrum; nam te, penes quem summa regnorum, nefas invisere umbras.
This task, Creo, demands you, the one to whom my realm looks as its second.
Te, Creo, hic poscit labor, ad quem secundum regna respiciunt mea.
While we unloose the bars of deep Styx, let a hymn to the people resound in praise of Bacchus.
Dum nos profundae claustra laxamus Stygis, populare Bacchi laudibus carmen sonet.
Wreathe your streaming hair with the nodding ivy-cluster, arm your soft arms with the Nysaean thyrsi! Bright glory of the sky, come here to the vows which your own noble Thebes, Bacchus, brings to you with suppliant palms. Turn here in favor your maiden face, with your starry countenance scatter the clouds and the grim threats of Erebus and greedy fate. It becomes you to bind your hair with spring flowers, to confine your head with a Tyrian turban, or to wreathe your soft brow with berry-bearing ivy.
Effusam redimite comam nutante corymbo, mollia Nysaeis armati bracchia thyrsis! Lucidum caeli decus, huc ades votis quae tibi nobiles Thebae, Bacche, tuae palmis supplicibus ferunt. Huc adverte favens virgineum caput, vultu sidereo discute nubila et tristes Erebi minas avidumque fatum. Te decet cingi comam floribus vernis, te caput Tyria cohibere mitra hederave mollem bacifera religare frontem.
To scatter your loosed locks without order, and again to draw them back in a knot; just as, fearing your angry stepmother, you had grown up counterfeiting false limbs, a feigned maiden with golden hair, a saffron girdle holding your dress: thence such soft attire has pleased you, loose folds and the flowing train. Seated in your golden chariot it saw you, when with your long robe you covered the lions — all the vast tract of the eastern land, whoever drinks the Ganges and whoever breaks the snowy Araxes.
Spargere effusos sine lege crines, rursus adducto revocare nodo; qualis iratam metuens novercam creveras falsos imitatus artus, crine flaventi simulata virgo, lutea vestem retinente zona: inde tam molles placuere cultus et sinus laxi fluidumque syrma. Vidit aurato residere curru, veste cum longa tegeres leones, omnis Eoae plaga vasta terrae, qui bibit Gangen niveumque quisquis frangit Araxen.
Old Silenus follows you on his ugly little ass, his swollen temples bound with vine-shoots; the wanton initiates lead on the hidden rites. Attended by your cohort of Bassarids, now with Edonian foot it has stamped the ground of Pangaeus, now on the Thracian summit of Pindus; now among the Cadmean mothers the impious maenad came as comrade to Ogygian Iacchus, her side girt with the sacred fawnskin, brandishing the light thyrsus in her hand; for you the mothers, stirred in their breasts, let down their hair. And now, after the torn limbs of Pentheus, the thyiads, their bodies released from frenzy, looked on the crime as though unknown.
Te senior turpi sequitur Silenus asello, turgida pampineis redimitus tempora sortis; condita lascivi deducunt orgia mystae. Te Bassaridum comitata cohors nunc Edono pede pulsavit sola Pangaeo, nunc Threicio vertice Pindi; nunc Cadmeas inter matres impia maenas comes Ogygio venit laccho, nebride sacra praecincta latus thyrsumque levem vibrante manu, tibi commotae pectora matres fudere comam. iam post laceros Pentheos artus thyades, oestro membra remissae, velut ignotum videre nefas.
Bacchus’ aunt holds the realms of the shining sea, and Cadmean Ino is ringed by the choirs of the Nereids; a newcomer boy has power over the waves of the great deep, Bacchus’ kinsman, no mean godhead, Palaemon. A Tyrrhenian band, boy, seized you, but Nereus laid the swollen sea to rest, and changes the dark-blue straits into meadows: here the plane-tree grows green with spring leaf and the laurel, the grove dear to Phoebus; a chattering bird clamors through the branches; living ivy holds the oar, the vine binds the cups at the masthead. An Idaean lion roared at the prow, a Ganges tiger sits at the stern. Then the pirate swims the strait in terror, and a new shape takes the plunged men: first the robbers’ arms fall away and the breast, dashed against the belly, closes, a tiny hand hangs at the side, and they meet the wave with curving back, a crescent tail cleaves the sea: and a curved dolphin follows the fleeing sails.
Ponti regna tenet nitidi matertera Bacchi Nereidumque choris Cadmeia cingitur Ino; ius habet in fluctus magni puer advena ponti, cognatus Bacchi, numen non vile Palaemon. Te Tyrrhena, puer, rapuit manus, at tumidum Nereus posuit mare, caerula cum pratis mutat freta: hinc verno platanus folio viret et Phoebo laurus carum nemus; garrula per ramos avis obstrepit; vivaces hederas remus tenet, summa ligat vitis carchesia.. Idaeus prora fremuit leo, tigris puppe sedet Gangetica. Tum pirata freto pavidus natat, et nova demersos facies habet: bracchia prima cadunt praedonibus inlisumque utero pectus coit, parvula dependet lateri manus et dorso fluctum curvo subit, lunata scindit cauda mare: et sequitur curvus fugientia carbasa delphin.
Lydian Pactolus bore you on its rich wave, drawing its golden streams down a burning bank; the Massagetes, who mixes his milky cups with blood, unstrung his conquered bow and his Getic arrows; the realms of axe-bearing Lycurgus have felt Bacchus; the fierce lands of the Zalaces felt him, and those whom neighboring Boreas strikes, forever shifting their fields, and the nations the Maeotis washes with its cold wave, and those the Arcadian constellation looks down on from its topmost height, and the twin Wain. He tamed the scattered Geloni; he stripped the arms from the fierce maidens: with downcast face the Thermodontian squadrons sought the ground, and laying aside at last their light arrows they were made Maenads. Holy Cithaeron streamed with blood in Ophionian slaughter; the daughters of Proetus made for the woods, and Argos worshipped Bacchus in his stepmother’s very presence.
Divite Pactolos vexit te Lydius unda, aurea torrenti deducens flumina ripa; laxavit victos arcus Geticasque sagittas lactea Massagetes qui pocula sanguine miscet; regna securigeri Bacchum sensere Lycurgi; sensere terrae † Zalacum feroces et quos vicinus Boreas ferit arva mutantes quasque Maeotis alluit gentes frigido fluctu quasque despectat vertice summo sidus Arcadium geminumque plaustrum. Ille dispersos domuit Gelonos. arma detraxit trucibus puellis: ore deiecto petiere terram Thermodontiacae catervae. positisque tandem levibus sagittis Maenades factae. sacer Cithaeron sanguine undavit Ophioniaque caede; Proetides silvas petiere, et Argos praesente Bacchum coluit noverca.
Naxos, wreathed by the Aegean sea, gave over to marriage the maiden left behind, repaying her loss with a better husband: from the dry pumice flowed the Nyctelian liquor; babbling streams cut through the turf, the deep earth drank in the sweet juices, the white founts of snowy milk and Lesbian wine mixed with fragrant thyme. The new bride is led up to the great heaven: Phoebus sings the solemn song, his hair poured over his shoulder, and a twin Cupid shakes the wedding-torches. Jupiter has laid down his fiery weapon and hates the thunderbolt when Bacchus comes.
Naxos Aegaeo redimita ponto tradidit thalamis relictam virginem, meliore pensans damnum marito: pumice ex sicco fluxit Nyctelius latex; garruli gramen secuere rivi, conbibit dulces humus alta sucos niveique lactis candidos fontes et mixta odoro Lesbia cum thymo. Ducitur magno nova nupta caelo: solemne Phoebus carmen infusis humero capillis cantat et geminus Cupido concutit taedas. telum deposuit Iuppiter igneum oditque Baccho veniente fulmen.
While the bright stars of the aged world run on, while Ocean rings the enclosed globe with his waves, and the full Moon gathers back her dismissed fires, while Lucifer foretells the morning’s rising and the high Bear knows nothing of dark-blue Nereus, we will revere the shining face of beautiful Lyaeus.
Lucida dum current annosi sidera mundi, Oceanus clausum dum fluctibus ambiet orbem Lunaque dimissos dum plena recolliget ignes, dum matutinos praedicet Lucifer ortus altaque caeruleum dum Nerea nesciet Arctos, candida formonsi venerabimur ora Lyaei.
Although your very face shows the marks of weeping, declare with whose life we are to appease the gods.
Etsi ipse vultus flebiles praefert notas, exprome cuius capite placemus deos.
You bid me speak what fear counsels me to keep silent.
Fari iubes tacere quae suadet metus.
If Thebes, paying the penalty, does not move you enough, let the fallen scepter of your kindred house move you.
Si te luentes non satis Thebae movent, at sceptra moveant lapsa cognatae domus.
You will wish you had not known what you too eagerly seek.
Nescisse cupies nosse quae nimium expetis.
Ignorance is an idle remedy for evils. Will you then bury even the sign of the public safety?
Iners malorum remedium ignorantia est. itane et salutis publicae indicium obrues?
Where the cure is shameful, one is loath to be healed.
Vbi turpis est medicina, sanari piget.
Speak what you heard, or, mastered by heavy suffering, you will learn what the arms of an angry king can do.
Audita fare, vel malo domitus gravi quid arma possint regis irati scies.
Kings hate the words they command to be spoken.
Odere reges dicta quae dici iubent.
You will be sent to Erebus, a worthless life in place of all, unless you uncover the rite’s secrets with your own voice.
Mittens Erebo vile pro cunctis caput, arcana sacri voce ni retegis tua.
Let me be allowed to be silent. Is any lesser liberty than this sought from a king?
Tacere liceat, ulla libertas minor a rege petitur?
Often a silent liberty harms king and kingdom more even than the tongue.
Saepe vel lingua magis regi atque regno muta libertas obest.
Where one may not be silent, what is anyone allowed?
Vbi non licet tacere, quid cuiquam licet?
He who is silent when ordered to speak undoes authority.
Imperia solvit qui tacet iussus loqui.
I pray you receive calmly words that are forced out.
Coacta verba placidus accipias precor.
Was anyone ever punished for a voice forced out of him?
Vlline poena vocis expressae fuit?
Far from the city is a grove black with holm-oaks, about the well-watered places of the Dircaean valley. A cypress, lifting its head above the tall woods, binds the grove fast with its ever-green trunk, and an aged oak stretches its curved boughs, rotten with decay: devouring age has broken away this one’s flank; that one, already failing, falling at the root, hangs propped on an alien trunk; the laurel of bitter berries and the light lindens, the Paphian myrtle, and the alder that will move oars across the boundless sea, and the pine that fronts Phoebus, setting its knotless flank against the Zephyrs: in the midst stands a huge tree, and with its heavy shade it presses on the lesser woods, and spread out in a great sweep of branches, alone it shields the grove; beneath it a gloomy water, ignorant of light and of Phoebus, stands stagnant, stiff with everlasting cold; a miry marsh rings the sluggish spring.
Est procul ab urbe lucus ilicibus niger, Dircaea circa vallis inriguae loca. cupressus altis exerens silvis caput virente semper alligat trunco nemus, curvosque tendit quercus et putres situ annosa ramos: huius abrupit latus edax vetustas; illa, iam fessa cadens radice, fulta pendet aliena trabe, amara bacas laurus et tiliae leves et Paphia myrtus et per immensum mare motura remos alnus et Phoebo obvia enode Zephyris pinus opponens latus: medio stat ingens arbor atque umbra gravi silvas minores urguet et magno ambitu diffusa ramos una defendit nemus, tristis sub illa, lucis et Phoebi inscius, restagnat umor frigore aeterno rigens; limosa pigrum circumit fontem palus.
When the aged priest brought his step here, he made no delay: the place supplied the night; then the earth was dug out, and over it fires snatched from the pyres are thrown. The seer himself wraps his body in a funereal robe and shakes a bough, a mourning mantle pours down to his lowest feet, in squalid array the sad old man advances, and deadly yew binds his white hair. Black-fleeced sheep and dark oxen are dragged in, the flame preys on the offerings, and the living cattle quail at the deadly fire. Then he calls the dead, and you who rule the dead and besiege the barriers of the Lethaean lake; and he rolls out a magic chant, and with raving, menacing mouth intones whatever either soothes the fickle shades or compels them; he pours blood on the hearths, burns the beasts whole, and gluts the pit with much gore; over it he pours the snowy liquor of milk, and with his left hand pours out Bacchus, and sings again, and gazing at the ground with a deeper, frenzied voice he summons the dead.
Huc ut sacerdos intulit senior gradum, haut est moratus: praestitit noctem locus, tum effossa tellus, et super rapti rogis iaciuntur ignes, ipse funesto integit vates amictu corpus et frondem quatit, lugubris imos palla perfundit pedes, squalente cultu maestus ingreditur senex, mortifera canam taxus adstringit comam. nigro bidentes vellere atque atrae boves intro trahuntur, flamma praedatur dapes, vivumque trepidat igne ferali pecus, vocat inde manes teque qui manes regis " et obsidentem claustra Lethaei lacus, carmenque magicum volvit et rabido minax decantat ore quicquid aut placat leves aut cogit umbras; sanguinem libat focis solidasque pecudes urit et multo specum saturat cruore; libat et niveum insuper lactis liquorem, fundit et Bacchum manu laeva canitque rursus ac terram intuens graviore manes voce et attonita citat. latravit Hecates turba; ter valles cavae
Hecate’s pack bayed; thrice the hollow valleys rang mournfully, the whole earth, its ground shaken, was struck through. “I am heard,” the seer says, “I have poured out effective words: the blind void is breaking, and a road is given to the peoples of Dis up to the living.” The whole forest sank down and bristled its foliage, the oaks drew cracks, and a shudder shook the whole grove, the earth drew back and groaned deep within: whether deep Acheron, hidden, took it ill to be assailed, or the earth itself, to give the dead a road, rang with its frame burst open, or three-headed Cerberus in raging wrath shook his heavy chains. Suddenly the earth gapes and, loosened, lay open in a vast cleft — I myself saw the numbing pools among the shades, I myself the pallid gods and the true night; my chilled blood stood still and clotted in my veins; a savage cohort leapt forth and the whole serpent-born race stood in arms, the throngs of brothers sown from the Dircaean tooth. Then grim Erinys cried out, and blind Furor, and Horror, and all that the eternal shadows breed and hide together: Grief tearing her hair, and Sickness with difficulty holding up her weary head, Old Age heavy to itself, and looming Fear, and Plague, the greedy bane of the Ogygian people. Our spirit left us; even she who knew the old man’s rites and arts stood stunned; but the undaunted father, bold in his own ruin, calls together the bloodless throng of fierce Dis, and at once like light mists they flit and draw in the air of the open sky. Not so many falling leaves does Eryx put forth, nor in mid-spring does Hybla make so many flowers, when the swarm is knit into a dense ball, nor does the Ionian sea break in so many waves, nor, fleeing the threats of cold Strymon, does the bird in such numbers change its winters and, cleaving the sky, weigh the northern snows against the warm Nile, as the peoples that the seer’s sound led forth. Eagerly the trembling souls make for the hiding-places of the shady grove.
sonuere maestum, tota succusso solo pulsata tellus. ’audior’ vates ait, ’rata verba fudi: rumpitur caecum chaos iterque populis Ditis ad superos datur’ subsedit omnis silva et erexit comas, duxere rimas robora et totum nemus concussit horror, terra se retro dedit gemuitque penitus: sive temptari abditum Acheron profundum mente non aequa tulit, sive ipsa tellus, ut daret functis viam, compage rupta sonuit; aut ira furens triceps catenas Cerberus movit graves. subito dehiscit terra et immenso sinu laxata patuit ipse torpentes lacus vidi inter umbras, ipse pallentes deos noctemque veram; gelidus in venis stetit haesitque sanguis, saeva prosiluit cohors et stetit in armis omne vipereum genus, fratrum catervae dente Dircaeo satae. tum torva Erinys sonuit et caecus Furor Horrorque et una quicquid aeternae creant celantque tenebrae: Luctus avellens comam aegreque lassum sustinens Morbus caput, gravis Senectus sibimet et pendens Metus avidumque populi Pestis Ogygii malum. nos liquit animus, ipse quae ritus senis artesque norat stupuit, intrepidus parens audaxque damno convocat Ditis feri exangue vulgus, ilico ut nebulae leves volitant et auras libero caelo trahunt. non tot caducas educat frondes Eryx nec vere flores Hybla tot medio creat, cum examen arto nectitur densum globo, fluctusque non tot frangit Ionium mare, nec tanta gelidi Strymonis fugiens minas permutat hiemes ales et caelum secans tepente Nilo pensat Arctoas nives quot ille populos vatis eduxit sonus. avide latebras nemoris umbrosi petunt animae trementes.; primus emergit solo, dextra ferocem cornibus taurum premens, Zethus, manuque sustinens laeva chelyn qui saxa dulci traxit Amphion sono;
First from the ground emerges, pressing with his right hand a bull fierce with horns, Zethus, and holding up a lyre in his left hand, Amphion, who drew the stones with sweet sound; and among her children at last the daughter of Tantalus carries her head, proud now in safety, heavy with disdain, and counts her shades. A worse mother is present than she, raging Agave, whom the whole band follows that shared out the king; and mangled Pentheus follows the Bacchants and, savage even now, holds to his threats. At last, often summoned, he raised his shamefaced head and stands apart, far from all the throng, and hides himself (the priest presses on and doubles his Stygian prayers, until he brings out into the open the hidden face) — Laius. I shudder to speak: he stood, bristling, blood poured over his limbs, his squalid hair caked with foul filth, and with raving mouth he speaks:
interque natos Tantalis tandem suos tuto superba fert caput fastu grave et numerat umbras, peior hac genetrix adest furibunda Agaue, tota quam sequitur manus partita regem: sequitur et Bacchas lacer Pentheus tenetque saevus etiam nunc minas, tandem, vocatus saepe pudibundum extulit caput atque ab omni dissidet turba procul celatque semet (instat et Stygias preces geminat sacerdos, donec in apertum efferat vultus opertos) Laius fari horreo: stetit per artus sanguine effuso horridus, paedore foedo squalidam obtectus comam, et ore rabido fatur: ’O Cadmi effera, cruore semper laeta cognato domus, vibrate thyrsos, enthea gnatos manu lacerate potius maximum Thebis scelus maternus amor est. patria, non ira deum
“O savage house of Cadmus, forever glad in kindred blood, brandish the thyrsi, tear your sons rather with god-maddened hand — the greatest crime in Thebes is a mother’s love. My country, not by the gods’ anger but by crime you are torn away: it is no grief-bringing South wind with its heavy blast, nor an earth too little sated by a rainy sky, that harms you with dry breath, but a bloody king, who as the prize of savage murder seizes the scepter and his father’s unspeakable marriage, and has driven himself back into his own origin, and to his mother has returned impious offspring, and who — scarcely the way of beasts — has himself begotten brothers for himself: an entangled evil, a monster more tangled than his own Sphinx. A hateful brood: yet the parent is worse than the son, again heavy with an ill-omened womb. You, you who hold the bloody scepter in your hand, you, your father unavenged, I will pursue with the whole city, and I will drag with me the Fury, bridesmaid of your marriage, I will drag her sounding scourges; I will overturn the incestuous house and grind its hearth-gods down with unholy war. Therefore drive your king, expelled from your borders, swiftly into exile, by whatever doom-laden step; let him leave the soil: green with flowering spring it will restore its grass, the life-giving breeze will give pure breath, and beauty will come back to the woods. Destruction and Pestilence, Death, Toil, Wasting, Pain — an escort worthy of him — will depart together; and he himself with swift steps will long to flee our seats, but I will add heavy delays to his feet and hold him: let him crawl, unsure of his way, testing his grim path before him with an old man’s staff. Take the earth from him — I, his father, will take away the sky.”
sed scelere raperis: non gravi flatu tibi luctificus Auster nec parum pluvio aethere satiata tellus halitu sicco nocet, sed rex cruentus, pretia qui saevae necis sceptra et nefandos occupat thalamos patris egitque in ortus semet et matri impios fetus regessit, quique, vix mos est feris, fratres sibi ipse genuit implicitum malum magisque monstrum Sphinge perplexum sua. invisa proles: sed tamen peior parens quam gnatus, utero rursus infausto gravis. te, te cruenta sceptra qui dextra geris, te pater inultus urbe cum tota petam et mecum Erinyn pronubam thalami traham, traham sonantis verbera, incestam domum vertam et penates impio Marte obteram. proinde pulsum finibus regem ocius agite exulem quocumque funesto gradu; solum relinquat: vere florifero virens reparabit herbas, spiritus puros dabit vitalis aura, veniet et silvis decor; Letum Luesque, Mors Labor Tabes Dolor, comitatus illo dignus, excedent simul; et ipse rapidis gressibus sedes volet effugere nostras, sed graves pedibus moras addam et tenebo: reptet incertus viae, baculo senili triste praetemptans iter: eripite terras, auferam caelum pater.’
A cold tremor has seized both my bones and my limbs; whatever I feared to do, I am charged with having done — but Merope, wedded to Polybus, refutes the crime of the marriage-bed; Polybus, safe and sound, acquits my hands: each parent clears me of murder and of defilement. What room is left for guilt? Long before I touched Boeotian ground with my step, Thebes mourned Laius lost. Is the old man false, or is the god harsh to Thebes? — Now, now I grasp the partners of a cunning plot: that seer lies, putting the gods forward as a screen for fraud, and pledges my scepter to you.
Et ossa et artus gelidus invasit tremor; quicquid timebam facere fecisse arguor tori iugalis abnuit Merope nefas, sociata Polybo; sospes absolvit manus Polybus meas: uterque defendit parens caedem stuprumque. quis locus culpae est super? multo ante Thebae Laium amissum gemunt, Bocota gressu quam meo tetigi loca. falsusne senior an deus Thebis gravis? iam iam tenemus callidi socios doli: mentitur ista praeferens fraudi deos vates, tibique sceptra despondet mea.
Would I want my sister driven from the palace? Even if the sworn loyalty of a kindred hearth did not hold me fixed in my own settled station, still Fortune herself would frighten me too much, forever anxious. Let it be allowed you to put off this burden safely, and let it not crush you as it withdraws: already you will set yourself more safely in a lesser place.
Egone ut sororem regia expelli velim? si me fides sacrata cognati laris non contineret in meo certum statu: tamen ipsa me fortuna terreret nimis sollicita semper, liceat hoc tuto tibi exuere pondus nec recedentem opprimat: iam te minore tutior pones loco.
Do you even urge me to lay down of my own will so heavy a kingdom?
Hortaris etiam, sponte deponam ut mea tam gravia regna?
I would advise this to those whose station is still free either way: for you it is now necessary to bear your fortune.
Suadeam hoc illis ego, in utrumque quis., est liber etiamnum status: tibi iam necesse est ferre fortunam tuam.
The surest road for one who longs to reign is to praise the modest things and to talk of leisure and sleep; often the restless man counterfeits calm.
Certissima est regnare cupienti via laudare modica et otium ac somnum loqui; ab inquieto saepe simulatur quies.
Does my long loyalty defend me too little?
Parumne me tam longa defendit fides?
Loyalty grants the treacherous man an opening to do harm.
Aditum nocendi perfido praestat fides.
Free of the royal burden, I enjoy the kingdom’s goods, and my house thrives with the gathering of citizens, nor does any day rise in its alternating rounds on which the gifts of the kindred scepter do not flow over to my hearth: fine dress, rich banquets, my favor granted to many, my safety. What would I think is lacking to fortune so blessed?
Solutus onere regio regni bonis fruor domusque civium coetu viget, nec ulla vicibus surgit alternis dies qua non propinqui munera ad nostros lares sceptri redundent; cultus, opulentae dapes, donata multis gratia nostra salus: quid tam beatae desse fortunae rear?
What is lacking: prosperity never knows a measure.
Quod dest: secunda non habent umquam modum.
Am I then to fall as a guilty man, my case unheard?
Incognita igitur ut nocens causa cadam?
Was any account of my life rendered to you? Was my case heard by Tiresias? Yet I am made to seem guilty; you set the precedent: I follow it.
Num ratio vobis reddita est vitae meae? num audita causa est nostra Tiresiae? tamen sontes videmur, facitis exemplum: sequor.
What if I am innocent?
Quid si innocens sum?
Kings are wont to fear doubtful things as if they were sure.
Dubia pro certis solent timere reges.
He who dreads empty fears earns real ones.
Qui pavet vanos metus, veros moretur.
Whoever has been at fault, once let go, hates: let everything doubtful fall.
Quisquis in culpa fuit, dimissus odit: omne quod dubium est cadat.
Thus hatreds are made.
Sic odia fiunt.
He who fears hatreds too much knows not how to reign: fear guards kingdoms.
Odia qui nimium timet regnare nescit: regna custodit metus.
He who savagely rules the scepter with a harsh command fears those who fear him: dread returns upon its author.
Qui sceptra duro saevus imperio regit, timet timentes: metus in auctorem redit.
Guard the guilty man, shut in a rocky cave; I myself will turn my step back to the royal house.
Servate sontem saxeo. inclusum specu, ipse ad penates regios referam gradum.
You are not the cause of perils so great, not for this do the fates assail the house of Labdacus, but the old wrath of the gods pursues us: the Castalian grove gave shade to the Sidonian stranger, and Dirce bathed the Tyrian settlers, as soon as the son of great Agenor, weary of chasing Jove’s thefts through the world, halted in fear beneath our tree, worshipping his own robber, and at Phoebus’ warning, bidden to go as comrade to a wandering cow — one that no ploughshare had bent, nor the curved yoke of a slow wagon — gave up his flight, and handed his people a name from the ill-omened cow.
Non tu tantis causa periclis, non hinc Labdacidos petunt fata, sed veteres deum irae secuntur: Castalium nemus umbram Sidonio praebuit hospiti lavitque Dirce Tyrios colonos, ut primum magni natus Agenoris fessus per urbem furta sequi Iovis, sub nostra pavidus constitit arbore praedonem venerans suum monituque Phoebi iussus erranti comes ire vaccae, quam non flexerat vomer aut tardi iuga curva plaustri, deseruit fugas nomenque genti inauspicata de bove tradidit.
From that time the earth has always brought forth new monsters: either a serpent, born in the deepest valleys, hisses above the aged oaks and overtops the pines: taller than the Chaonian trees it reared its blue-black head, while the greater part of it still lay coiled; or the teeming earth in an unholy birth poured forth armed men: the war-trumpet sounded from its curving horn, and the clarion struck shrill notes from its hooked bronze; men who before had not tried their nimble tongues and mouths of an unknown voice — and first they tried it in the war-cry of an enemy: kindred ranks hold the plains, offspring worthy of the seed that was sown, having measured out their lifetime in a single day — born after the Morning-star’s passage, they fell before the Evening-star’s rising; the stranger shudders at portents so great and fears the wars of the new-born people, until the savage youth fell and the mother saw her nurslings, just brought forth, restored to her own lap. With this let civil sin have passed! Let Herculean Thebes know those battles of brothers.
Tempore ex illo nova monstra semper protulit tellus: aut anguis imis vallibus editus annosa supra robora sibilat superatque pinus: supra Chaonias celsior arbores erexit caeruleum caput, cum maiore sui parte recumberet; aut feta tellus impio partu effudit arma: sonuit reflexo classicum cornu lituusque adunco stridulos cantus elisit aere, ante non linguas agiles et ora vocis ignotae clamore primum hostico experti: Agmina campos cognata tenent, dignaque iacto semine proles, uno aetatem permensa die, post Luciferi nata meatus ante Hesperios occidit ortus, horret tantis advena monstris populique timet bella recentis, donec cecidit saeva iuventus genetrixque suo reddi gremio modo productos vidit alumnos. hac transierit civile nefas! illa Herculeae norint Thebae proelia fratrum.
What of the fate of Cadmus’ grandson, when the horns of a long-lived stag clothed his brow with strange branches and his own hounds drove their master? Headlong through woods and mountains fled swift Actaeon, and on more nimble foot, roaming through glades and rocks, he feared the feathers stirred by the breezes and shunned the nets that he himself had set: until in the wave of a calm spring he saw his horns and his beast’s face; there the goddess of too-savage chastity had bathed her maiden limbs.
Quid Cadmei fata nepotis, cum vivacis cornua cervi frontem ramis texere novis dominumque canes egere suum? praeceps silvas montesque fugit citus Actaeon agilique magis pede per saltus ac saxa vagus metuit motas zephyris plumas et quae posuit retia vitat: donec placidi fontis in unda cornua vidit vultusque feros; ibi virgineos foverat artus nimium saevi diva pudoris.
My mind turns its cares over again and recalls its fears, that Laius perished by my crime — so the gods above and below declare; but my mind, innocent against them and better known to itself than to the gods, denies it. Memory comes back along a faint track: one fell, met by the blow of my staff, and was given to Dis, when an old man, ahead on the road, proud in his chariot, tried to thrust a younger aside, far from Thebes, where the Phocian region splits the three-forked ways. Wife of one mind with me, unravel my doubts, I pray: what span of life did Laius bear in dying? Did he fall green in his first age, or broken with years?
aras revolvit animus et repetit metus, obisse nostro Laium scelere autumant superi inferique, sed animus contra innocens sibique melius quam deis notus negat, redit memoria tenue per vestigium, cecidisse nostri stipitis pulsu obvium datumque Diti cum prior iuvenem senex, curru superbus, pelleret, Thebis procul Phocasaea trifidas regio qua scindit vias. unanima coniunx, explica errores precor: quae spatia moriens Laius vitae tulit? primone in aevo viridis an fracto occidit?
Between old man and young, but nearer the old.
Inter senem iuvenemque, sed propior seni.
Did a thronging crowd ring the king’s side?
Frequensne turba regium cinxit latus?
Many were led astray by the error of the doubtful road, a faithful few their labor joined to the chariots.
Plures fefellit error ancipitis viae, paucos fidelis curribus iunxit labor.
Did any companion fall with the king’s fate?
Aliquisne cecidit regio fato comes?
One — loyalty and courage added him as a sharer.
Vnum fides virtusque consortem addidit.
I hold the guilty man; the number fits, the place: but add the time.
Teneo nocentem, convenit numerus, locus: sed tempus adde.
Now the tenth harvest is being reaped.
Decima iam metitur seges.
The Corinthian people call you to your father’s kingdom: Polybus holds eternal rest.
Corinthius te populus in regnum vocat patrium: quietem Polybus aeternam obtinet.
How savage Fortune rushes upon me from every side! Come, tell out by what fate my father falls.
Vt undique in me saeva Fortuna irruit! edissere agedum, quo cadat fato parens.
A gentle sleep released the old man’s life.
Animam senilem mollis exsolvit sopor.
My father lies dead without any slaughter; I bear witness — now I may lift to heaven in piety clean hands that fear no crimes — but the more dreadful part of the fates remains.
Genitor sine ulla caede defunctus iacet, testor, licet iam tollere ad caelum pie puras nec ulla scelera metuentes manus, sed pars magis metuenda fatorum manet.
Your father’s kingdom will dispel every fear.
Omnem paterna regna discutient metum.
I will seek my father’s kingdom again; but I dread my mother.
Repetam paterna regna; sed matrem horreo.
Do you fear the parent who, longing for your return, hangs in anxious suspense?
Metuis parentem, quae tuum reditum expetens sollicita pendet?
It is filial love itself that drives me away.
Ipsa me pietas fugat.
Will you leave her a widow?
Viduam relinques?
There — you touch my very fears.
Tangis en ipsos metus.
Speak out what fear gnaws and presses your mind; I am wont to keep silent faith for kings.
Effare morsus quis premat mentem timor; praestare tacitam regibus soleo fidem.
At the Delphic warning I tremble at marriage with my mother.
Conubia matris Delphico admonitu tremo.
Cease to fear empty things and lay aside your shameful dread: Merope was not your true parent.
Timere vana desine et turpes metus depone: Merope vera non fuerat parens.
What reward did she seek from a foisted son?
Quod subditi vi praemium gnati petit?
Children bind fast the proud loyalty of kings.
Regum superbam liberi astringunt fidem.
Tell how you came to know the secrets of the bedchamber.
Secreta thalami fare quo excipias modo.
These hands handed you, a tiny child, to your parent.
Hae te parenti parvulum tradunt manus.
You hand me to my parent; but who handed me to you?
Tu me parenti tradis; at quis me tibi?
A shepherd, under the snowy ridge of Cithaeron.
Pastor nivoso sub Cithaeronis iugo.
What chance brought you into those woods?
In illa temet nemora quis casus tulit?
On that mountain I was following the horned flocks.
Illo sequebar monte cornigeros greges.
Now add the sure marks of my body.
Nunc adice certas corporis nostri notas.
You bore feet pierced through with iron, and got your name from the swelling and the flaw of your feet.
Forata ferro gesseras vestigia, tumore nactus nomen ac vitio pedum.
Who it was that gave my body as a gift I ask.
Quis fuerit ille qui meum dono dedit corpus requiro.
He pastured the royal flocks; a lesser band of shepherds was under him.
Regios pavit greges; minor sub illo turba pastorum fuit.
Speak the name.
Eloquere nomen.
The first memory of old men grows faint, worn out, slipping away in long decay.
Prima languescit senum memoria longo lassa sublabens situ.
Can you know the man by his face and look?
Potesne facie noscere ac vultu virum?
Perhaps I shall: often a slight mark recalls a memory long buried by time and faded away.
Fortasse noscam: saepe iam spatio Obrutam levis exoletam memoriam revocat nota.
Let the herdsmen who lead them follow all the cattle driven to the rites and the altars; go, quickly summon, servants, those in whose charge the chief care of the flocks rests.
Ad sacra et aras omne compulsum pecus duces sequantur; ite, propere accersite, famuli, penes quos summa consistit gregum.
Whether reason or fortune hides these things, allow what long lay hidden to stay hidden ever: often the truth, dug out, has come open to the digger’s harm.
Sive ista ratio sive fortuna occulit, latere semper patere quod latuit diu: saepe eruentis veritas patuit malo.
Can any evil worse than this be feared?
Malum timeri maius bis aliquod potest?
Know that what is sought with such great effort is great: on that side the public safety meets you, on this the king’s; equal on both sides. Hold back your hands midway, provoke nothing, let the fates unravel themselves. It is not expedient to shake a fortunate state: whatever is in the lowest place is safe to move.
Magnum esse magna mole quod petitur scias, concurrit illinc publica, hinc regis salus: utrimque paria; contine medias manus, nihil lacessas, ipsa se fata explicent. Non expedit concutere felicem statum: tuto movetur quicquid extremo in loco est.
Do you reach for something nobler than royal birth?
Nobilius aliquid genere regali appetis?
Take care lest you regret the parent you find.
ne te parentis pigeat inventi vide.
Even the proof of a blood to be repented I will seek, if it is fixed to know. Look — an aged old man, under whose charge the royal flock had been, Phorbas. Do you know the name or the face of the old man?
Vel paenitendi sanguinis quaeram fidem, si nosse certum est. ecce grandaevus senex, arbitria sub quo regii fuerant gregis, Phorbas. refersne nomen aut vultum senis?
The form strikes my mind; not known enough, yet again that face is not unknown to me.
Adlidet animo forma; nec notus satis, nec rursus iste vultus ignotus mihi.
When Laius held the kingdom, did you, a servant, drive rich flocks under the region of Cithaeron?
Regnum optinente Laio famulus greges agitasti opimos sub Cithaeronis plaga?
Glad Cithaeron with ever-fresh pasture sends up its summer meadows for our flock.
Laetus Cithaeron pabulo semper novo aestiva nostro prata summittit gregi.
Do you know me?
Noscisne memet?
Wavering memory hesitates.
Dubitat anceps memoria.
Was some boy once handed by you to this man? Speak. You hesitate? Why does the color change on your cheeks? Why do you hunt for words? Truth hates delay.
Huic aliquis a te traditur quondam puer? effare. dubitas? cur genas mutat color? quid verba quaeris? veritas odit moras.
You stir things curtained over by a long stretch of time.
Obducta longo temporum tractu moves.
Confess, lest pain force you to the truth.
Fatere, ne te.cogat ad verum dolor.
I gave that man a useless gift of an infant: he could not have enjoyed the light, nor the sky.
Inutile isti munus infantis dedi: non potuit ille luce, non caelo frui.
Far be the omen. He lives, and lives, I pray.
Procul sit omen. vivit et vivat precor.
Why do you deny that the handed-over infant survives?
Superesse quare traditum infantem negas?
A thin iron, driven through both feet, bound the limbs; a swelling grown into the wound burned the child’s body with a foul infection.
Ferrum per ambos tenue transactum pedes ligabat artus, vulneri innatus tumor puerile foeda corpus urebat lue.
Why ask further? The fates now draw near. Teach me who the infant was.
Quid quaeris ultra? fata iam accedunt prope. quis fuerit infans edoce.
Loyalty forbids.
Prohibet fides.
Bring fire here, someone! The flame will now shake out your loyalty.
Huc aliquis ignem! flamma iam excutiet fidem.
Will the truth be sought by ways so bloody? Forgive me, I beg.
Per tam cruentas vera quaerentur vias? ignosce quaeso.
If I seem fierce to you and out of control, vengeance is ready in your hand: speak the truth — who was he? Begotten of what father? Born of what mother?
Si ferus videor tibi et impotens, parata vindicta in manu est: dic vera: quisnam? quove generatus patre? qua matre genitus?
He was born of your wife.
coniuge est genitus tua.
Gape open, earth; and you, lord of the darkness, ruler of the shades, snatch into deepest Tartarus the reversed turns of my race and stock, turned backward. Heap up, citizens, your stones upon my unspeakable head, butcher me with your weapons: let a father seek me with the sword, let a son; let wives arm their hands against me, and brothers; and let the sick people hurl at me the fires snatched from the pyres. I wander, the crime of the age, the gods’ hatred, the ruin of sacred law, worthy of death from the very light on which I first drew my raw breath. Now summon up fierce courage, now dare something worthy of your crimes. Go, on, make for the palace at a hurried step: congratulate your mother on her house increased with children.
Dehisce, tellus, tuque tenebrarum potens, m Tartara ima, rector umbrarum, rape retro reversus generis ac stirpis vices. congerite, cives, saxa in infandum caput, mactate telis: me petat ferro parens, me gnatus, in me coniuges arment manus fratresque, et aeger populus ereptos rogis iaculetur ignes, saeculi crimen vagor, odium deorum, iuris exitium sacri, qua luce primum spiritus hausi rudes iam morte dignus, redde nunc animos † acres, nunc aliquid aude sceleribus dignum tuis. i, perge, propero regiam gressu pete: gratare matri liberis auctam domum.
If I were allowed to shape the fates by my own choosing, I would trim my sails to a light Zephyr, lest the yard-arms, pressed by a heavy blast, should tremble: let a gentle, moderately flowing breeze, not heeling the ship’s side, lead the fearless vessel on; let life, running down its middle road, carry me safe.
Fata si liceat mihi fingere arbitrio meo, temperem zephyro levi vela, ne pressae gravi spiritu antennae tremant: lenis et modice fluens aura nec vergens latus ducat intrepidam ratem; tuta me media vehat vita decurrens via.
Fearing the Knossian king, while the boy madly makes for the stars, trusting in new arts, and strives to outdo the real birds and lords it too much over his false wings, the boy snatched his name for the sea; the cunning old man, Daedalus, balancing a middle course, stood beneath the mid-cloud, waiting for his winged son (as a bird flees the hawk’s threats and gathers her brood, scattered in fear), until in the deep the boy moved his hands tangled in the fetter of the daring road. Whatever has exceeded the mean hangs in an unstable place.
Gnosium regem timens astra dum demens petit artibus fisus novis, certat et veras aves vincere ac falsis nimis imperat pinnis puer, nomen eripuit freto; callidus medium senex Daedalus librans iter nube sub media stetit, alitem expectans suum (qualis accipitris minas fugit et sparsos metu conligit fetus avis), donec in ponto manus movit implicitas puer compede audacis viae. quicquid excessit modum pendet instabili loco.
But what is this? The doors resound; look, a mournful royal servant shakes his head with his hand — tell what news you bring.
Sed quid hoc? postes sonant; maestus en famulus manu regius quassat caput, ede quid portes novi.
After Oedipus caught the foretold fates and his unspeakable birth, and condemned himself, convicted of crime, he made hostile for the palace and entered the hated house at a hurried step, as across the fields a Libyan lion rages, shaking his tawny mane with menacing brow; his face grim with fury and his eyes fierce, a groaning and a deep muttering, and cold sweat flows down his limbs, he foams and rolls out threats, and his great grief, sunk deep, floods over. Savage with himself, he prepares some great thing like to his own fate: “Why do I delay the penalty?” he says; “let someone strike this guilty breast with iron, or master it with burning fire or with stone. What tigress or what savage bird will rush upon my entrails? You yourself, holder of all crimes, cursed Cithaeron, send your beasts against me out of your woods, or send your raving dogs — now bring back Agave. My soul, why fear death? Death alone snatches the innocent from Fortune.”
Praedicta postquam fata et infandum genus deprendit ac se scelere convictum Oedipus damnavit ipse, regiam infestus petens invisa propero tecta penetravit gradu qualis per arva Libycus insanit leo, fulvam minaci fronte concutiens iubam; vultus furore torvus atque oculi truces, gemitus et altum murmur, et gelidus fluit sudor per artus, spumat et volvit minas ac mersus alte magnus exundat dolor. secum ipse saevus grande nescio quid parat suisque fatis simile, ’quid poenas moror?’ ait ’hoc scelestum pectus aut ferro petat, aut fervido aliquis igne vel saxo domet. quae tigris aut quae saeva visceribus meis incurret ales? ipse tu scelerum capax, sacer Cithaeron, vel feras in me tuas emitte silvis, mitte vel rabidos canes nunc redde Agauen. anime, quid mortem times? mors innocentem sola Fortunae eripit.’
Having said this, he fits his unholy hand to the hilt and draws the sword: “So? Do you pay so brief a penalty for crimes so great, and with a single blow weigh out everything? You die: this is enough for your father; but then what will you give to your mother, what to the children brought ill-fated into the light, what to your country itself, which atones for your crime with great ruin and weeps? You cannot pay: let that Nature, who in Oedipus alone overturned her fixed laws, devising new kinds of birth, be made new again for my punishments. Let it be granted to live again and die again, to be reborn forever, that as often you may pay fresh punishments — use your wit, wretch: what cannot happen often, let it happen long; let a long death be chosen, let a road be sought by which, neither mingled with the buried nor yet removed from the living, you may wander: die, but short of your father. Do you hesitate, my soul?” Look, a sudden shower weighs down his face and wets his cheeks with weeping. “And is it enough to weep? Thus far will the eyes pour out their light moisture? Driven from their seats, let them follow their tears: you marriage-gods — is that enough? Let the eyes be dug out!” he said, and rages with wrath: his menacing cheeks burn with a savage fire, and his eyes scarcely hold themselves in their seats; violent his bold face, angry, fierce, wholly that of a madman; he groaned, and with a dreadful roar drove his hands into his face; but in answer his fierce eyes stood out and, straining, of their own accord pursue his hand and meet their own wounding. Greedily with hooked hands he searches out his eyes, and from the deepest root, torn up utterly, he rolls out both balls together; his hand sticks in the empty socket and, fixed deep, with his nails tears the hollow depths of the eyes and the empty cavities, and rages in vain, and storms more than is enough.
haec fatus aptat impiam capulo manum ensemque ducit, ’itane? tam magnis breves poenas sceleribus solvis atque uno omnia pensabis ictu? moreris: hoc patri sat est; quid deinde matri, quid male in lucem editis gnatis, quid ipsi, quae tuum magna luit scelus ruina, flebili patriae dabis? solvendo non es: illa quae leges ratas Natura in uno vertit Oedipoda, novos commenta partus, supplices eadem meis novetur. iterum vivere atque iterum mori liceat, renasci semper ut totiens nova supplicia pendas utere ingenio, miser: quod saepe fieri non potest fiat diu; mors eligatur longa, quaeratur via qua nec sepultis mixtus et vivis tamen exemptus erres: morere, sed citra patrem. cunctaris, anime?’ subitus en vultus gravat profusus imber ac rigat fletu genas. ’et flere satis est? hactenus fundent levem oculi liquorem? sedibus pulsi suis lacrimas sequantur: di maritales. satin? fodiantur oculi!’ dixit atque ira furit: ardent minaces igne truculento genae oculique vix se sedibus retinent suis; violentus audax vultus, iratus ferox, tantum furentis; gemuit et dirum fremens manus in ora torsit, at contra truces oculi steterunt et suam intenti manum ultro insecuntur, vulneri occurrunt suo. scrutatur avidus manibus uncis lumina, radice ab ima funditus vulsos simul evolvit orbes; haeret in vacuo manus et fixa penitus unguibus lacerat cavos alte recessus luminum et inanes sinus, saevitque frustra plusque quam satis est furit.
The risk of light is done with; he lifts his head, and surveying the tracts of sky with his hollow sockets he tests the night. Whatever still hangs ill from the gouged eyes he breaks off, and, victorious, he cries out to all the gods: “Spare, I beg, my country: now I have done justice, I have paid the penalties owed; found at last is a night worthy of my marriage.” A foul shower wets his face, and his mangled head vomits abundant blood from its torn veins.
Factum est periclum lucis; attollit caput cavisque lustrans orbibus caeli plagas noctem experitur. quicquid effossis male dependet oculis rumpit, et victor deos conclamat omnis: ’parcite, en, patriae precor: iam iusta feci, debitas poenas tuli; inventa thalamis digna nox tandem meis. rigat ora foedus imber et lacerum caput largum revulsis sanguinem venis vomit.
By the fates we are driven: yield to the fates; no anxious cares can change the threads of the appointed spindle. Whatever we mortal kind endure, whatever we do, comes from on high, and the distaff keeps the decrees of its own thread, which Lachesis unwinds by no hand. All things go by their appointed path, and the first day has given the last: not even a god may turn aside those things which run on, bound to their own causes. For each there goes a fixed order, moved by no prayer: for many the very fearing has harmed them; many have come to their own fate while they feared the fates.
Fatis agimur: cedite fatis; non sollicitae possunt curae mutare rati stamina fusi. quicquid patimur mortale genus, quicquid facimus venit ex alto, servatque suae decreta colus. Lachesis nulla revoluta manu. omnia secto tramite vadunt primusque dies dedit extremum: non illa deo vertisse licet quae nexa suis currunt causis. it cuique ratus prece non ulla mobilis ordo: multis ipsum metuisse nocet, multi ad fatum venere suum dum fata timent.
The doors have sounded, and he himself, bereft of light, with no guide labors at his road.
Sonuere fores atque ipse suum. duce non ullo molitur iter luminis orbus.
It is well, it is finished: I have paid in full what I owe my father; the darkness pleases me. What god at last, appeased toward me, pours a black cloud over my head? Who pardons my crimes? I have escaped the all-seeing day. You owe nothing, parricide, to your right hand: the light has fled you; this face befits an Oedipus.
Bene habet, peractum est: iusta persolvi patri, iuvant tenebrae, quis deus tandem mihi placatus atra nube perfundit caput? quis scelera donat? conscium evasi diem. nil, parricida, dexterae debes tuae: lux te refugit, vultus Oedipodam hic decet.
But look — with a swift step savage Jocasta leapt out, frenzied, like the stunned and raging Cadmean mother who tore the head from her son and felt it snatched away; she hesitates to address the stricken man, she longs and she fears. Now shame has yielded to her woes, but her first word sticks in her mouth.
En ecce, rapido saeva prosiluit gradu Iocasta vaecors, qualis attonita et furens Cadmea mater abstulit gnato caput sensitque raptum, dubitat afflictum alioqui, cupit pavetque. iam malis cessit pudor,
What shall I call you? My son? Do you hesitate? You are my son: are you ashamed to be my son? Speak, unwilling son — where do you turn your head and your empty face?
set haeret ore prima vox. ioc. Quid te vocem? gnatumue? dubitas? gnatus es: gnatum pudet? invite loquere gnate quo avertis caput vacuosque vultus?
Who forbids me to enjoy the darkness? Who gives back my eyes? My mother’s — look, my mother’s voice! We have wasted our work; it is no longer right for us to meet. Let the vast sea divide us, the unspeakable pair, let a hidden land part us, and let whatever world hangs beneath this one, turned to other stars and an opposite sun, bear one of us away.
Quis frui tenebris vetat? quis reddit oculos? matris, en matris sonus! perdidimus operam, congredi fas amplius haut est. nefandos dividat vastum mare dirimatque tellus abdita et quisquis sub hoc in alia versus sidera ac solem avium dependet orbis alterum ex nobis ferat.
That is the fault of fate: no one is made guilty by fate.
Fati ista culpa est: nemo fit fato nocens.
Now spare your words, mother, and spare my ears: by these remnants of my maimed body I beg you, by the ill-omened pledge of my blood, by all that is right and unspeakable in our name.
Iam parce verbis, mater, et parce auribus: per has reliquias corporis trunci peto, per inauspicatum sanguinis pignus mei, per omne nostri nominis fas ac nefas.
Why, my soul, are you numb? Partner of his crimes, why do you refuse to pay the penalty? Through you, incestuous one, all the glory of human law is confounded and perishes: die, and drive out your accursed breath with iron. Not if the father of the gods himself, shaking the world, should hurl his flashing cruel bolts with savage hand, would I, unspeakable mother, ever pay penalties equal to my crimes. Death is my choice: let a way of death be sought. Come now, lend your mother a hand, if you are a parricide. This last task remains: let the sword be seized; by this iron lies my husband — why do you call him by an untrue name? He is your father-in-law. Shall I drive the weapon into my breast, or press it home into my open throat? You do not know how to choose your wound: this one, my hand, strike this — the roomy womb, which bore husband and sons.
Quid, anime, torpes? socia cur scelerum dare poenas recusas? omne confusum’ perit,, incesta, per te iuris humani decus: morere et nefastum spiritum ferro exige. non si ipse mundum concitans divum sator corusca saeva tela iaculetur manu, umquam rependam sceleribus poenas pares mater nefanda, mors placet: mortis via quaeratur, age dum, commoda matri manum, si parricida es. restat hoc operae ultimum: rapiatur ensis; hoc iacet ferro meus coniunx quid illum nomine haud vero vocas? socer est. utrumne pectori infigam meo telum an patenti conditum iugulo inprimam? eligere nescis vulnus: hunc, dextra, hunc pete.uterum capacem, qui virum et gnatos tulit.
She lies slain. Her hand dies upon the wound, and the excess of blood has thrust the iron out with it.
Iacet perempta. vulneri immoritur manus ferrumque secum nimius eiecit cruor.
You, prophet, you, warden and god of truth, I call to witness: I owed only my father to the fates; twice a parricide, and guiltier than I feared, I have killed my mother: she is undone by my crime. O lying Phoebus, I have outdone the unholy fates.
Fatidice te, te praesidem et veri deum compello: solum debui fatis patrem; bis parricida plusque quam timui nocens matrem peremi: scelere confecta est meo. 0 Phoebe mendax, fata superavi impia.
With trembling step follow the pale roads; lifting your footsteps poised upon their soles, guide your blind night with a shaking right hand. Go forward headlong, setting slippery steps, flee, be gone — stop, lest you fall upon your mother. All you who, weary in body and heavy with disease, drag your half-dead breasts, see, I flee, I go out: lift up your necks; a milder state of heaven follows at my back; whoever, lying low, still holds a thin life, let him lightly draw in the quickening draughts of air. Go, bring help to the abandoned: I carry off with me the deadly plagues of the land. Violent Fate, and the shuddering tremor of Disease, and Wasting, and black Plague, and raving Pain, come with me, with me: I am glad to take you for guides.
Pavitante gressu sequere pallentes vias; suspensa plantis efferens vestigia caecam tremente dextera noctem rege. ingredere praeceps, lubricos ponens gradus, 1 profuge vade siste, ne in matrem incidas, quicumque fessi corpore et morbo graves semanima trahitis pectora, en fugio exeo: relevate colla, mitior caeli status posterga sequitur: quisquis exilem iacens, animam retentat, vividos haustus levis concipiat. ite, ferte depositis opem: mortifera mecum vitia terrarum extraho. violenta Fata et horridus Morbi tremor, Maciesque et atra Pestis et rabidus Dolor, mecum ite, mecum, ducibus his uti libet.