Behold! self-manifest they come;
They need no harbinger;
A double woe, a mutual doom,
Care that hath slaughtered care.
New sorrows from old sorrows spring,
And both have here their home-bringing.
Ah! pilgrim-ship, your lofty poop
No festal garlands wreathe:
The drowsy sails half idly droop,
And they are dark as death:
Bound where no sunny Cyclads shine,
And bright Apollo hath no shrine.
Waft, waft her down the wind of sighs,
With, speed of plangent hand
Row her beyond these happy skies
Unto the sunless land,—
Where across Acheron voices call,
And region darkness welcomes all.
Enter Antigone and Ismene.
But dearer lips must chant their threnody;
And that unhappy cause
Here to their brethren draws
A sister pair, the maid Antigone,
Ismene by her side. Tears may be sold,
And raiment rent for mercenary gold
And money purchaseth the hireling's cries:
These warm, white breasts shall heave with heartfelt sighs;
