Thrills with ceaseless fears my breast.
Hark I in hurrying throngs careering
Rude they beat our Theban towers,
And a rain of rock-torn fragments
On the roofs of Cadmus showers!
Save us, gods that keep the city,
Save us, Jove-begotten Powers!
ANTISTROPHE I.
Say what region shall receive ye,
When the Theban soil is waste?