And in the middle of his shield the moon,—
Lustrous, full-orbed, leader and paramount
Of all their constellations,—looketh forth,
The very eye of night. And like one wood,
Thus in prodigious pride caparisoned,
He holloas up and down the river-bank,
Rampant with lust of battle; as a horse
All fire and fierceness pants upon the bit,
What time, hard-held, he paweth in his place
Mad for the sound of trumpet. Whom wilt thou
To him oppose? What champion safe and sure
Shall stand at Proetid Port, the barriers down?
Eteocles.
I am not one to tremble at a plume:
'Tis not the brave device that deals the scar,
And crests and bells without the spear bite not.
As for this night that's blazoned on his shield,
This heaven of shining stars,—the folly of it
Will likely prove a night of prophecy.
For if Death's bloody darkness veil his eyes,
Then, for the bearer of that scutcheon proud,
By herald's law these arms are his by right,
And his presumptuous scutcheon damns himself!
'Gainst Tydeus I will post the valiant son
Of Astacus for champion of the Gate.
Right nobly born is he, and one who pays
Due honour to the throne of Modesty,
Abhorrer of the bombast rhetoric;
Backward in baseness he holds honour dear.
Sprung from that seed of men which Ares spared,
A goodly plant, most native to this soil,
