Oh, the son, and the sire, rash, blind,
Behold! The slayer and slain!
Woe! Woe is me!
What have I won
By my stern decree?
O, my dear son!
Here in thy youth
Thou hast died,
And now of a truth,
Since life is denied,
Thee to death I consign.
Alas, Alas!
Now thou art gone,
Thou art dead!
Thy spirit has fled,
And slain, O my son,
By my folly, not thine!
Chorus. Ah me, how all too late thou seest the right!
SECOND STROPHE.
Creon. Ah me!
I have the bitter lesson fully learned.
Yet a god, methinks, fair boy
Downsmote me then, smote me full on the head
With crushing force—
Oh, the remorse!—
And thrust me in paths that to cruelty led,
O’erturning, downtrampling my joy.
Woe! Woe for mortals who pain for their actions have earned.
Messenger. (from the house). My lord, in hand, in store, abundant woes
Hast thou—this burden thou dost bear with thee,
And more within the house thou ’rt soon to see.
Creon. What worser ill is now to follow this?
Messenger. The queen is dead, true mother of the dead,
Death dealt the blow but now—her soul has fled.
