behind them in robes of mourning, and behind these again stand the multitude of Theban citizens. As we contemplate this grand tableau of sorrow, the Chorus, divided into two bands, express the general feeling. The varied music gives interest and beauty to words which in themselves are dull and monotonous. Repetition is characteristic of lamentation. The mourner has only one feeling to express, and cares little to find new words to express it; he gets little further than, "O my son, Absalom! O Absalom, my son, my son!" But the song ends with words of rest, though it is the rest of the exhausted storm.
"It falls, the royal house, it falls;
Ruin lords it o'er the walls,—
And the Furies howl around,
Notes of shrill, soul-piercing sound.
Slaughter reeking yet with gore,
Raises high each gate before,
Where they fought, and where they bled,
Trophies of the mighty dead;
And, the rival chief subdued,
Ceases from her work of blood."
Then Antigone and Ismene come forward, and take up their places, Antigone by the corpse of Polynices, and Ismene by that of Eteocles; and there, in short answering cries, lament for their dead brothers. Here we see the systematic wailing of those mourning women, "the women and the minstrels making a noise," whose services were and still are constantly employed in the East. The words are nothing—it is the series of sudden piercing cries that so forcibly expresses grief.
