Cast in a mould of ample magnitude.
His shield might almost serve for a threshing-floor;
And while its round he threateningly revolved
I own a shudder ran through all my frame.
No despicable artist was the man
Who wrought its blazon. On the disk embossed
A Typhon, shooting forth his burning breath,—
A luminous darkness, half smoke and half fire;
The casing of its hollow-bellied orb
Securely hammered on with knots of snakes.
I heard his great voice thunder,—saw his eyes
Glare horribly: a frenzied votarist
He leaped, God Ares' reeling reveller,
By him possessed, mad-drunk for deeds of blood:
'Gainst his assault there needeth wary watch.
Even now before the Gates his vaunt is loud,
And swelling with the note that strikes dismay.
Eteocles.
Suburban Pallas—Onka-Without-the-Walls—
Hard by the Gate, wroth with his insolence,
Shall keep him off,—a serpent, mailed and fanged,
Death in its coils, barred from a brood of birds.
But Oenops' trusty son, Hyperbius,
For mortal succour,—matching man with man—
Shall face him. All he asked was choice for service;
Time and the hour should teach him where to serve.
Faultless in form; of fearless courage, perfect
In martial trim, never did Hermes cast
A luckier throw than when with happy choice
He brought the pair together: for betwixt
Him and the man he meets is enmity,
