A righteous man, pious, discreet, and brave,—
This mighty soothsayer, with bold-tongued men
Unholy, in despite of reason, joined,
Their march who trail to reach the far-off city,—[1]
He, if Zeus will, with them shall down be dragged. 610
But he, methinks, our gates will not assail;
Not by faint heart withheld or dastard will,
But knowing 'tis his doom in fight to perish,
If fruit there be in Loxias' oracles;
And He or silence keeps or speaks in season.
Yet against him stout Lasthenes we'll post,
A stranger-hating warden of the gates;
He, old in mind, yet blooms in youthful prime,
With eye swift-glancing,[2] and not slow of hand
To snatch from 'neath his shield the naked spear. 620
But victory is still the gift of God.
Chorus. Antistrophe III.
Our just entreaties crown,
Ye gods, and bless our town!
On the invading powers
Turn ye war's spear-wrought woe!
May Zeus, outside our towers,
With his dread thunder smiting, lay them low!
Messenger.
Now at the seventh gate the seventh chief,
Thy proper mother's son, I will announce,
