VOLTAIRE: 60+ Works in One Volume - Philosophical Writings, Novels, Historical Works, Poetry, Plays & Letters. Вольтер. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Вольтер
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to the power supreme, who means to try

       His people by affliction; with a word

       He can destroy, and with a word can save:

       He knows that death is here; the cries of Thebes

       Have reached his throne. Behold! the king approaches,

       And heaven by me declares its will divine;

       The fates will soon to Œdipus unveil

       Their mysteries all, and happier days succeed.

      SCENE III.

       Table of Contents

      œdipus, jocaste, high priest, ægina, dimas, araspes, chorus.

      œdipus.

       O ye, who to this hallowed temple bring

       The mournful offering of your tears: O what,

       What shall I say to my afflicted people?

       Would I could turn the wrath of angry heaven

       Against myself, and quench the deadly flame?

       But O! in universal ills like these,

       Kings are but men, and only can partake

       The common danger. Say, thou minister

       Of the just gods, say, do they still refuse

       To hear the voice of misery; still relentless

       Will they behold us perish, are they deaf

       And silent still?

      high priest.

       King, people, listen all:

       This night did I behold the flame of heaven

       Descending on our altars; to my eyes

       The ghastly shade of Laius then appeared,

       Indignant frowned upon me, and thus spoke

       In fearful accents, terrible to hear:

       “The death of Laius is still unrevenged,

       The murderer lives in Thebes, and doth infect

       The wholesome air with his malignant breath;

       He must be known, he must be punished,

       And on his fate depends the people’s safety.”

      œdipus.

       Justly ye suffer, Thebans, for this crime;

       Laius was once your loved and honored king,

       And your neglect hath from his manes drawn

       This vengeance on you. Such is oft the fate

       Of the best sovereigns; whilst they live, respect

       Waits on their laws, their justice is admired,

       And they like gods are served, like gods adored;

       But after death they sink into oblivion.

       No longer then your flattering incense burns:

       The servile mind of wretched man still bends

       To interest; and when virtue is departed,

       ’Tis soon forgotten: therefore doth the blood

       Of murdered Laius now cry out against you,

       And sues for vengeance to offended heaven.

       To sprinkle on his tomb the murderer’s blood

       Will better far than slaughtered hecatombs

       Appease his spirit: be it all our care

       To seek the guilty wretch. Can none remember

       Aught touching this sad deed? Amidst your signs

       And wonders, could no footsteps e’er be traced

       Of this unpunished crime? They always told me

       It was a Theban, who against his prince

       Uplifted his rebellious hand. For me [To Jocaste.

       Who from thy hands received the crown, two years

       After the death of Laius did I mount

       The throne of Thebes, and never since that hour

       Would I recall the subject of thy tears,

       But in respectful silence waited still;

       Still have thy dangers busied all my soul,

       Nor left me time to think on aught but thee.

      jocaste.

       When fate, which had reserved me for thy arms,

       Deprived me of my late unhappy lord,

       Who, journeying o’er his kingdom’s frontiers, fell

       By base assassins, Phorbas then alone

       Attended him, his loved and valued friend;

       To whom the king, relying on his wisdom,

       Entrusted half his power: he brought to Thebes

       The mangled corpse: himself half dead with wounds,

       And bathed in blood, fell at Jocaste’s feet;

       “Villains unknown,” he cried, “have slain the king;

       These eyes beheld it: I was dying too,

       But heaven hath restored me to prolong

       A wretched life.” He said no more. My soul

       Distracted saw the melancholy truth

       Was still concealed; and therefore heaven perhaps

       Concealed the murderer too; perhaps accomplished

       Its own eternal will, and made us guilty,

       That it might punish. Soon the sphinx appeared,

       And laid our country waste: then hapless Thebes,

       Attentive to her safety, could not think

       On Laius’ fate, whilst trembling for her own.

      œdipus.

       Where is that faithful Phorbas? lives he still?

      jocaste.

       Alas! his zeal and service ill repaid,

       Too powerful to be loved, the jealous state

       His secret foe, nobles and people joined

       To punish him for past felicity.

       The multitude accused him, even demanded

       Of me his death: sore pressed on every side,

       I knew not how to pardon or condemn,

       But to a neighboring castle I conveyed him,

       And hid the guiltless victim from their rage.

       There four long winters hath the poor old man,

       To future favorites a sad example,

       Without a murmur or complaint remained,

       And hopes from innocence alone release.

      œdipus.

       It is enough, Jocaste. Fly, begone,

       [To his servants.

       Open the prison, bring him hither straight,

       We will examine him before you all;

       Laius and Thebes shall be avenged together:

       Yes, we will hear and judge, will sound the depth

       Of this strange mystery. Ye gods of Thebes,

       Who hear our prayers, and know the murderer, now

       Reveal, and punish; and thou, Sun, withhold

       From his dark eyes thy blessed light! proscribed,

       Abandoned,