O gods high-throned in bliss, we must crouch at the shrines in your
home!
Not here must we tarry and wail: shield clashes on shield as they
come
And now, even now is the hour for the robes and the chaplets of
prayer!
Mine eyes feel the flash of the sword, the clang is instinct with the
spear!
Is thy hand set against us, O Ares, in ruin and wrath to
o'erwhelm
Thine own immemorial land, O god of the golden helm?
Look down upon us, we beseech thee, on the land that thou lovest of
old.
strophe 1
And ye, O protecting gods, in pity your people behold!
Yea, save us, the maidenly troop, from the doom and despair of the
slave,
For the crests of the foemen come onward, their rush is the rush of
a wave
Rolled on by the War-god's breath! almighty one, hear us and
save
From the grasp of the Argives' might! to the ramparts of Cadmus they
crowd,
And, clenched in the teeth of the steeds, the bits clink horror
aloud
And seven high chieftains of war, with spear and with panoply
bold,
Are set, by the law of the lot, to storm the seven gates of our hold!
Studies
