Then leaned against his sword with all his weight
And drove full half the blade into his side;
Then conscious still he in his faint
Embrace the maiden folded, gasping, while
A perfect stream of blood on her white cheek
Shot forth and dyed it to a crimson hue.
A corpse enclosing corpse he lies, his bride
And he united—in the halls of Death;
And he has shown to all the world, no ill
That man is heir to transcends thoughtlessness.
Ch. Leader. What can this mean? The lady has gone back
Into the house without a single word.
Messenger. I, too, am all amaze; yet cherish I
The hope that, hearing of her son’s sad fate,
She deems it quite unseemly to parade
Her grief before the people, but retired
Within the house, will make loud lamentation,
With handmaids following in mournful strain.
By judgment taught, she’s too discreet to err.
Ch. Leader. Perhaps; excessive silence though to me
Seems perilous, as well as loud lament.
Messenger. Well, we shall soon discover whether we
Are justified in fearing that concealed
In her afflicted heart she aught restrains,
For I shall go and see—yes, you are right—
Excessive silence, too, is perilous.
Chorus. Lo, yonder the monarch himself draws near,
A memorial bearing all too clear
Of the sin of his own infatuate mind:
His own, not another’s misdeed, here I find.
FIRST STROPHE.
Creon. Woe is me! Woe!
Oh, the sins of my misguided mind,
