Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/164

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O thou, the warder of my home,

Grant, unto us, Fate's favouring tide,

Send on the foemen doom!

They fling forth taunts of frenzied pride,

On them may Zeus with glare of vengeance come!

Lo, next him stands a fourth and shouts amain,

By Pallas Onca's portal, and displays

A different challenge; 'tis Hippomedon!

Huge the device that starts up from his targe

In high relief; and, I deny it not,

I shuddered, seeing how, upon the rim,

It made a mighty circle round the shield—

No sorry craftsman he, who wrought that work

And clamped it all around the buckler's edge!

The form was Typhon: from his glowing throat

Rolled lurid smoke, spark-litten, kin of fire!

The flattened edge-work, circling round the whole,

Made strong support for coiling snakes that grew

Erect above the concave of the shield:

Loud rang the warrior's voice; inspired for war,

He raves to slay, as doth a Bacchanal,

His very glance a terror! of such wight

Beware the onset! closing on the gates,

He peals his vaunting and appalling cry!

Yet first our Pallas Onca—wardress she,

Planting her foot hard by her gate—shall stand,

The Maid against the ruffian, and repel

His force, as from her brood the mother-bird