MESSENGER. What I have seen I come To tell; the movements of the foe, the station That lot hath given each champion at the gates. First at the Prœtian portal Tydeus stands,[n22] Storming against the seer, who wise forbids To pass Ismenus' wave, before the sacrifice Auspicious smiles. But he, for battle burning, Fumes like a fretful snake in the sultry noon, Lashing with gibes the wise Oiclidan seer,[n23] Whose prudence he interprets dastardy, Cajoling death away. Thus fierce he raves, And shakes the overshadowing crest sublime, His helmet's triple mane, while 'neath his shield The brazen bells ring fear.[n24] On his shield's face A sign he bears as haughty as himself, The welkin flaming with a thousand lights, And in its centre the full moon shines forth, Eye of the night, and regent of the stars. So speaks his vaunting shield: on the stream's bank He stands, loud-roaring, eager for the fight, As some fierce steed that frets against the bit, And waits with ruffling neck, and ears erect, To catch the trumpet's blare. Who will oppose This man? what champion, when the bolts are broken, Shall plant his body in the Prœtian gate? {274} ETEOCLES. No blows I fear from the trim dress of war, No wounds from blazoned terrors. Triple crests And ringing bells bite not without the spear; And for this braggart shield, with starry night Studded, too soon for the fool's wit that owns it The scutcheon may prove seer. When death's dark night Shall settle on his eyes, and the blithe day Beams joy on him no more, hath not the shield Spoken significant, and pictured borne A boast against its bearer? I, to match This Tydeus, will set forth the son of Astacus, A noble youth not rich in boasts, who bows Before the sacred throne of Modesty, In base things cowardly, in high virtue bold. His race from those whom Ares spared he draws,[n25] Born from the sown field of the dragon's teeth, His name Melanippus. Mars shall throw the dice Bravely for him, and Justice call him brother, While girt he goes from his loved Theban mother To ward the Argive spear. STROPHE I. CHORUS. May the gods protect our champion! Be the cause of Right his shield! But I fear to see the breathless Bleeding bodies of true warriors Strewn upon the battle field.