Let fall some drops of pity on our grief, If what we beg be just, and we deserve relief; For none of us, who now thy grace implore, But held the rank of sovereign queen before; Till, thanks to giddy chance, which never bears, That mortal bliss should last for length of years, She cast us headlong from our high estate, And here in hope of thy return we wait; And long have waited in the temple nigh, Built to the gracious goddess Clemency. But reverence thou the power, whose name it bears; Relieve the oppressed, and wipe the widow's tears. I, wretched I, have other fortune seen, The wife of Capaneus, and once a queen: At Thebes he fell; curst be the fatal day! And all the rest thou seest in this array, To make their moan, their lords in battle lost Before that town besieged by our confederate host; But Creon, old and impious, who commands The Theban city, and usurps the lands, Denies the rites of funeral fires to those Whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes. Unburned, unburied, on a heap they lie; Such is their fate, and such his tyranny; No friend has leave to bear away the dead, But with their lifeless limbs his hounds are fed.-- At this she shrieked aloud; the mournful train Echoed her grief, and, grovelling on the plain, With groans, and hands upheld, to move his mind, Besought his pity to their helpless kind. The prince was touched, his tears began to flow, And, as his tender heart would break in two, He sighed; and could not but their fate deplore, So wretched now, so fortunate before. Then lightly from his lofty steed he flew, And raising one by one the suppliant crew, To comfort each, full solemnly he swore, "That, by the faith which knights to knighthood bore, And whate'er else to chivalry belongs, He would not cease, till he revenged their wrongs; That Greece should see performed what he declared; And cruel Creon find his just reward."-- He said no more, but, shunning all delay, Rode on, nor entered Athens on his way; But left his sister and his queen behind, And waved his royal banner in the wind, Where, in an argent field, the god of war Was drawn triumphant on his iron car; Red was his sword, and shield, and whole attire, And all the godhead seemed to glow with fire; Even the ground glittered where the standard flew, And the green grass was dyed to sanguine hue. High on his pointed lance, his pennon bore[148] His Cretan fight, the conquered Minotaur: The soldiers shout around with generous rage, And in that victory their own presage. He praised their ardour; inly pleased to see His host the flower of Grecian chivalry. All day he marched, and all the ensuing night, And saw the city with returning light. The process of the war I need not tell, How Theseus conquered, and how Creon fell; Or after, how by storm the walls were won, Or how the victor sacked and burned the town;