sepulchre." Then came the sound of subterranean thunder; and the wanderer, recognising the sign, had clasped his daughters in a last passionate embrace, as they clung to him, wailing in grief and terror:—
"But when their piercing cries an instant ceased,
And the first thrill was hushed, silence ensued—
A silence, oh, how awful! From beneath,
With deep mysterious voice, called one unseen.
Again and yet again the god exclaimed:
'Come, Œdipus, why pause we to depart?
Come, Œdipus, for thou hast tarried long.'"—(D.)
Then Œdipus bids all leave the spot, save Theseus only; and when, after a short interval, they return, the Athenian king is found alone, shading his eyes as if dazzled by some unearthly vision, and then prostrating himself in fervent prayer to the gods of light and day. He alone has seen and knows the manner of the death of Œdipus—
"For neither was it thunderbolt from God,
With flashing fire that slew him, nor the blast
Of whirlwind sweeping o'er the sea's dark waves;
But either some one whom the gods had sent
To guide his steps, or gentleness of mood
Had moved the Powers beneath to ope the way
To earth's deep centre painlessly. He died
No death to mourn for—did not leave the world
Worn out with pain and sickness; but his end,
If any ever was, was wonderful."—(P.)[1]
- ↑ The following is De Quincey's eloquent description of this "call," like nothing else in history or fiction. "What language of earth or trumpet of heaven could decipher the woe of that unfathomable call, when from the depth of the ancient
