Antigone.
So might we wrangle on!
And so should wrangling still have the last word!
Herald.
Then I have done; reck thine own rede and rue it!
Chorus.
What sorrow like thine is!
And ye angry ghosts,
Blood-boltered Erinys,
Loud, loud are your boasts!
Race-wreckers, your feet have not tarried!
The tree-root and branch lies shattered!
The ruins of Œdipus' line
With the dust of its dead shall be scattered!
And how shall my heart incline?
On thy poor corse shall I shed no tear?
Shall I not walk before thy bier
When thou to the grave art carried?
Ah! maugre all pity,
I am afraid!
From the wrath of the city
My soul shrinks dismayed!
New sorrow is here for my grieving!
Yea! for there shall not fail thee
The meed of a multitude's tears!
Thou shalt have many to wail thee,
Lost in the wreck of the years!
