Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ANTIGONE, by MARY RUSSELL MITFORD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ANTIGONE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Twas noon; beneath the ardent ray / proud thebes in all her glory lay
Last Line: The royal virgin passed to death.


'T was noon; beneath the ardent ray
Proud Thebes in all her glory lay;
On pillar'd porch, on marble wall,
On temple, portico and hall,
The summer sunbeams gaily fall;
Bathing, as in a flood of light,
Each sculptur'd frieze and column bright.
Dirce's pure stream meanders there,
A silver mirror clear and fair;
Now giving back the deep-blue sky,
And now the city proud and high,
And now the sacred grove;
And sometimes on its wave a shade,
Making the light more lovely, play'd,
When some close-brooding dove
Flew from her nest, on rapid wing,
For needful food across the spring,
Or sought her home of love.
The very air in that calm hour,
Seem'd trembling with the conscious power
Of its own balminess;
The herbage, if by light foot press'd,
Sent up sweet odours from its breast; --
Sure, if coy happiness
E'er dwelt on earth, 't was in that clime
Of beauty, in that noon-day prime
Of thrilling pleasantness!

But who are they before the gate
Of Thebes conven'd in silent state?
Sad, grey-hair'd men, with looks bow'd down,
Slaves to a tyrant's haughty frown;
And he the wicked king, and she
The royal maid Antigone,
Passing to death. Awhile she laid
Her clasp'd hands on her heart, and stay'd
Her firmer step, as if to look
On the fair world which she forsook;
And then the sunbeams on her face
Fell, as on sculptur'd Nymph or Grace,
Lighting her features with a glow
That seemed to mock their patient woe.

She stay'd her onward step, and stood
A moment's space; -- oh, what a flood
Of recollected anguish stole
In that brief moment o'er her soul!
The concentrated grief of years,
The mystery, horror, guilt and tears,
The story of her life past by,
E'en in the heaving of a sigh!

She thought upon the blissful hour
Of infancy, when, as a flower
Set in the sun, she grew,
Without a fear, without a care,
Enjoying, innocent and fair,
As buoyant as the mountain air,
As pure as morning dew;
'Till burst at once like lightning's flame,
The tale we tremble but to name,
Of them from whom her being came,
Poor OEdipus, and one,
The wretched yet unconscious dame,
Who wedded with her son!

Then horror fast on horror rose:
She maddening died beneath her woes,
Whilst crownless, sightless, hopeless, he
Dared to outlive that agony.
Through many a trackless path and wild
The blind man and his duteous child
Wandered, 'till pitying Theseus gave
The shelter brief, the mystic grave.
One weary heart finds rest at last:
But, when to Thebes the midden pass'd,
The god's stern wrath was there: --
Her brothers each by other slain,
And one upon the bloody plain
Left festering in the sun and rain,
Tainting the very air;
For none, the haughty Creon said,
On pain of death should yield the dead
Burial, or tear, or sigh;
And, for alone she feebly strove
To pay the decent rites of love,
The pious maid must die.

She paus'd -- and in that moment rose
As in a mirror all her woes;
She spake -- the flush across her cheek
Told of the woe she would not speak,
As a brief thought of Haemon stole
With bitter love across her soul.
"I die, -- and what is death to me
But freedom from long misery?
Joyful to fall before my time,
I die; and, tyrant, hear my crime:
I did but strive his limbs to shield
From the gaunt prowlers of the field;
I did but weave, as nature weaves,
A shroud of grass and moss and leaves;
I did but scatter dust to dust,
As the desert wind on marble bust;
I did but as the patient wren
And the kind redbreast do for men.
I die -- and what is death to me?
But tremble in thy tyranny,
Tyrant! and ye, base slaves of power,
Tremble at freedom's coming hour!
I die -- and death is bliss to me!"
Then, with a step erect and free,
With brow upraised and even breath,
The royal virgin passed to death.





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