Antigone. The words are uttered ; now a pitiless fate Draws me towards yonder desolate dark cave On the dim mountain side, where steps of men, Of wandering shepherds, homeward to the fold Guiding their weary flocks at eventide, Approach not—even the place where I must die. And thou, O Hœmon ! whom amidst the youth— The chosen youth of Thebes—I have so loved And given my virgin heart, remember me With calm thoughts of that unforgotten time, Long hoped-for, but now lost, for ever lost— Yield not thy soul to a passionate despair. The sunlight, or the eternal roll and change Of gracious seasons—or the pitying stars Which light me, moving towards perpetual night— Or sad Ismene, with her fruitless prayer For mercy—or the anguish in thy soul Scares not the awful shadow, which not yet Has ceased to hover, spreading fatal wings O’er the doomed race of wretched Œdipus. Ah me, unhappy ! retribution comes— Stalking in gloom thro’ melancholy halls Once beautiful, the stateliest in the land— Thy home now, cruel Creon ; yet my crime Is not my shame, but thine ; for I behold Polynices the beloved one on the shore In the silent land of shadows, and I come. Lo ! I depart thro’ the dim wavering gates The mist-like portals of that Autumn realm, Where mighty Orcus reigns ; and the stern queen Persephoné, who rules, with sceptre pale And calm eternal eyes, the gliding shades That wail around the shores of Acheron— Calls me, with sweet sad voice to take my place In divine dells, and glades of happy rest. James Beave .