I take that word as wiser than the rest.
Nay, more: these images possess thy will-Pray, in their strength, that Heaven be on our side!
Then hear my prayers withal, and then ring out The female triumph-note, thy privilege-Yea, utter forth the usage Hellas knows, The cry beside the altars, sounding clear Encouragement to friends, alarm to foes.
But I unto all gods that guard our walls, Lords of the plain or warders of the mart And to Ismenus' stream and Dirce's rills, I swear, if Fortune smiles and saves our town, That we will make our altars reek with blood Of sheep and kine, shed forth unto the gods, And with victorious tokens front our fanes-Corslets and casques that once our foemen wore, Spear-shattered now-to deck these holy homes!
Be such thy vows to Heaven-away with sighs, Away with outcry vain and barbarous, That shall avail not, in a general doom!
But I will back, and, with six chosen men Myself the seventh, to confront the foe In this great aspect of a poised war, Return and plant them at the sevenfold gates, Or e'er the prompt and clamorous battle-scouts Haste to inflame our counsel with the need.
(ETEOCLES and his retinue go out.)
CHORUS (singing)
strophe 1
I mark his words, yet, dark and deep, My heart's alarm forbiddeth sleep!
Close-clinging cares around my soul Enkindle fears beyond control, Presageful of what doom may fall From the great leaguer of the wall!
So a poor dove is faint with fear For her weak nestlings, while anew Glides on the snaky ravisher!
In troop and squadron, hand on hand, They climb and throng, and hemmed we stand, While on the warders of our town The flinty shower comes hurtling down!
Gods born of Zeus! put forth your might For Cadmus' city, realm, and right!
antistrophe 1
What nobler land shall e'er be yours, If once ye give to hostile powers The deep rich soil, and Dirce's wave, The nursing stream, Poseidon gave And Tethys' children? Up and save!
Cast on the ranks that hem us round A deadly panic, make them fling Their arms in terror on the ground, And die in carnage! thence shall spring High honour for our clan and king!
Come at our wailing cry, and stand As throned sentries of our land!
strophe 2
For pity and sorrow it were that this immemorial town Should sink to be slave of the spear, to dust and to ashes gone down, By the gods of Achaean worship and arms of Achaean might Sacked and defiled and dishonoured, its women the prize of the fight-That, haled by the hair as a steed, their mantles dishevelled and torn, The maiden and matron alike should pass to the wedlock of scorn!
I hear it arise from the city, the manifold wail of despair-Woe, woe for the doom that shall be-as in grasp of the foeman they fare!
antistrophe 2
For a woe and a weeping it is, if the maiden inviolate flower Is plucked by the foe in his might, not culled in the bridal bower!
Alas for the hate and the horror-how say it?-less hateful by far Is the doom to be slain by the sword, hewn down in the carnage of war!
For wide, ah! wide is the woe when the foeman has mounted the wall;There is havoc and terror and flame, and the dark smoke broods over all, And wild is the war-god's breath, as in frenzy of conquest he springs, And pollutes with the blast of his lips the glory of holiest things!
strophe 3
Up to the citadel rise clash and din, The war-net closes in, The spear is in the heart: with blood imbrued Young mothers wail aloud, For children at their breast who scream and die!
And boys and maidens fly, Yet scape not the pursuer, in his greed To thrust and grasp and feed!
Robber with robber joins, each calls his mate Unto the feast of hate-The banquet, lo! is spread-seize, rend, and tear!
No need to choose or share!
antistrophe 3
And all the wealth of earth to waste is poured-A sight by all abhorred!
The grieving housewives eye it; heaped and blent, Earth's boons are spoiled and spent, And waste to nothingness; and O alas, Young maids, forlorn ye pass-Fresh horror at your hearts-beneath the power Of those who crop the flower!
Ye own the ruffian ravisher for lord, And night brings rites abhorred!
Woe, woe for you! upon your grief and pain There comes a fouler stain.
(On one side THE Spy enters; on the other, ETEOCLES and the SIX CHAMPIONS.)
LEADER OF THE FIRST SEMI-CHORUS
Look, friends! methinks the scout, who parted hence To spy upon the foemen, comes with news, His feet as swift as wafting chariot-wheels.
LEADER OF THE SECOND SEMI-CHORUS
Ay, and our king, the son of Oedipus, Comes prompt to time, to learn the spy's report-His heart is fainer than his foot is fast!
THE SPY
Well have I scanned the foe, and well can say Unto which chief, by lot, each gate is given.
Tydeus already with his onset-cry Storms at the gate called Proetides; but him The seer Amphiaraus holds at halt, Nor wills that he should cross Ismenus' ford, Until the sacrifices promise fair.
But Tydeus, mad with lust of blood and broil, Like to a cockatrice at noontide hour, Hisses out wrath and smites with scourge of tongue The prophet-son of Oecleus-Wise thou art, Faint against war, and holding back from death!
With such revilings loud upon his lips He waves the triple plumes that o'er his helm Float overshadowing, as a courser's mane;And at his shield's rim, terror in their tone, Clang and reverberate the brazen bells.
And this proud sign, wrought on his shield, he bears,-The vault of heaven, inlaid with blazing stars;And, for the boss, the bright moon glows at full, The eye of night, the first and lordliest star.
Thus with high-vaunted armour, madly bold, He clamours by the stream-bank, wild for war, As a steed panting grimly on his bit, Held in and chafing for the trumpet's bray!
Whom wilt thou set against him? when the gates Of Proetus yield, who can his rush repel?
ETEOCLES
To me, no blazon on a foeman's shield Shall e'er present a fear! such pointed threats Are powerless to wound; his plumes and bells, Without a spear, are snakes without a sting.
