CHORUS
CHORUS. (entering).
LEADER OF CHORUS.
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Beam of the mounting Sun!
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O brightest, fairest ray
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Seven-gated Thebè yet hath seen!
Over the vale where Dircè’s fountains run
At length thou appearedst, eye of golden Day,
And with incitement of thy radiance keen
Spurredst to faster flight
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The man of Argos hurrying from the fight.
Armed at all points the warrior came,
But driven before thy rising flame
He rode, reverting his pale shield,
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Headlong from yonder battlefield.
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In snow-white panoply, on eagle wing,
He rose, dire ruin on our land to bring,
Roused by the fierce debate
Shrilling sharp menace from his breast,
Sheathed all in steel from crown to heel,
With many a plumèd crest.
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Then stooped above the domes,
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With lust of carnage fired,
And opening teeth of serried spears
Yawned wide around the gates that guard our homes;
But went, or e’er his hungry jaws had tired
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On Theban flesh,—or e’er the Fire-god fierce
Besmirched and rent her battlemented crown.
Such noise of battle as he fled
About his back the War-god spread;
So writhed to hard-fought victory
The serpent struggling to be free.
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High Zeus beheld their stream that proudly rolled
Idly caparisoned with clanking gold:
Zeus hates the boastful tongue:
He with hurled fire down flung
One who in haste had mounted high,
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And that same hour from topmost tower
Upraised the exulting cry.
Swung rudely to the hard repellent earth
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He fell, who then with flaring brand
Came breathing madness at the gate
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And doubtful swayed the varying fight
Through the turmoil of the night,
As turning now on these and now on those
Ares hurtled ’midst our foes,
Self-harnessed helper on our right.
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Seven matched with seven, at each gate one,
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Their captains, when the day was done,
Left for our Zeus who turned the scale,
The brazen tribute in full tale:—
All save the horror-burdened pair,
Dire children of despair,
Who from one sire, one mother, drawing breath,
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Each with conquering lance in rest
Against a true born brother’s breast,
Found equal lots in death.
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But with blithe greeting to glad Thebe came
She of the glorious name,
Victory,—smiling on our chariot throng
With eyes that waken song
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Then let those battle memories cease,
Silenced by thoughts of peace.
With holy dances of delight
Lasting through the livelong night
Visit we every shrine, in solemn round,
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Led by him who shakes the ground,
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Our Bacchus, Thebe’s child of light.
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But look! where Creon in his new-made power,
Moved by the fortune of the recent hour,
Comes with fresh counsel. What intelligence
Intends he for our private conference,
That he hath sent his herald to us all,
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Gathering the elders with a general call?