Stasimon 4
[Choral 1]
If I am a seer or wise of heart,
Chorus
Cithaeron, you will not fail—by heaven, you will not—to know at tomorrow’s full moon that Oedipus honors you as native to him, as his nurse, and his mother, and that you are celebrated in our dance and song,
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because you are well-pleasing to our prince. O Phoebus to whom we cry, may these things find favor in your sight!
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Who was it, my son, who of the race whose years are many, that bore you in wedlock with
Pan, the mountain-roaming father? Or was it a bride of Loxias that bore you? For dear to him are all the upland pastures.
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Or perhaps it was Cyllene’s lord, or the Bacchants’ god, dweller on the hill-tops, that received you, a new-born joy, from one of the nymphs of Helicon, with whom he most often sports.
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