And thought finds not a sword to fray
This hated pestilence from hearth or hall.
Earth’s blossoms blasted fall:
Nor can our women rise
From childbed after pangs and cries;
But flocking more and more
Toward the western shore,
Soul after soul is known to wing her flight,
Swifter than quenchless flame, to the far realm of Night.
So deaths innumerable abound. II 2
My city’s sons unpitied lie around
Over the plague-encumbered ground
And wives and matrons old on every hand
Along the altar-strand
Groaning in saddest grief
Pour supplication for relief.
Loud hymns are sounding clear
With wailing voices near.
Then, golden daughter of the heavenly sire,
Send bright-eyed Succour forth to drive away this fire.
And swiftly speed afar, III 1
Windborne on backward car,
The viewless fiend who scares me with wild cries,
To oarless Thracian tide,
Or ocean-chambers wide,
About the bed where Amphitritè lies.
Day blights what night hath spared. O thou whose hand
Wields lightning, blast him with thy thundrous brand.
Shower from the golden string III 2
Thine arrows Lycian King!
O Phoebè, let thy fiery lances fly
Resistless, as they rove
Through Xanthus’ mountain-grove!
O Theban Bacchus of the lustrous eye,
With torch and trooping Maenads and bright crown
Blaze on the god whom all in Heaven disown.
[Oedipus has entered during the Choral song
