Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/139

Rh

Look where our spy comes! Dear ones, he brings tidings

Be certain, of some happening with the host!

With smoothest expedition at high speed

He runneth thither, as the hubbed wheel spins!

And see! With juncture apt to meet his news,

The king himself, the Son of Œdipus!

He, too, all haste, metes out no measured stride!

I bring news—certain—of the enemy,

How the lots fell and at which port each stands.

Fell Tydeus—foremost—fronts the Proetid Gate,

Roaring; but may not pass Ismenus Ford:

The seer forbids: the omens are not good.

There greedy Tydeus, famishing for fight,

Sends forth his voice, like to a venomous snake

Hissing at noon; and lasheth with vile words

The prophet, Œcles' son: damning his lore

For cringing cowardice that shrinks from death

And jeopardy of battle: while he vents

Such blasphemy, he tosses his dwarf-head

All overshadowed with a triple crest,

His bright helm's bristling mane. Beneath his shield,

From its dished rondure dangling, bells of bronze

A yelling menace peal: the broad convex,

Bulging, displays this arrogant device:—

The sky in metal wrought, ablaze with stars: