John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  As to a visible divinity;

  A prince, on whom heaven safely might repose

  The business of mankind; for Providence

  Might on thy careful bosom sleep secure,

  And leave her task to thee.

  But where’s the glory of thy former acts?

  Even that’s destroyed, when none shall live to speak it.

  Millions of subjects shalt thou have; but mute.

  A people of the dead; a crowded desert;

  A midnight silence at the noon of day.

  Œdip. O were our gods as ready with their pity,

  As I with mine, this presence should be thronged

  With all I left alive; and my sad eyes

  Not search in vain for friends, whose promised sight

  Flattered my toils of war.

  Pr. Twice our deliverer!

  Œdip. Nor are now your vows

  Addrest to one who sleeps.

  When this unwelcome news first reached my ears,

  Dymas was sent to Delphos, to enquire

  The cause and cure of this contagious ill,

  And is this day returned; but, since his message

  Concerns the public, I refused to hear it

  But in this general presence: Let him speak.

  Dym. A dreadful answer from the hallowed urn,

  And sacred tripos, did the priestess give,

  In these mysterious words.

  The Oracle. Shed in a cursed hour, by cursed hand,

  Blood-royal unrevenged has cursed the land.

  When Laius’ death is expiated well,

  Your plague shall cease. The rest let Laius tell.

  Œdip. Dreadful indeed! Blood, and a king’s blood too!

  And such a king’s, and by his subjects shed!

  (Else why this curse on Thebes?) No wonder then

  If monsters, wars, and plagues, revenge such crimes!

  If heaven be just, its whole artillery,

  All must be emptied on us: Not one bolt

  Shall err from Thebes; but more be called for, more;

  New-moulded thunder of a larger size,

  Driven by whole Jove. What, touch anointed power!

  Then, Gods, beware; Jove would himself be next,

  Could you but reach him too.

  Pr. We mourn the sad remembrance.

  Œdip. Well you may;

  Worse than a plague infects you: You’re devoted

  To mother earth, and to the infernal powers;

  Hell has a right in you. I thank you, gods,

  That I’m no Theban born: How my blood curdles!

  As if this curse touched me, and touched me nearer

  Than all this presence! — Yes, ’tis a king’s blood,

  And I, a king, am tied in deeper bonds

  To expiate this blood. But where, from whom,

  Or how must I atone it? Tell me, Thebans,

  How Laius fell; for a confused report

  Passed through my ears, when first I took the crown;

  But full of hurry, like a morning dream,

  It vanished in the business of the day.

  Pr. He went in private forth, but thinly followed,

  And ne’er returned to Thebes.

  Œdip. Nor any from him? came there no attendant?

  None to bring news?

  Pr. But one; and he so wounded,

  He scarce drew breath to speak some few faint words.

  Œdip. What were they? something may be learnt from thence.

  Pr. He said, a band of robbers watched their passage,

  Who took advantage of a narrow way,

  To murder Laius and the rest; himself

  Left too for dead.

  Œdip. Made you no more enquiry,

  But took this bare relation?

  Pr. ’Twas neglected;

  For then the monster Sphinx began to rage,

  And present cares soon buried the remote:

  So was it hushed, and never since revived.

  Œdip. Mark, Thebans, mark!

  Just then, the Sphinx began to rage among you;

  The gods took hold even of the offending minute,

  And dated thence your woes: Thence will I trace them.

  Pr. ’Tis just thou should’st.

  Œdip. Hear then this dreadful imprecation; hear it;

  ’Tis laid on all; not any one exempt:

  Bear witness, heaven, avenge it on the perjured!

  If any Theban born, if any stranger

  Reveal this murder, or produce its author,

  Ten attick talents be his just reward:

  But if, for fear, for favour, or for hire,

  The murderer he conceal, the curse of Thebes

  Fall heavy on his head: Unite our plagues,

  Ye gods, and place them there: From fire and water,

  Converse, and all things common, be he banished.

  But for the murderer’s self, unfound by man,

  Find him, ye powers celestial and infernal!

  And the same fate, or worse than Laius met,

  Let be his lot: His children be accurst;

  His wife and kindred, all of his, be cursed!

  Both Pr. Confirm it, heaven!

  Enter Jocasta, attended by Women.

  Joc. At your devotions? Heaven succeed your wishes;

  And bring the effect of these your pious prayers

  On you, and me, and all.

  Pr. Avert this omen, heaven!

  Œdip. O fatal sound! unfortunate Jocasta!

  What hast thou said! an ill hour hast thou chosen

  For these fore-boding words! why, we were cursing!

  Joc. Then may that curse fall only where you laid it.

  Œdip. Speak no more!

  For all thou say’st is ominous: We were cursing;

  And that dire imprecation has thou fastened

  On Thebes, and thee, and me, and all of us.

  Joc. Are then my blessings turned into a curse?

  O unkind Œdipus! My former lord

  Thought me his blessing; be thou like my Laius.

  Œdip. What, yet again? the third time hast thou cursed me:

  This imprecation was for Laius’ death,

  And thou hast wished me like him.

  Joc. Horror seizes me!

  Œdip. Why dost thou gaze upon me? pr’ythee, love,

  Take off thy eye; it burdens me too much.

  Joc. The more I look, the more I find of Laius:

  His speech, his garb, his action; nay, his frown, —

  For I have seen it, — but ne’er bent on me.

  Œdip. Are we so like?

  Joc. In all things but his love.

  Œdip. I love thee more: So well I love, words cannot speak how well.

  No pious son e’er loved his mother more,

  Than I my dear Jocasta.

  Joc. I love you too

  The self-same way; and when you chid, methought

  A mother’s love start up in your defence,

  And bade me not be angry. Be not you;

  For I love Laius still, as wives should love;

  But you more tenderly, as part of me:

  And when I have you in my arms, methinks

  I lull my child asleep.

  Œdip. Then we are blest;

  And all these curses sweep along the skies

  Like empty clouds, but drop not on our heads.

  Joc. I have not joyed an hour since you departed,

  For public miseries, and for private fears;

  But this blest meeting has o’er-paid them all.

  Good fortune, that comes seldom, comes more welcome.

  All I can wish for now, is your consent

  To make my brother happy.

  Œdip. How, Jocasta?

  Joc. By marriage with his niece, Eurydice.

  Œdip. Uncle and niece! they are too near, my love;

  ’Tis too like incest; ’tis offence to kind:

  Had I not promised, were there no Adr
astus,

  No choice but Creon left her of mankind,

  They should not marry: Speak no more of it;

  The thought disturbs me.

  Joc. Heaven can never bless

  A vow so broken, which I made to Creon;

  Remember, he is my brother.

  Œdip. That is the bar;

  And she thy daughter: Nature would abhor

  To be forced back again upon herself,

  And, like a whirlpool, swallow her own streams.

  Joc. Be not displeased: I’ll move the suit no more.

  Œdip. No, do not; for, I know not why, it shakes me,

  When I but think on incest. Move we forward,

  To thank the gods for my success, and pray

  To wash the guilt of royal blood away.[Exeunt.

  ACT II.

  SCENE I. — An open Gallery. A Royal Bed-chamber being supposed behind.

  The Time, Night. Thunder, &c.

  Enter Hæmon, Alcander, and Pyracmon.

  Hæm. Sure ’tis the end of all things! fate has torn

  The lock of time off, and his head is now

  The ghastly ball of round eternity!

  Call you these peals of thunder, but the yawn

  Of bellowing clouds? By Jove, they seem to me

  The world’s last groans; and those vast sheets of flame

  Are its last blaze. The tapers of the gods,

  The sun and moon, run down like waxen-globes;

  The shooting stars end all in purple jellies,

  And chaos is at hand.

  Pyr. ’Tis midnight, yet there’s not a Theban sleeps,

  But such as ne’er must wake. All crowd about

  The palace, and implore, as from a god,

  Help of the king; who, from the battlement,

  By the red lightning’s glare descried afar,

  Atones the angry powers.[Thunder, &c.

  Hæm. Ha! Pyracmon, look;

  Behold, Alcander, from yon’ west of heaven,

  The perfect figures of a man and woman;

  A sceptre, bright with gems, in each right hand,

  Their flowing robes of dazzling purple made:

  Distinctly yonder in that point they stand,

  Just west; a bloody red stains all the place;

  And see, their faces are quite hid in clouds.

  Pyr. Clusters of golden stars hang o’er their heads,

  And seem so crowded, that they burst upon them:

  All dart at once their baleful influence,

  In leaking fire.

  Alc. Long-bearded comets stick,

  Like flaming porcupines, to their left sides,

  As they would shoot their quills into their hearts.

  Hæm. But see! the king, and queen, and all the court!

  Did ever day or night shew aught like this? [Thunders again. The Scene draws, and discovers the Prodigies.

  Enter Œdipus, Jocasta, Eurydice, Adrastus; and all coming forward with amazement.

  Œdip. Answer, you powers divine! spare all this noise,

  This rack of heaven, and speak your fatal pleasure.

  Why breaks yon dark and dusky orb away?

  Why from the bleeding womb of monstrous night,

  Burst forth such myriads of abortive stars?

  Ha! my Jocasta, look! the silver moon!

  A settling crimson stains her beauteous face!

  She’s all o’er blood! and look, behold again,

  What mean the mystic heavens she journies on?

  A vast eclipse darkens the labouring planet: —

  Sound there, sound all our instruments of war;

  Clarions and trumpets, silver, brass, and iron,

  And beat a thousand drums, to help her labour.

  Adr. ’Tis vain; you see the prodigies continue;

  Let’s gaze no more, the gods are humorous.

  Œdip. Forbear, rash man. — Once more I ask your pleasure!

  If that the glow-worm light of human reason

  Might dare to offer at immortal knowledge,

  And cope with gods, why all this storm of nature?

  Why do the rocks split, and why rolls the sea?

  Why those portents in heaven, and plagues on earth?

  Why yon gigantic forms, ethereal monsters?

  Alas! is all this but to fright the dwarfs,

  Which your own hands have made? Then be it so.

  Or if the fates resolve some expiation

  For murdered Laius; hear me, hear me, gods!

  Hear me thus prostrate: Spare this groaning land,

  Save innocent Thebes, stop the tyrant death;

  Do this, and lo, I stand up an oblation,

  To meet your swiftest and severest anger;

  Shoot all at once, and strike me to the centre.

  The Cloud draws, that veiled the Heads of the Figures in the Sky, and shews them crowned, with the names of Œdipus and Jocasta, written above in great characters of gold.

  Adr. Either I dream, and all my cooler senses

  Are vanished with that cloud that fleets away,

  Or just above those two majestic heads,

  I see, I read distinctly, in large gold,

  Œdipus and Jocasta.

  Alc. I read the same.

  Adr. ’Tis wonderful; yet ought not man to wade

  Too far in the vast deep of destiny. [Thunder; and the Prodigies vanish.

  Joc. My lord, my Œdipus, why gaze you now,

  When the whole heaven is clear, as if the gods

  Had some new monsters made? will you not turn,

  And bless your people, who devour each word

  You breathe?

  Œdip. It shall be so.

  Yes, I will die, O Thebes, to save thee!

  Draw from my heart my blood, with more content

  Than e’er I wore thy crown. — Yet, O Jocasta!

  By all the endearments of miraculous love,

  By all our languishings, our fears in pleasure,

  Which oft have made us wonder; here I swear,

  On thy fair hand, upon thy breast I swear,

  I cannot call to mind, from budding childhood

  To blooming youth, a crime by me committed,

  For which the awful gods should doom my death.

  Joc. ’Tis not you, my lord,

  But he who murdered Laius, frees the land.

  Were you, which is impossible, the man,

  Perhaps my poniard first should drink your blood;

  But you are innocent, as your Jocasta,

  From crimes like those. This made me violent

  To save your life, which you unjust would lose:

  Nor can you comprehend, with deepest thought,

  The horrid agony you cast me in,

  When you resolved to die.

  Œdip. Is’t possible?

  Joc. Alas! why start you so? Her stiffening grief,

  Who saw her children slaughtered all at once,

  Was dull to mine: Methinks, I should have made

  My bosom bare against the armed god,

  To save my Œdipus!

  Œdip. I pray, no more.

  Joc. You’ve silenced me, my lord.

  Œdip. Pardon me, dear Jocasta!

  Pardon a heart that sinks with sufferings,

  And can but vent itself in sobs and murmurs:

  Yet, to restore my peace, I’ll find him out.

  Yes, yes, you gods! you shall have ample vengeance

  On Laius’ murderer. O, the traitor’s name!

  I’ll know’t, I will; art shall be conjured for it,

  And nature all unravelled.

  Joc. Sacred sir —

  Œdip. Rage will have way, and ’tis but just; I’ll fetch him,

  Though lodged in air upon a dragon’s wing,

  Though rocks should hide him: Nay, he shall be dragged

  From hell, if charms can hurry him along:

  His ghost shall be, by sage Tiresias’ power, —

  Tiresias, that
rules all beneath the moon, —

  Confined to flesh, to suffer death once more;

  And then be plunged in his first fires again.

  Enter Creon.

  Cre. My lord,

  Tiresias attends your pleasure.

  Œdip. Haste, and bring him in. —

  O, my Jocasta, Eurydice, Adrastus,

  Creon, and all ye Thebans, now the end

  Of plagues, of madness, murders, prodigies,

  Draws on: This battle of the heavens and earth

  Shall by his wisdom be reduced to peace.

  Enter Tiresias, leaning on a staff, led by his Daughter Manto, followed by other Thebans.

  O thou, whose most aspiring mind

  Knows all the business of the courts above,

  Opens the closets of the gods, and dares

  To mix with Jove himself and Fate at council;

  O prophet, answer me, declare aloud

  The traitor, who conspired the death of Laius;

  Or be they more, who from malignant stars

  Have drawn this plague, that blasts unhappy Thebes?

  Tir. We must no more than Fate commissions us

  To tell; yet something, and of moment, I’ll unfold,

  If that the god would wake; I feel him now,

  Like a strong spirit charmed into a tree,

  That leaps, and moves the wood without a wind:

  The roused god, as all this while he lay

  Entombed alive, starts and dilates himself;

  He struggles, and he tears my aged trunk

  With holy fury; my old arteries burst;

  My rivell’d skin,

  Like parchment, crackles at the hallowed fire;

  I shall be young again: — Manto, my daughter,

  Thou hast a voice that might have saved the bard

  Of Thrace, and forced the raging bacchanals,

  With lifted prongs, to listen to thy airs.

  O charm this god, this fury in my bosom,

  Lull him with tuneful notes, and artful strings,

  With powerful strains; Manto, my lovely child,

  Sooth the unruly godhead to be mild.

  SONG TO APOLLO.

  Phœbus, god beloved by men,

  At thy dawn, every beast is roused in his den;

  At thy setting, all the birds of thy absence complain,

  And we die, all die, till the morning comes again.

  Phœbus, god beloved by men!

  Idol of the eastern kings,

  Awful as the god who flings

  His thunder round, and the lightning wings;

  God of songs, and Orphean strings,

  Who to this mortal bosom brings

  All harmonious heavenly things!

  Thy drowsy prophet to revive,

  Ten thousand thousand forms before him drive:

  With chariots and horses all o’fire awake him,

  Convulsions, and furies, and prophesies shake him: