Where are ye now, mistaken oracles!
That shook my timid virtue, and foretold
That I should prove a guilty parricide?
My father's dead, ye meant but to deceive me;
These hands are not polluted with his blood:
The slave of error, I have wandered long
In darkness, busied in a fruitless toil,
And to remove imaginary ills,
Have made my life a scene of real woes,
The offspring of my fond credulity.
How deep must be the color of my fate
When miseries like this can bring relief!
Bliss spring from sorrow, and a father's death
Shall be accepted as the gift of heaven!
But I must hence, and to his ashes pay
The tribute due:—ha! silent, and in tears!
ICARUS.
Ought I to speak? O heaven!
ŒDIPUS.
Hast thou aught more
Of ill to tell me?
ICARUS.
For a moment grant me
Your private ear.
ŒDIPUS.
Retire.— [To the attendants.
What can this mean?
ICARUS.
Think not of Corinth: thither, if thou goest,
Thy death is certain.
