Seven Against Thebes

Aeschylus

Aeschylus, Volume 1. Smyth, Herbert Weir, translator. London; New York: William Heinemann; G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1922.

  1. The curseful utterance of their father has done its work and not fallen short. Laius’ plans, made in disobedience, have kept their force. I am anxious for our city; divine decrees do not lose their edge. The funeral procession with the bodies of the brothers comes into view.
Chorus
  1. O bringers of immense grief, you have done in this a deed beyond belief, yet lamentable troubles have indeed come.
  1. The events are self-evident; the messenger’s report is plain to see. Twofold is our distress—double disaster
  2. of kindred murder, this double suffering has come to fulfillment. What shall I say? What else indeed than that sorrow born of sorrows surround this house’s hearth? But sail upon the wind of lamentation, my friends,
  3. and about your head row with your hands’ rapid stroke in conveyance of the dead,[*](As the souls of the brothers are now being conveyed across Acheron in Charon’s boat, the Chorus in imagination aid their passage by the ritual of mourning. Their song of lamentation stands for the wind, the beating of their heads by their hands are the strokes of the oars. Contrasted with the grim vessel that transports all spirits to the sunless land of Hades, is the ship that goes to the festival at Delos, the clearly-seen island, the land of Apollo, god of light and health.) that stroke which always causes the sacred slack-sailed, black-clothed ship to pass over Acheron to the unseen land where Apollo does not walk,
  4. the sunless land that receives all men. But here come Antigone and Ismene to do their bitter duty, the dirge over their brothers both. With all sincerity, I think, will they
  5. pour forth their fitting grief from their lovely, deep-bosomed breasts. But it is right for us, before their singing, to cry out the awful hymn of the Erinys and thereafter
  6. sing the hated victory song of Hades. Ah, sisters most unfortunate in your kin of all women who clasp their girdle about their robes, I weep, I groan, and there is no feigning in the shrill cries that come straight from my heart.
Chorus
  1. Ah, pity you senseless men, whom friends could not persuade and evils could not wear down! To your misery you have captured your father’s house with the spear.