After the mode of barbarous music, filled
With the breath of their proud snortings. On his targe
Is no mean blazon. One armed cap-à-pie
Climbs up a ladder planted 'gainst a tower,
Held by the foe, and means to lay all waste.
In syllables forth-gushing from his lips
He roars 'Not Ares' Self shall hurl me down.'
'Gainst him too send a trusty one, to save
This land of freemen from the servile yoke.
Eteocles.
Here is the man to send, and with him go
Such happy fortune as the Gods vouchsafe!
Not in his mouth his boast, but in his arm.
Megareus, Creon's seed, of the race earth-sown.
The savage, greedy noise of neighing steeds
Shall not affright nor drive him from the Gates;
But either he will fall and with his life
This land for her dear nurture recompense,
Or deck his father's house with two-fold glory:
Two captives taken and that shield-borne tower,
So proudly counterfeited, carried home.
Another boaster: stint me not your tale!
Chorus.
Good luck, good luck have thou who go'st forth,
Champion of home to me! Foul them befall!
Mouthing in madness beneath our wall,
Zeus the Requiter behold them with wrath.
Messenger.
Next—fourth in order—to the Gate hard by
Athena Onca comes Hippomedon
Shouting his war-shout : a resplendent shape,
