At last was Oedipus, woe-fated, bound
From Pytho, hither led,—
Our joy, but soon our grief,—who, triumph-crowned
From that dark riddle read,
Wretch, in ill bridal made his mother wife,
Polluted Thebes, and banned1050
His sons to stain in this accursèd strife
With brother-blood the hand.
Praise to him, praise, who unto death is faring,
Yea, for his land to die,
Leaving to Kreon moans of love's despairing,
But setting victory
For crown upon the city seven-gated!
Ah, may such noble son
To bless mine happy motherhood be fated,
O Pallas, gracious one!—1060
Pallas, of whom the sudden stone leapt, spilling
The dragon-warder's blood:
Thou gav'st the thought the heart of Kadmus thrilling
To dare the deed whence rushed, with ravin filling
The land, a God's curse-flood.
Enter Messenger.
Messenger.
Ho there! Who standeth at the palace-gate?
Open ye, bring Jocasta forth her bowers.
Ho there, again! Though late, yet come thou forth:
Hearken, renowned wife of Oedipus;1070
Cease from thy wailings and thy tears of grief.
Enter Jocasta.
Jocasta.
Friend—friend!—thou com'st not sure with ill news fraught
