Now wretched Oedipus, deprived of sight, Led a long death in everlasting night; 70 But while he dwells where not a cheerful ray Can pierce the darkness, and abhors the day, The clear reflecting mind presents his sin In frightful views, and makes it day within; Returning thoughts in endless circles roll, And thousand Furies haunt his guilty soul: The wretch then lifted to th' unpitying skies Those empty orbs from whence he tore his eyes, Whose wounds, yet fresh, with bloody hands he strook, While from his breast these dreadful accents broke: 80
'Ye gods! that o'er the gloomy regions reign, Where guilty spirits feel eternal pain; Thou, sable Styx! whose livid streams are roll'd Through dreary coasts, which I though blind behold; Tisiphone! that oft hast heard my prayer, Assist, if Oedipus deserve thy care. If you received me from Jocasta's womb, And nursed the hope of mischiefs yet to come; If, leaving Polybus, I took my way To Cyrrha's temple, on that fatal day 90 When by the son the trembling father died, Where the three roads the Phocian fields divide; If I the Sphynx's riddles durst explain, Taught by thyself to win the promised reign; If wretched I, by baleful Furies led, With monstrous mixture stain'd my mother's bed, For hell and thee begot an impious brood, And with full lust those horrid joys renew'd; Then, self-condemn'd to shades of endless night, Forced from these orbs the bleeding balls of sight; 100 Oh, hear! and aid the vengeance I require, If worthy thee, and what thou might'st inspire! My sons their old, unhappy sire despise, Spoil'd of his kingdom, and deprived of eyes; Guideless I wander, unregarded mourn, Whilst these exalt their sceptres o'er my urn: These sons, ye gods! who with flagitious pride Insult my darkness and my groans deride. Art thou a father, unregarding Jove! And sleeps thy thunder in the realms above? 110 Thou Fury! then some lasting curse entail, Which o'er their children's children shall prevail; Place on their heads that crown, distain'd with gore, Which these dire hands from my slain father tore; Go! and a parent's heavy curses bear; Break all the bonds of nature, and prepare Their kindred souls to mutual hate and war. Give them to dare, what I might wish to see, Blind as I am, some glorious villany! Soon shalt thou find, if thou but arm their hands, 120 Their ready guilt preventing thy commands: Couldst thou some great proportion'd mischief frame, They'd prove the father from whose loins they came.'