My spirit quails at no proud panoply.
Escutcheons wound not, nor will waving crests
Or clashing bells bite without thrust of spear.
This night of which thou tellest on his shield,
Albeit it blaze with all the stars of heaven,
May to the bearer's self prove ominous;
For if death's night should fall upon his eyes
His boastfulness will turn to prophecy,
And his device will have foreshown his doom.
To cope with Tydeus and that post to guard,
I send the gallant son of Astacus,
Whose noble blood is loyal to the rule
Of honour and abhors vainglorious words,
Whose chivalry fears nothing but reproach,
Sprung from that remnant of the Earth-born race,
Which the sword spared, a true son of the soil,
Melanippus. Ares' hand the die will cast,
But nature sends our soldier to the field
To drive the invader from his mother-land.
CHORUS.
Heaven shield our country's champion with its might,
Him who will combat for the right,
And guard our warriors all from perils of the fight.
MESSENGER.
Good fortune on thy chosen warder wait.
Before the Electran gate stands Capaneus,
Whose giant frame o'ertops e'en Tydeus' self.
His vaunts are more than mortal, and he hurls
Against our towers threats which may heaven forfend.
Be it the will of heaven or not, he vows
That he will storm this town, nor Zeus himself
With red right hand shall scare him from his prey.
Of lightnings or of thunderbolts he recks
No more than of the rays of noonday sun.
For his device he bears a naked man
With burning torch in hand, whose legend says
In golden letters, "I will fire this town."
Bethink thee whom thou hast this chief to mate,
Who without quailing will his vaunts withstand.
ETEOCLES.
Why, here we have gain added unto gain.
When pride and folly in the heart abide,
The tongue fails not their presence to betray.
Capaneus threatens what his hand would do,
Scorning the gods, and with unchastened lips,
Madly exulting, vents against high heaven
And heaven's high king his swelling blasphemies.
Surely I trust that on his impious head
The lightning shall be launched more fiery far
Than are the rays of any noonday sun.
To meet him with his braggart menaces
Stout Polyphontus goes, a gallant soul,
Who well can hold the post, so Artemis
And all protecting gods his arm will aid.
Tell us whose lot is at another gate.
CHORUS.
Perish the man who would lay low our towers;
Smite him with lightning, kindly powers,
Ere he can storm our home and spoil our virgin bowers.