Page:Sophocles - Seven Plays, 1900.djvu/41

131–154] Zeus hates the boastful tongue:

He with hurled fire down flung

One who in haste had mounted high,

And that same hour from topmost tower

Upraised the exulting cry.

Swung rudely to the hard repellent earth

Amidst his furious mirth

He fell, who then with flaring brand

Held in his fiery hand

Came breathing madness at the gate

In eager blasts of hate.

And doubtful swayed the varying fight

Through the turmoil of the night,

As turning now on these and now on those

Ares hurtled ’midst our foes,

Self-harnessed helper on our right.

Seven matched with seven. at each gate one,

Their captains, when the day was done,

Left for our Zeus who turned the scale,

The brazen tribute in full tale:—

All save the horror-burdened pair,

Dire children of despair,

Who from one sire, one mother, drawing breath,

Each with conquering lance in rest

Against a true-born brother’s breast,

Found equal lots in death.

But with blithe greeting to glad Thebè came

She of the glorious name,

Victory,—smiling on our chariot throng

With eyes that waken song.

Then let those battle-memories cease,

Silenced by thoughts of peace.

With holy dances of delight

Lasting through the livelong night

Visit we every shrine, in solemn round,

Led by him who shakes the ground,

Our Bacchus, Thebè’s child of light.