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Ye tutelary gods, the land who hold,

Come ye, come all, look on this virgin train

Who, dreading bonds, as suppliants on you call.

For lo! with slanting plumes

A surge of warriors round our city wall,

On blasts of Ares riding, hoarsely booms.

Do thou, O Zeus, all-perfect Sire, do thou

Avert, thou canst, our capture by the foe;

For Cadmos' fort Argives encircle now;

Weapons of war my heart [sic]appal, for lo,

To chargers' mouths made fast, their metal gear

Rings slaughter, and with pride elate,

Seven chiefs, conspicuous o'er the host,

With panoply of spear,

Each having gained by lot his post,

Stand, prompt for battle, at the seventh gate.

Thou too, Zeus-born, war-loving power, do thou,

Pallas, our city from destruction save;

Equestrian Lord, thou ruler of the wave,

Poseidon, with fish-piercing trident now

Grant respite from our fears, grant respite thou.

Ares, alas! Our town, the name which bears