Chor. Dear son of Œdipus,

      I shuddered as I heard the din, the din

      Of many a chariot's noise,

      When on the axles creaked the whirling wheels,

      And when I heard the sound

      Of fire-wrought curbs within the horses' mouths.

      Eteoc. What then? Did ever yet the sailor flee

      From stern to stem, and find deliverance so,

      While his ship laboured in the ocean's wave?87

      Chor. Nay, to the ancient forms

      Of mighty Powers I rushed, as trusting Gods;

      And when behind the gates

      Was heard the crash of fierce and pelting storm,

      Then was it, in my fear,

      I prayed the Blessed Ones to guard our city.

      Eteoc. Pray that our towns hold out 'gainst spear of foes.88

      Chor. Do not the Gods grant these things?

      Eteoc. Nay the Gods,

      So say they, leave the captured city's walls.89

      Chor. Ah! never in my life

      May all this goodly company of Gods

      Depart; nor may I see

      This city scene of rushings to and fro,

      And hostile army burning it with fire!

      Eteoc. Nay, call not on the Gods with counsel base;

      Obedience is the mother of success,

      Child strong to save. 'Tis thus the saying runs.

      Chor. True is it; but the Gods

      Have yet a mightier power, and oftentimes,

      In pressure of sore ill,

      It raises one perplexed from direst woe,

      When dark clouds gather thickly o'er his eyes.

      Eteoc. 'Tis work of men to offer sacrifice

      And victims to the Gods, when foes press hard;

      Thine to be dumb and keep within the house.

      Chor. 'Tis through the Gods we live

      In city unsubdued, and that our towers

      Ward off the multitude of jealous foes.

      What Power will grudge us this?

      Eteoc. I grudge not your devotion to the Gods;

      But lest you make my citizens faint-hearted

      Be tranquil, nor to fear's excess give way.

      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.

      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.

      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!

      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,

      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:

      And I six warriors, with myself as seventh,

      Against