ETEOCLES. This word is wiser than a host of wails. And now, instead of running to and fro, Clinging to every image as you pass, Pray to the gods with sober supplication, To aid the Theban cause: and, when ye hear My vow, lift up a blithe auspicious shout, A sacred hymn, a sacrificial cry, As brave Greek hearts are wont, whose voice shall speak Sure confidence to friends, and to the foe Dismay. Now, hear my vow. If they who keep The city, keep it now from the Argive spear, I vow to them, and to the patron gods Of field and forum, and the holy fount Of Dirce and Ismenus' sacred stream,[n20] That blood of lambs and bulls shall wash their altars, And spear-pierced trophies, Argive harnesses, Bedeck their holy halls. Such be your prayers; Not sighs and sobs, and frantic screams, that shake The hearts of men, but not the will of gods. Meanwhile, with six choice men, myself the seventh, I'll gallantly oppose these boastful chiefs That block our outlets. Timely thus I'll gag The swift-winged rush of various-bruited news, That in the hour of danger blazes fear. [_Exit._ {271} CHORAL HYMN. STROPHE I. Well thou speakest; but unsleeping Terrors shake my virgin frame, And the blasts of war around me Fan my fears into a flame. As the dove her dovelets nursing, Fears the tree-encircling serpent, Fatal neighbour of her nest; Thus the foe, our walls enclosing, Thrills with ceaseless fears my breast. Hark I in hurrying throngs careering Rude they beat our Theban towers, And a rain of rock-torn fragments On the roofs of Cadmus showers! Save us, gods that keep the city, Save us, Jove-begotten Powers! ANTISTROPHE I. Say what region shall receive ye, When the Theban soil is waste? When pure Dirce's fount is troubled, From what waters shall ye taste? Theban soil, the deepest, richest, That with fruits of joy is pregnant, Dirce, sweetest fount that runs, From Poseidon earth-embracing, And from Tethys' winding sons.[n21] Patron-gods maintain your glory, Sit in might enthroned to-day: Smite the foe with fear; fear stricken Let them fling their arms away: Hear our sharp shrill-piercing wailings, When for Cadmus' weal we pray! STROPHE II. Sad it were, and food for weeping, To behold these walls Ogygian, By the stranger spearman mounted, Levelled by the Argive foe, And these towers by god-sent vengeance Laid in crumbling ashes low. Sad it were to see the daughters, {272} And the sonless mothers grey, Of old Thebes, with hair dishevelled, And rent vestments, even as horses Dragged by the mane, a helpless prey; Sad to hear the victors' clamour Mingling with the captive's moan, And the frequent-clanking fetter Struggling with the dying groan.