Priest monologue — Oedipus King of Thebes

O Oedipus, who holdest in thy hand My city, thou canst see what ages stand At these thine altars; some whose little wing Scarce flieth yet, and some with long living O'erburdened; priests, as I of Zeus am priest, And chosen youths: and wailing hath not ceased Of thousands in the market-place, and by Athena's two-fold temples and the dry Ash of Ismenus' portent-breathing shore. For all our ship, thou see'st, is weak and sore Shaken with storms, and no more lighteneth Her head above the waves whose trough is death. She wasteth in the fruitless buds of earth, In parched herds and travail without birth Of dying women: yea, and midst of it A burning and a loathly god hath lit Sudden, and sweeps our land, this Plague of power; Till Cadmus' house grows empty, hour by hour, And Hell's house rich with steam of tears and blood. O King, not God indeed nor peer to God We deem thee, that we kneel before thine hearth, Children and old men, praying; but of earth A thing consummate by thy star confessed Thou walkest and by converse with the blest; Who came to Thebes so swift, and swept away The Sphinx's song, the tribute of dismay, That all were bowed beneath, and made us free. A stranger, thou, naught knowing more than we, Nor taught of any man, but by God's breath Filled, thou didst raise our life. So the world saith; So we say.