No More Learning

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 poised 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 throned 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!