Seven Against Thebes (78-110)

In terror I wail loud cries of sorrow. Their army is let loose! Leaving camp,

—look!—the mounted throng floods swiftly ahead. The dust whirling in the air tells me this is so—its message is speechless, yet clear and true. And now the plains of my native land under the blows of hooves send a roar to my ears; the sound flies

and rumbles like a resistless torrent crashing down a mountainside. Ah, ah, you gods and goddesses, raise your war cry over our walls to drive away the onrushing evil! The army of the white shield,

ready for battle, rushes at full speed against the city. Who then will rescue us, which of the gods or goddesses will help? Or shall I fall in supplication at the feet

of our ancestral gods’ statues? Ah, blessed gods, firmly enthroned, the time has come to hold fast to your statues. Why do we delay, who are much to be lamented?

Do you hear the clash of shields, or does it escape you? When, if not now, shall we place sacred robes and wreaths on the statues to accompany our prayers? I see the clash—it is not the clatter of a single spear. What will you do? Will you betray

your own land, Ares, where you have dwelt since long ago? God of the golden helmet, look, look upon the city that you once cherished!