Then come, ye wretched hands,
And beat this agéd breast. But can it be
That thou alone canst for so great a loss
Lament, so old and worn, which[1] all the world 1860
Will presently attempt? Yet raise thy arms,
However weary, to their mournful task.
And to thy wailing summon all the earth,
And so excite the envy of the gods.
[Here follows Alcmena's formal song of mourning, accompanied by the
usual Oriental gestures of grief.]
Bewail Alcmena's son, the seed
Of Jove, for whose conception, long, 1865
Day perished and the lingering dawn
Combined two nights in one. But now
A greater than the day is dead.
Ye nations, join in common grief,
Whose cruel lords he bade descend
To Stygian realms, and lay aside 1870
Their red swords reeking with the blood
Of subject peoples. With your tears
Repay his services; let earth,
The whole round earth, with woe resound.
Let sea-girt Crete bewail him, Crete,
The Thunderer's beloved land; 1875
Beat, beat your breasts, ye hundred tribes;
Ye Cretans, Corybantes, now
Clash Ida's cymbals; for 'tis meet
To mourn him thus. Now, now lament
His funeral; for low he lies, 1880
A mate, O Crete, for Jove himself.
Bewail the death of Hercules,
Ye sons of Arcady, whose race
Is older than Diana's birth.
Let your cries from high Parthenius
And Nemea's halls resound afar; 1885
Let Maenala re-echo loud
Your sounds of woe. The bristly boar
Within your borders overthrown
- ↑ Reading, quod.
