ETEOCLES. Ye citizens of Cadmus! he who sits Holding the helm in the high poop of state, Watchful, with sleepless eyes, must, when he speaks, Speak words that suit the time. If we succeed, The gods will have the praise; but should we fail (Which may averting Jove from me avert,[n1] And from this Theban city!), I alone Must bear the up-heaped murmurings of the whole, A motley-voiced lament. Ye men of Thebes, Not manhood's vigour only, but ye also Who lack ripe years, and ye whose green old age Nurses unwithered strength,[f10] arm, and redeem Your country's honor from a cruel blot. Let not the citadel of your ancient sires, The altars of your native gods, your children, Nor the dear mother Earth, that nursed you, blame The slackness of your love--the nurse who bore Your creeping childhood on her fostering soil, And through your slow growth up to firmer years, Toiled that the strong arms of her faithful sons, Might shield her need. Up to this hour the god Inclines to us; though close hedged in by the foe, The vantage hath been ours. But now the seer, The shepherd of prophetic birds' revolving In his ear and inward sense deep-pondered truths,[n2] By no false art, though without help from fire, Even he soothsaying sings that the Argive camp Holds midnight council to attack the city. Therefore be ready; mount the battlements; Top every tower; crown every parapet; Fence every gate with valiant-hearted men, Well harnessed for the fight: and never fear This trooping alien foe. The gods will give A happy issue. Myself have sent out scouts, Sure men, not wont to linger. Their advice Shall shield us from surprise. {264} [_Enter_ MESSENGER.