CADMUS

’Twas thou didst slay him, thou and thine own sisters.

AGAVE

Where died he? In his palace? In what place?

CADMUS

There where the dogs Actæon tore in pieces.

AGAVE

Why to Cithæron went the ill-fated man?

CADMUS

To mock the god, to mock the orgies there.

AGAVE

But how and wherefore had we thither gone?

CADMUS

In madness! — the whole city maddened with thee.

AGAVE

Dionysus hath destroyed us! Late I learn it.

CADMUS

Mocked with dread mockery; no god ye held him.

AGAVE

Father! Where’s the dear body of my son?

CADMUS

I bear it here, not found without much toil,

AGAVE

Are all the limbs together, sound and whole?

And Pentheus, shared he in my desperate fury?

CADMUS

Like thee he was, he worshipped not the god.

All, therefore, are enwrapt in one dread doom.

You, he, in whom hath perished all our house,

And I who, childless of male offspring, see

This single fruit — O miserable! — of thy womb

Thus shamefully, thus lamentably dead —

Thy son, to whom our house looked up, the stay

Of all our palace he, my daughter’s son,

The awe of the whole city. None would dare

Insult the old man when thy fearful face

He saw, well knowing he would pay the penalty.

Unhonoured now, I am driven from out mine home;

Cadmus the great, who all the race of Thebes

Sowed in the earth, and reaped that harvest fair.

O best beloved of men, thou art now no more,

Yet still art dearest of my children thou!

No more, this grey beard fondling with thine hand,

Wilt call me thine own grandsire, thou sweet child,

And fold me round and say, “Who doth not honour thee?

Old man, who troubles or afflicts thine heart?

Tell me, that I may ’venge thy wrong, my father!”

Now wretchedst of men am I. Thou pitiable —

More pitiable thy mother — sad thy kin.

O if there be who scorneth the great gods,

Gaze on this death, and know that there are gods.

CHORUS

Cadmus, I grieve for thee. Thy daughter’s son

Hath his just doom — just, but most piteous.

AGAVE

Father, thou seest how all is changed with me:

I am no more the Mænad dancing blithe,

I am but the feeble, fond,and desolate mother.

I know, I see — ah, knowledge best unknown!

Sight best unseen! — I see, I know my son,

Mine only son! — alas! no more my son.

O beauteous limbs, that in my womb I bare!

O head, that on my lap wast wont to sleep!

O lips, that from my bosom’s swelling fount

Drained the delicious and soft-oozing milk!

O hands, whose first use was to fondle me!

O feet, that were so light to run to me!

O gracious form, that men wondering beheld!

O haughty brow, before which Thebes bowed down!

O majesty! O strength! by mine own hands —

By mine own murderous, sacrilegious hands —