(Ant.)
Hopes, dreams, they were past310
As a tale that is told;
Yet thou comest at last
For mine arms to enfold!
What shall I say to thee?—how shall I grasp it, the rapture of old?
By assurance of word,
Or by hands that embrace,
Or by feet that are stirred,
Or by body that sways,
Hitherward, thitherward, tossed as the dance intertwineth its maze?
Ah son, thy father's desolate home forsaking,
Wast thou by thine own brother's tyrannous wrong
Exiled!—for thee thy lovers' hearts were aching,320
Thebes' heart for thee ached long.
Therefore my white hair have I shorn for mourning,
With weeping let it fall for thee, my son:
Of white robes disarrayed, for all adorning
These night-hued rags I don;
While in our halls the sightless ancient, ever
Yearning and weeping o'er that noble twain
Whom from home's yoke of love did hatred sever,
Rushed, eager to be slain330
By his own hand, with sword, with noose down-trailing
From rafters dim,—now groaning o'er the doom
His malison brought on you, ever wailing
With anguish, hides in gloom.
