Chapter 7

ETEOCLES. Ay, pay thy vows to Heaven; I grudge them not, But—so thou strike no fear into our men— Have calm at heart, nor be too much afraid.

CHORUS. Alack, it is fresh in mine ears, the clamour and crash of the fray, And up to our holiest height I sped on my timorous way, Bewildered, beset by the din!

ETEOCLES. Now, if ye hear the bruit of death or wounds, Give not yourselves o’ermuch to shriek and scream, For Ares ravens upon human flesh.

CHORUS. Ah, but the snorting of the steeds I hear!

ETEOCLES. Then, if thou hearest, hear them not too well!

CHORUS. Hark, the earth rumbles, as they close us round!

ETEOCLES. Enough if I am here, with plans prepared.

CHORUS. Alack, the battering at the gates is loud!

ETEOCLES. Peace! stay your tongue, or else the town may hear!

CHORUS. O warders of the walls, betray them not!

ETEOCLES. Bestrew your cries! in silence face your fate.

CHORUS. Gods of our city, see me not enslaved!

ETEOCLES. On me, on all, thy cries bring slavery.

CHORUS. Zeus, strong to smite, turn upon foes thy blow!

ETEOCLES. Zeus, what a curse are women, wrought by thee!

CHORUS. Weak wretches, even as men, when cities fall.

ETEOCLES. What! clasping gods, yet voicing thy despair?

CHORUS. In the sick heart, fear machete prey of speech.

ETEOCLES. Light is the thing I ask thee—do my will!

CHORUS. Ask swiftly: swiftly shall I know my power.

ETEOCLES. Silence, weak wretch! nor put thy friends in fear.

CHORUS. I speak no more: the general fate be mine!

ETEOCLES. I take that word as wiser than the rest. Nay, more: these images possess thy will— Pray, in their strength, that Heaven be on our side! Then hear my prayers withal, and then ring out The female triumph-note, thy privilege— Yea, utter forth the usage Hellas knows, The cry beside the altars, sounding clear Encouragement to friends, alarm to foes. But I unto all gods that guard our walls, Lords of the plain or warders of the mart And to Isthmus’ stream and Dirge’s rills, I swear, if Fortune smiles and saves our town, That we will make our altars reek with blood Of sheep and kine, shed forth unto the gods, And with victorious tokens front our fannies— Corsets and cases that once our foemen wore, Spear-shattered now—to deck these holy homes! Be such thy vows to Heaven—away with sighs, Away with outcry vain and barbarous, That shall avail not, in a general doom! But I will back, and, with six chosen men Myself the seventh, to confront the foe In this great aspect of a poisèd war, Return and plant them at the sevenfold gates, Or e’er the prompt and clamorous battle-scouts Haste to inflame our counsel with the need.

[_Exit ETEOCLES._]

CHORUS. I mark his words, yet, dark and deep, My heart’s alarm forbiddeth sleep! Close-clinging cares around my soul Enkindle fears beyond control, Presageful of what doom may fall From the great leaguer of the wall! So a poor dove is faint with fear For her weak nestlings, while anew Glides on the snaky ravisher! In troop and squadron, hand on hand, They climb and throng, and hemmed we stand, While on the warders of our town The flinty shower comes hurtling down!

Gods born of Zeus! put forth your might For Cadmus’ city, realm, and right! What nobler land shall e’er be yours, If once ye give to hostile powers The deep rich soil, and Dirce’s wave, The nursing stream, Poseidon gave And Tethys’ children? Up and save! Cast on the ranks that hem us round A deadly panic, make them fling Their arms in terror on the ground, And die in carnage! thence shall spring High honour for our clan and king! Come at our wailing cry, and stand As thronèd sentries of our land!

For pity and sorrow it were that this immemorial town Should sink to be slave of the spear, to dust and to ashes gone down, By the gods of Achaean worship and arms of Achaean might Sacked and defiled and dishonoured, its women the prize of the fight— That, haled by the hair as a steed, their mantles dishevelled and torn, The maiden and matron alike should pass to the wedlock of scorn! I hear it arise from the city, the manifold wail of despair— _Woe, woe for the doom that shall be_—as in grasp of the foeman they fare! For a woe and a weeping it is, if the maiden inviolate flower Is plucked by the foe in his might, not culled in the bridal bower! Alas for the hate and the horror—how say it?—less hateful by far Is the doom to be slain by the sword, hewn down in the carnage of war! For wide, ah! wide is the woe when the foeman has mounted the wall; There is havoc and terror and flame, and the dark smoke broods over all, And wild is the war-god’s breath, as in frenzy of conquest he springs, And pollutes with the blast of his lips the glory of holiest things!

Up to the citadel rise clash and din, The war-net closes in, The spear is in the heart: with blood imbrued Young mothers wail aloud, For children at their breast who scream and die! And boys and maidens fly, Yet scape not the pursuer, in his greed To thrust and grasp and feed! Robber with robber joins, each calls his mate Unto the feast of hate— _The banquet, lo! is spread— seize, rend, and tear! No need to choose or share!_ And all the wealth of earth to waste is poured— A sight by all abhorred! The grieving housewives eye it; heaped and blent, Earth’s boons are spoiled and spent, And waste to nothingness; and O alas, Young maids, forlorn ye pass— Fresh horror at your hearts—beneath the power Of those who crop the flower! Ye own the ruffian ravisher for lord, And night brings rites abhorred! Woe, woe for you! upon your grief and pain There comes a fouler stain.

Enter on one side THE SPY; on the other ETEOCLES and the SIX CHAMPIONS.

SEMI-CHORUS. Look, friends! methinks the scout, who parted hence To spy upon the foemen, comes with news, His feet as swift as wafting chariot-wheels.

SEMI-CHORUS. Ay, and our king, the son of Oedipus, Comes prompt to time, to learn the spy’s report— His heart is fainter than his foot is fast!

THE SPY. Well have I scanned the foe, and well can say Unto which chief, by lot, each gate is given. Tydeus already with his onset-cry Storms at the gate called Proetides; but him The seer Amphiaraus holds at halt, Nor wills that he should cross Ismenus’ ford, Until the sacrifices promise fair. But Tydeus, mad with lust of blood and broil, Like to a cockatrice at noontide hour, Hisses out wrath and smites with scourge of tongue The prophet-son of Oecleus—_Wise thou art, Faint against war, and holding back from death!_ With such revilings loud upon his lips He waves the triple plumes that o’er his helm Float overshadowing, as a courser’s mane; And at his shield’s rim, terror in their tone, Clang and reverberate the brazen bells. And this proud sign, wrought on his shield, he bears— The vault of heaven, inlaid with blazing stars; And, for the boss, the bright moon glows at full, The eye of night, the first and lordliest star. Thus with high-vaunted armour, madly bold, He clamours by the stream-bank, wild for war, As a steed panting grimly on his bit, Held in and chafing for the trumpet’s bray! Whom wilt thou set against him? when the gates Of Proetus yield, who can his rush repel?

ETEOCLES. To me, no blazon on a foeman’s shield Shall e’er present a fear! such pointed threats Are powerless to wound; his plumes and bells, Without a spear, are snakes without a sting. Nay, more—that pageant of which thou tellest— The nightly sky displayed, ablaze with stars, Upon his shield, palters with double sense— One headstrong fool will find its truth anon! For, if night fall upon his eyes in death, Yon vaunting blazon will its own truth prove, And he is prophet of his folly’s fall. Mine shall it be, to pit against his power The loyal son of Astacus, as guard To hold the gateways—a right valiant soul, Who has in heed the throne of Modesty And loathes the speech of Pride, and evermore Shrinks from the base, but knows no other fear. He springs by stock from those whom Ares spared, The men called Sown, a right son of the soil, And Melanippus styled. Now, what his arm To-day shall do, rests with the dice of war, And Ares shall ordain it; but his cause Hath the true badge of Right, to urge him on To guard, as son, his motherland from wrong.

CHORUS. Then may the gods give fortune fair Unto our chief, sent forth to dare War’s terrible arbitrament! But ah! when champions wend away, I shudder, lest, from out the fray, Only their blood-stained wrecks be sent!

THE SPY. Nay, let him pass, and the gods’ help be his! Next, Capaneus comes on, by lot to lead The onset at the gates Electran styled: A giant he, more huge than Tydeus’ self, And more than human in his arrogance— May fate forefend his threat against our walls! _God willing, or unwilling_—such his vaunt— _I will lay waste this city; Pallas’ self, Zeus’ warrior maid, although she swoop to earth And plant her in my path, shall stay me not_. And, for the flashes of the levin-bolt, He holds them harmless as the noontide rays. Mark, too, the symbol on his shield—a man Scornfully weaponless but torch in hand, And the flame glows within his grasp, prepared For ravin: lo, the legend, wrought in words, _Fire for the city bring I_, flares in gold! Against such wight, send forth—yet whom? what man Will front that vaunting figure and not fear?

ETEOCLES. Aha, this profits also, gain on gain! In sooth, for mortals, the tongue’s utterance Bewrays unerringly a foolish pride! Hither stalks Capaneus, with vaunt and threat Defying god-like powers, equipt to act, And, mortal though he be, he strains his tongue In folly’s ecstasy, and casts aloft High swelling words against the ears of Zeus. Right well I trust—if justice grants the word— That, by the might of Zeus, a bolt of flame In more than semblance shall descend on him. Against his vaunts, though reckless, I have set, To make assurance sure, a warrior stern— Strong Polyphontes, fervid for the fray; A sturdy bulwark, he, by grace of Heaven And favour of his champion Artemis! Say on, who holdeth the next gate in ward?

CHORUS. Perish the wretch whose vaunt affronts our home! On him the red bolt come, Ere to the maiden bowers his way he cleave, To ravage and bereave!

THE SPY. I will say on. Eteoclus is third— To him it fell, what time the third lot sprang O’er the inverted helmet’s brazen rim, To dash his stormers on Neistae gate. He wheels his mares, who at their frontlets chafe And yearn to charge upon the gates amain. They snort the breath of pride, and, filled therewith, Their nozzles whistle with barbaric sound. High too and haughty is his shield’s device— An armèd man who climbs, from rung to rung, A scaling ladder, up a hostile wall, Afire to sack and slay; and he too cries, (By letters, full of sound, upon the shield) _Not Ares’ self shall cast me from the wall_. Look to it, send, against this man, a man Strong to debar the slave’s yoke from our town.

ETEOCLES (_pointing to_ MEGAREUS) Send will I—even this man, with luck to aid— By his worth sent already, not by pride And vain pretence, is he. ’Tis Megareus, The child of Creon, of the Earth-sprung born! He will not shrink from guarding of the gates, Nor fear the maddened charger’s frenzied neigh, But, if he dies, will nobly quit the score For nurture to the land that gave him birth, Or from the shield-side hew two warriors down Eteoclus and the figure that he lifts— Ay, and the city pictured, all in one, And deck with spoils the temple of his sire! Announce the next pair, stint not of thy tongue!

CHORUS. O thou, the warder of my home, Grant, unto us, Fate’s favouring tide, Send on the foemen doom! They fling forth taunts of frenzied pride, On them may Zeus with glare of vengeance come;

THE SPY. Lo, next him stands a fourth and shouts amain, By Pallas Onca’s portal, and displays A different challenge; ’tis Hippomedon! Huge the device that starts up from his targe In high relief; and, I deny it not, I shuddered, seeing how, upon the rim, It made a mighty circle round the shield— No sorry craftsman he, who wrought that work And clamped it all around the buckler’s edge! The form was Typhon: from his glowing throat Rolled lurid smoke, spark-litten, kin of fire! The flattened edge-work, circling round the whole, Made strong support for coiling snakes that grew Erect above the concave of the shield: Loud rang the warrior’s voice; inspired for war, He raves to slay, as doth a Bacchanal, His very glance a terror! of such wight Beware the onset! closing on the gates, He peals his vaunting and appalling cry!

ETEOCLES. Yet first our Pallas Onca—wardress she, Planting her foot hard by her gate—shall stand, The Maid against the ruffian, and repel His force, as from her brood the mother-bird Beats back the wintered serpent’s venom’d fang And next, by her, is Oenops’ gallant son, Hyperbius, chosen to confront this foe, Ready to seek his fate at Fortune’s shrine!

In form, in valour, and in skill of arms, None shall gainsay him. See how wisely well Hermes hath set the brave against the strong! Confronted shall they stand, the shield of each Bearing the image of opposing gods: One holds aloft his Typhon breathing fire, But, on the other’s shield, in symbol sits Zeus, calm and strong, and fans his bolt to flame— Zeus, seen of all, yet seen of none to fail! Howbeit, weak is trust reposed in Heaven— Yet are we upon Zeus’ victorious side, The foe, with those he worsted—if in sooth Zeus against Typhon held the upper hand, And if Hyperbius, (as well may hap When two such foes such diverse emblems bear) Have Zeus upon his shield, a saving sign.

CHORUS. High faith is mine that he whose shield Bears, against Zeus, the thing of hate. The giant Typhon, thus revealed, A monster loathed of gods eterne And mortal men—this doom shall earn A shattered skull, before the gate!

THE SPY. Heaven send it so! A fifth assailant now Is set against our fifth, the northern, gate, Fronting the death-mound where Amphion lies The child of Zeus.

This foeman vows his faith, Upon a mystic spear-head which he deems More holy than a godhead and more sure To find its mark than any glance of eye, That, will they, nill they, he will storm and sack The hold of the Cadmeans. Such his oath— His, the bold warrior, yet of childish years, A bud of beauty’s foremost flower, the son Of Zeus and of the mountain maid. I mark How the soft down is waxing on his cheek, Thick and close-growing in its tender prime— In name, not mood, is he a maiden’s child— Parthenopaeus; large and bright his eyes But fierce the wrath wherewith he fronts the gate: Yet not unheralded he takes his stand Before the portal; on his brazen shield, The rounded screen and shelter of his form, I saw him show the ravening Sphinx, the fiend That shamed our city—how it glared and moved, Clamped on the buckler, wrought in high relief! And in its claws did a Cadmean bear— Nor heretofore, for any single prey, Sped she aloft, through such a storm of darts As now awaits her. So our foe is here— Like, as I deem, to ply no stinted trade In blood and broil, but traffick as is meet In fierce exchange for his long wayfaring!

ETEOCLES. Ah, may they meet the doom they think to bring— They and their impious vaunts—from those on high! So should they sink, hurled down to deepest death! This foe, at least, by thee Arcadian styled, Is faced by one who bears no braggart sign, But his hand sees to smite, where blows avail— Actor, own brother to Hyperbius! He will not let a boast without a blow Stream through our gates and nourish our despair, Nor give him way who on his hostile shield Bears the brute image of the loathly Sphinx! Blocked at the gate, she will rebuke the man Who strives to thrust her forward, when she feels Thick crash of blows, up to the city wall. With Heaven’s goodwill, my forecast shall be true.

CHORUS. Home to my heart the vaunting goes, And, quick with terror, on my head Rises my hair, at sound of those Who wildly, impiously rave! If gods there be, to them I plead— _Give them to darkness and the grave_.

THE SPY. Fronting the sixth gate stands another foe, Wisest of warriors, bravest among seers— Such must I name Amphiaraus: he, Set steadfast at the Homoloid gate, Berates strong Tydeus with reviling words— _The man of blood, the bane of state and home, To Argos, arch-allurer to all ill, Evoker of the fury-fiend of hell, Death’s minister, and counsellor of wrong Unto Adrastus in this fatal field_. Ay, and with eyes upturned and mien of scorn He chides thy brother Polynices too At his desert, and once and yet again Dwells hard and meaningly upon his name Where it saith _glory_ yet importeth _feud_. _Yea, such thou art in act, and such thy grace In sight of Heaven, and such in aftertime Thy fame, for lips and ears of mortal men! “He strove to sack the city of his sires And temples of her gods, and brought on her An alien armament of foreign foes. The fountain of maternal blood outpoured What power can staunch? even so, thy fatherland Once by thine ardent malice stormed and ta’en, Shall ne’er join force with thee.” For me, I know It doth remain to let my blood enrich The border of this land that loves me not— Blood of a prophet, in a foreign grave! Now, for the battle! I foreknow my doom, Yet it shall be with honour_. So he spake, The prophet, holding up his targe of bronze Wrought without blazon, to the ears of men Who stood around and heeded not his word. For on no bruit and rumour of great deeds, But on their doing, is his spirit set, And in his heart he reaps a furrow rich, Wherefrom the foison of good counsel springs. Against him, send brave heart and hand of might, For the god-lover is man’s fiercest foe.

ETEOCLES. Out on the chance that couples mortal men, Linking the just and impious in one! In every issue, the one curse is this— Companionship with men of evil heart! A baneful harvest, let none gather it! The field of sin is rank, and brings forth death At whiles a righteous man who goes aboard With reckless mates, a horde of villainy, Dies by one death with that detested crew; At whiles the just man, joined with citizens Ruthless to strangers, recking nought of Heaven, Trapped, against nature, in one net with them, Dies by God’s thrust and all-including blow. So will this prophet die, even Oecleus’ child, Sage, just, and brave, and loyal towards Heaven, Potent in prophecy, but mated here With men of sin, too boastful to be wise! Long is their road, and they return no more, And, at their taking-off, by hand of Zeus, The prophet too shall take the downward way. He will not—so I deem—assail the gate— Not as through cowardice or feeble will, But as one knowing to what end shall be Their struggle in the battle, if indeed Fruit of fulfilment lie in Loxias’ word. He speaketh not, unless to speak avails! Yet, for more surety, we will post a man, Strong Lasthenes, as warder of the gate, Stern to the foeman; he hath age’s skill, Mated with youthful vigour, and an eye Forward, alert; swift too his hand, to catch The fenceless interval ’twixt shield and spear! Yet man’s good fortune lies in hand of Heaven.

CHORUS. Unto our loyal cry, ye gods, give ear! Save, save the city! turn away the spear, Send on the foemen fear! Outside the rampart fall they, rent and riven Beneath the bolt of heaven!

THE SPY. Last, let me name yon seventh antagonist, Thy brother’s self, at the seventh portal set— Hear with what wrath he imprecates our doom, Vowing to mount the wall, though banished hence, And peal aloud the wild exulting cry— _The town is ta’en_—then clash his sword with thine, Giving and taking death in close embrace, Or, if thou ’scapest, flinging upon thee, As robber of his honour and his home, The doom of exile such as he has borne. So clamours he and so invokes the gods Who guard his race and home, to hear and heed The curse that sounds in Polynices’ name! He bears a round shield, fresh from forge and fire, And wrought upon it is a twofold sign— For lo, a woman leads decorously The figure of a warrior wrought in gold; And thus the legend runs—_I Justice am, And I will bring the hero home again, To hold once more his place within this town, Once more to pace his sire’s ancestral hall_. Such are the symbols, by our foemen shown— Now make thine own decision, whom to send Against this last opponent! I have said— Nor canst thou in my tidings find a flaw— Thine is it, now, to steer the course aright.

ETEOCLES. Ah me, the madman, and the curse of Heaven! And woe for us, the lamentable line Of Oedipus, and woe that in this house Our father’s curse must find accomplishment! But now, a truce to tears and loud lament, Lest they should breed a still more rueful wail! As for this Polynices, named too well, Soon shall we know how his device shall end— Whether the gold-wrought symbols on his shield, In their mad vaunting and bewildered pride, Shall guide him as a victor to his home! For had but Justice, maiden-child of Zeus, Stood by his act and thought, it might have been! Yet never, from the day he reached the light Out of the darkness of his mother’s womb, Never in childhood, nor in youthful prime, Nor when his chin was gathering its beard, Hath Justice hailed or claimed him as her own. Therefore I deem not that she standeth now To aid him in this outrage on his home! Misnamed, in truth, were Justice, utterly, If to impiety she lent her hand. Sure in this faith, I will myself go forth And match me with him; who hath fairer claim? Ruler, against one fain to snatch the rule, Brother with brother matched, and foe with foe, Will I confront the issue. To the wall!

CHORUS. O thou true heart, O child of Oedipus, Be not, in wrath, too like the man whose name Murmurs an evil omen! ’Tis enough That Cadmus’ clan should strive with Argos’ host, For blood there is that can atone that stain! But—brother upon brother dealing death— Not time itself can expiate the sin!

ETEOCLES. If man find hurt, yet clasp his honour still, ’Tis well; the dead have honour, nought beside. Hurt, with dishonour, wins no word of praise!

CHORUS. Ah, what is thy desire? Let not the lust and ravin of the sword Bear thee adown the tide accursed, abhorred! Fling off thy passion’s rage, thy spirit’s prompting dire!

ETEOCLES. Nay—since the god is urgent for our doom, Let Laius’ house, by Phoebus loathed and scorned, Follow the gale of destiny, and win Its great inheritance, the gulf of hell!

CHORUS. Ruthless thy craving is— Craving for kindred and forbidden blood To be outpoured—a sacrifice imbrued With sin, a bitter fruit of murderous enmities!

ETEOCLES. Yea, my own father’s fateful Curse proclaims— A ghastly presence, and her eyes are dry— _Strike! honour is the prize, not life prolonged!_

CHORUS. Ah, be not urged of her! for none shall dare To call thee _coward_, in thy throned estate! Will not the Fury in her sable pall Pass outward from these halls, what time the gods Welcome a votive offering from our hands?