_Chor._ Hearing but now a din
Strange, wildly mingled, I with shrinking fear
Here to our city's high Acropolis,
Time-hallowed spot, have come. 230
_Eteoc._ Nay, if ye hear of wounded men or dying,
Bear them not swiftly off with wailing loud;
*For blood of men is Ares' chosen food.[90]
_Chor._ Hark! now I hear the panting of the steeds.
_Eteoc._ Clear though thou hear, yet hear not overmuch.
_Chor._ Lo! from its depths the fortress groans, beleaguered.
_Eteoc._ It is enough that I provide for this.
_Chor._ I fear: the din increases at the gates.
_Eteoc._ Be still, say nought of these things in the city.
_Chor._ O holy Band![91] desert ye not our towers. 240
_Eteoc._ A curse fall on thee! wilt thou not be still?
_Chor._ Gods of my city, from the slave's lot save me!
_Eteoc._ 'Tis thou enslav'st thyself and all thy city.
_Chor._ Oh, turn thy darts, great Zeus, against our foes!
_Eteoc._ Oh, Zeus, what race of women thou hast given us!
_Chor._ A sorry race, like men whose city falls.
_Eteoc._ What? Cling to these statues, yet speak words of ill?
_Chor._ Fear hurries on my tongue in want of courage.
_Eteoc._ Could'st thou but grant one small boon at my prayer!250
_Chor._ Speak it out quickly, and I soon shall know.
_Eteoc._ Be still, poor fool, and frighten not thy friends.
_Chor._ Still am I, and with others bear our fate.
_Eteoc._ These words of thine I much prefer to those:
And further, though no longer at the shrines,
Pray thou for victory, that the Gods fight with us.
And when my prayers thou hearest, then do thou
Raise a loud, welcome, holy pæan-shout,
The Hellenes' wonted cry at sacrifice;
So cheer thy friends, and check their fear of foes;
And I unto our country's guardian Gods, 260
Who hold the plain or watch the agora,
The springs of Dirkè, and Ismenos' stream;—
If things go well, and this our city's saved,—
I vow that staining with the blood of sheep
The altar-hearths of Gods, or slaying bulls,
We'll fix our trophies, and our foemen's robes
On the spear's point on consecrated walls,
Before the shrines I'll hang.[92] Pray thou this prayer,
Not weakly wailing, nor with vain wild sobs,
For no whit more thou'lt 'scape thy destined lot: 270
And I six warriors, with myself as seventh,
Against our foes in full state like their own,
Will station at the seven gates' entrances,
Ere hurrying heralds and swift-rushing words
Come and inflame them in the stress of need. [_Exit_