ETEOCLES

Ah, may they meet the doom they think to bring- 
They and their impious vaunts-from those on high! 
So should they sink, hurled down to deepest death! 
This foe, at least, by thee Arcadian styled, 
Is faced by one who bears no braggart sign, 
But his hand sees to smite, where blows avail- 
Actor, own brother to Hyperbius! 
He will not let a boast without a blow 
Stream through our gates and nourish our despair, 
Nor give him way who on his hostile shield 
Bears the brute image of the loathly Sphinx! 
Blocked at the gate, she will rebuke the man 
Who strives to thrust her forward, when she feels 
Thick crash of blows, up to the city wall. 
With Heaven’s goodwill, my forecast shall be true.

ACTOR goes out.
CHORUS chanting

Home to my heart the vaunting goes, 
And, quick with terror, on my head 
Rises my hair, at sound of those 
Who wildly, impiously rave! 
If gods there be, to them I plead- 
Give them to darkness and the grave.

THE SPY

Fronting the sixth gate stands another foe, 
Wisest of warriors, bravest among seers- 
Such must I name Amphiaraus: he, 
Set steadfast at the Homoloid gate, 
Berates strong Tydeus with reviling words- 
The man of blood, the bane of state and home 
To Argos, arch-allurer to all ill, 
Evoker of the Fury-fiend of hell, 
Death’s minister, and counsellor of wrong 
Unto Adrastus in this fatal field. 
Ay, and with eyes upturned and mien of scorn 
He chides thy brother Polyneices to 
At his desert, and once and yet again 
Dwells hard and meaningly upon his name 
Where it saith glory yet importeth feud. 
Yea, such thou art in act, and such thy grace 
In sight of Heaven, and such in aftertime 
Thy fame, for lips and ears of mortal men! 
“He strove to sack the city of his sires 
And temples of her gods, and brought on her 
An alien armament of foreign foes. 
The fountain of maternal blood outpoured 
What power can staunck? even so, thy fatherland 
Once by thine ardent malice stormed and ta’en, 
Shall ne’er join force with thee.” For me, I know 
It doth remain to let my blood enrich 
The border of this land that loves me not- 
Blood of a prophet, in a foreign grave! 
Now, for the battle! I foreknow my doom, 
Yet it shall be with honour. So he spake, 
The prophet, holding up his targe of bronze 
Wrought without blazon, to the ears of men 
Who stood around and heeded not his word. 
For on no bruit and rumour of great deeds, 
But on their doing, is his spirit set, 
And in his heart he reaps a furrow rich, 
Wherefrom the foison of good counsel springs. 
Against him, send brave heart and hand of might; 
For the god-lover is man’s fiercest foe.

ETEOCLES

Out on the chance that couples mortal men, 
Linking the just and impious in one! 
In every issue, the one curse is this- 
Companionship with men of evil heart! 
A baneful harvest, let none gather it! 
The field of sin is rank, and brings forth death 
At whiles a righteous man who goes aboard 
With reckless mates, a horde of villainy, 
Dies by one death with that detested crew; 
At whiles the just man, joined with citizens 
Ruthless to strangers, recking nought of Heaven, 
Trapped, against nature, in one net with them, 
Dies by God’s thrust and all-including blow. 
So will this prophet die, even Oecleus’ child, 
Sage, just, and brave, and loyal towards Heaven, 
Potent in prophecy, but mated here 
With men of sin, too boastful to be wise! 
Long is their road, and they return no more, 
And, at their taking-off, by hard of Zeus, 
The prophet too shall take the downward way. 
He will not-so I deem-assail the gate- 
Not as through cowardice or feeble will, 
But as one knowing to what end shall be 
Their struggle in the battle, if indeed 
Fruit of fulfilment lie in Loxias’ word. 
He speaketh not, unless to speak avails! 
Yet, for more surety, we will post a man, 
Strong Lasthenes, as warder of the gate, 
Stern to the foeman; he hath age’s skill, 
Mated with youthful vigour, and an eye 
Forward, alert; swift too his hand, to catch 
The fenceless interval ‘twixt shield and spear! 
Yet man’s good fortune lies in hand of Heaven.

LASTHENES goes out.
CHORUS chanting

Unto our loyal cry, ye gods, give ear! 
Save, save the city! turn away the spear, 
Send on the foemen fear! 
Outside the rampart fall they, rent and riven 
Beneath the bolt of heaven!

THE SPY

Last, let me name yon seventh antagonist, 
Thy brother’s self, at the seventh portal set- 
Hear with what wrath he imprecates our doom, 
Vowing to mount the wall, though banished hence, 
And peal aloud the wild exulting cry- 
The town is ta’en-then clash his sword with thine, 
Giving and taking death in close embrace, 
Or, if thou ‘scapest, flinging upon thee, 
As robber of his honour and his home, 
The doom of exile such as he has borne. 
So clamours he and so invokes the gods 
Who guard his race and home, to hear and heed 
The curse that sounds in Polyneices’ name! 
He bears a round shield, fresh from forge and fire, 
And wrought upon it is a twofold sign- 
For lo, a woman leads decorously 
The figure of a warrior wrought in gold; 
And thus the legend runs-I Justice am, 
And I will bring the hero home again, 
To hold once more his place within this town, 
Once more to pace his sire’s ancestral hall. 
Such are the symbols, by our foemen shown- 
Now make thine own decision, whom to send 
Against this last opponent! I have said- 
Nor canst thou in my tidings find a flaw- 
Thine is it, now, to steer the course aright.

ETEOCLES

Ah me, the madman, and the curse of Heaven 
And woe for us, the lamentable line 
Of Oedipus, and woe that in this house 
Our father’s curse must find accomplishment! 
But now, a truce to tears and loud lament, 
Lest they should breed a still more rueful wail! 
As for this Polyneices, named too well, 
Soon shall we know how this device shall end- 
Whether the gold-wrought symbols on his shield, 
In their mad vaunting and bewildered pride, 
Shall guide him as a victor to his home! 
For had but justice, maiden-child of Zeus, 
Stood by his act and thought, it might have been! 
Yet never, from the day he reached the light 
Out of the darkness of his mother’s womb, 
Never in childhood, nor in youthful prime, 
Nor when his chin was gathering its beard, 
Hath justice hailed or claimed him as her own. 
Therefore I deem not that she standeth now 
To aid him in this outrage on his home! 
Misnamed, in truth, were justice, utterly, 
If to impiety she lent her hand. 
Sure in this faith, I will myself go forth 
And match me with him; who hath fairer claim? 
Ruler, against one fain to snatch the rule, 
Brother with brother matched, and foe with foe, 
Will I confront the issue. To the wall!

LEADER OF THE CHORUS

O thou true heart, O child of Oedipus, 
Be not, in wrath, too like the man whose name 
Murmurs an evil omen! ‘Tis enough 
That Cadmus’ clan should strive with Arges’ host, 
For blood there is that can atone that stain! 
But-brother upon brother dealing death- 
Not time itself can expiate the sin!

ETEOCLES

If man find hurt, yet clasp his honour still, 
‘Tis well; the dead have honour, nought beside. 
Hurt, with dishonour, wins no word of praise!

CHORUS chanting

Ah, what is thy desire? 
Let not the lust and ravin of the sword 
Bear thee adown the tide accursed, abhorred! 
Fling off thy passion’s rage, thy spirit’s prompting dire!

ETEOCLES

Nay-since the god is urgent for our doom, 
Let Laius’ house, by Phoebus loathed and scorned, 
Follow the gale of destiny, and win 
Its great inheritance, the gulf of hell!

CHORUS chanting

Ruthless thy craving is- 
Craving for kindred and forbidden blood 
To be outpoured-a sacrifice imbrued 
With sin, a bitter fruit of murderous enmities!

ETEOCLES

Yea, my own father’s fateful Curse proclaims- 
A ghastly presence, and her eyes are dry- 
Strike! honour is the prize, not life prolonged!

CHORUS chanting

Ah, be not urged of her! for none shall dare 
To call thee coward, in thy throned estate! 
Will not the Fury in her sable pal 
Pass outward from these halls, what time the gods 
Welcome a votive offering from our hands?

ETEOCLES

The gods! long since they hold us in contempt, 
Scornful of gifts thus offered by the lost! 
Why should we fawn and flinch away from doom?

CHORUS chanting

Now, when it stands beside thee! for its power 
May, with a changing gust of milder mood, 
Temper the blast that bloweth wild and rude 
And frenzied, in this hour!

ETEOCLES

Ay, kindled by the curse of Oedipus- 
All too prophetic, out of dreamland came 
The vision, meting out our sire’s estate!

The Seven Against Thebes by Aeschylus