At last, when many nights the vernal moon Had risen and set, and song-birds presaged June, One sultry eve the weary hero came To mountain hamlet where his matchless fame Had been on all men's lips, but where his face Was known to none; and in the market-place He found a throng with wreaths and garlands bound, And one who blew with clear, harmonious sound Upon a hollow reed. Amidst the folk A goodly ox, unfettered by the yoke, Stood gayly decked with flowers in skilful wise As though prepared for godly sacrifice. When they beheld the noble-visaged man, They bade him join the festal rites of Pan; For some at heart believed that he might be, In mortal guise, a heavenly deity; And much they marveled at his kingly mien, As with the throng he sought the forest green. Within a glade where drooping birches stirred Their silvery leaves, and where the drowsy bird Sang plaintively a tender twilight lay, An altar stood entwined by tendrils gay. And soon thereon the mighty ox, new-slain, Was sprinkled o'er with wine and barley grain; Then one, amid the sound of choral song, The seemly leader of the pastoral throng, With reverent hand brought forth the sacred fire, And prayerful knelt and lit the holy pyre. Amid the roar of sacrificial flame The devotees besought their God by name; And while they worshipped, Hercules unheard, Through flowering, fragrant thickets scarcely stirred By evening's breezes, softly slipped away, His vows fulfilled. The golden orb of day Had ceased to flush the placid western sky; With slowly lengthening shadows night drew nigh, But still the hero with unslackened stride Went hurrying onward, till a torrent wide, Grown fierce with melting snow, his progress barred; And there beneath the cloudless dome, bright-starred, Upon his tawny shield he laid him down, And slept till morning with her rosy crown Followed the car of Phoebus up the East. Then, when his limbs from slumber were released, And he had eaten of his frugal fare, He stemmed the stream, and up a hillside bare Of aught but tangled bush and hindering briar Toiled slowly to the crest, whereon a spire Of splintered pine like lonely sentry stood. Below him lay a wide-outreaching wood, And far beyond a hamlet that he knew, Oenoë called. Before the thick night dew Had dried from off the grass and rustling leaves, Or shepherd maids from under well-thatched eaves Had gone afield to watch the wandering Of flocks that fed beside a crystal spring, Stout Hercules had trodden half the way That 'twixt the pine-tree and the hamlet lay.