Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/239



Yet another gift, of all gifts the most

Prized by our fatherland, we boast—

The might of the horse, the might of the sea;

Our fame, Poseidon, we owe to thee,

Son of Kronos, our king divine,

Who in these highways first didst fit

For the mouth of horses the iron bit;

Thou too hast taught us to fashion meet

For the arm of the rower the oar-blade fleet,

Swift as the Nereids’ hundred feet

As they dance along the brine.

O land extolled above all lands, ’tis now

For thee to make these glorious titles good.

Why this appeal, my daughter?

Father, lo!

Creon approaches with his company.

O kindly elders, lend me now your aid

To find deliverance and my final rest.

Fear not, it shall be so; if we are old,

This country’s vigour has no touch of age.

Enter with attendants.

Burghers, my noble friends, ye take alarm

At my approach (I read it in your eyes), 217