Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/132

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These be men's matters,—blood of sacrifice,

Offerings to oracles, when deedy war

Puts all things to the test; your business

Is submiss silence, and to bide within.

It is the Gods who keep yet unsubdued

The land wherein we dwell; our walléd town

Unravaged of this armed multitude:

Shall what we do then call their vengeance down?

I grudge not that to the high heavenly race

Ye pay all honour: but, lest ye corrupt,

As cravens can, the manhood of the realm

Calm your wild transports; this is fear's excess.

The sudden girding on of warlike gear

Confused upon my startled senses came,

Confounding them the more; surprised by fear

I sought this castled crag of ancient fame.

I charge ye, if they tell of wounds and death

Fasten not on the tale with frantic cries,

For human carnage is God Ares' meat.

I hear the neighing steeds!

Hear if thou must!

Yet seem not so discernibly to hear!