And strange is the Lord of Division, who cleaveth the birthright in
twain,-
The edged thing, born of the north, the steel that is ruthless and
keen,
Dividing in bitter division the lot of the children of
teen!
Not the wide lowland around, the realm of their sire, shall they
have,
Yet enough for the dead to inherit, the pitiful space of a grave!
strophe
2
Ah, but when kin meets kin, when sire and child,
Unknowing, are defiled
By shedding common blood, and when the pit
Of death devoureth it,
Drinking the clotted stain, the gory dye-
Who, who can purify?
Who cleanse pollution, where the ancient bane
Rises and reeks again?
antistrophe 2
Whilome in olden days the sin was wrought,
And swift requital brought-
Yea on the children of the child came still
New heritage of ill!
For thrice Apollo spoke this word divine,
From Delphi's central shrine,
To Laius-Die thou childless! thus alone
Can the land's weal be won!
Studies
