For for thine own most meetly thou wilt care;
But never let this city of my fathers
Be sentenced to receive me as its guest; 1450
But suffer me on yon lone hills to dwell,
On my Kithæron, destined for my tomb,
While still I lived, by mother and by sire,
That I may die by those who sought to kill.
And yet this much I know, that no disease,
Nor aught else could have killed me; ne'er from death
Had I been saved but for some evil dread.
As for our fate, let it go where it will;
But for my children, of my boys, Ο Creon,
Take thou no thought; as men they will not feel, 1460
Where'er they be, the lack of means to live.
But for my two poor girls, all desolate,
To whom my table never brought a meal
Without my presence, but whatever I touched
They still partook of with me;—care for these;
Yea, let me touch them with my hands, and weep
With them my sorrows. Grant it, Ο my prince,
Ο born of noble nature!
Could I but touch them with my hands, I feel
Still I should have them mine, as when I saw. 1470
Enter Antigone and Ismene.
What say I? What is this?
Do I not hear, ye Gods, their dear, loved tones,
Broken with sobs, and Creon, pitying me,
Hath sent the dearest of my children to me?
Is it not so?
Creon. It is so. I am he who gives thee this,
Knowing the joy thou had'st in them of old.
Œdip. A blessing on thee! May the Powers on high
Guard thy path better than they guarded mine!
