And the State sails beneath a sky serene,
Nor in the manifold and battering waves
Hath shipped a single surge, and solid stands
The rampart, and the gates are made secure,
Each with a single champion's trusty guard.
So in the main and at six gates we hold
A victory assured; but, at the seventh,
The god that on the seventh day was born,
Royal Apollo, hath ta'en up his rest
To wreak upon the sons of Oedipus
Their grandsire's wilfulness of long ago.
Chorus
What further woefulness besets our home?
The Spy
The home stands safe—but ah, the princes twain—
Chorus
Who? what of them? I am distraught with fear.
The Spy
Hear now, and mark! the sons of Oedipus—
Chorus
Ah, my prophetic soul! I feel their doom.
The Spy
Have done with questions!—with their lives crushed out—
