The rude barbarian, from the mines
Of Scythia, o'er the lots presides;
Ruthless to each his share assigns,
And the contested realm divides.
To each allots no wider a domain,
Than on the cold earth, as they lie,
Their breathless bodies occupy,
Regardless of an ampler reign.
Such narrow compass does the sword,
A cruel umpire, their high claims afford.
Conflicting thus in furious mood,
Should each by other's hand be slain,
Should the black fountain of their blood
Spout forth and drench the thirsty plain;
Who shall the solemn expiation pay?
Who with pure lavers cleanse the dead?
Miseries to miseries thus succeed,
And vengeance marks this house her prey,
Swift to chastise the first ill deed;
And the sons' sons in her deep fury bleed.
The first ill deed from Laius sprung;
Thrice from his shrine these words of fate
Awful the Pytliian Phœbus sung,
'Die childless, wouldst thou save the state.'
Urged by his friends, as round the free wine flows,
To Love's forbidden rites he flies.
By the son's hand the father dies,
He in the chaste ground, whence he rose,
Was bold to implant the deadly root,
And madness reared each baleful spreading shoot.
Wide o'er misfortune's surging tide
