_Chorus:_ Eurystheus, brought untimely forth, 830 Had bidden Hercules to pierce The depths of earth. This task alone Of all his labors yet remained-- To rob the dusky king of hell. He dared to enter that dark way Which to the distant manes leads, 835 Dismal, with gloomy forests set, Yet crowded with the thronging souls. As when the eager people haste Throughout the city to behold The play in some new theater; As when they crowd the Pisan fields 840 When the fifth summer brings again The Elean Thunderer's sacred games; As, when the lengthening nights return, And the balanced Scales the sun's bright car Detain, to gentle sleep inclined, The people throng the mysteries 845 Of Ceres, while the Attic priests Lead through the fields with hurried steps The worshipers: such thronging hordes Are driven through those silent plains. A part goes slow with steps of age, Sadly, and sated with the years; 850 Some, in the earlier flush of life, Advance with the sprightly step of youth, Young maids not yet in wedlock joined, And boys with flowing ringlets, babes, Who have not yet learned to repeat Their mother's name. To these alone 855 'Tis given to dispel the night With torches, and their fears relieve. The rest in utter darkness fare, And sadness. So our spirits mourn, When each one, grieving o'er his fate, Feels crushed in darkness 'neath the weight 860 Of all the world. There chaos reigns, Repulsive glooms, the hateful dark Of night, the empty veil of clouds, The weary inactivity Of that still, empty universe. Oh, may the time far distant be When old age bears us to that land. None come too late, and ne'er can he, 865 Who once has come, return again. What need to hasten cruel fate? For all the wandering tribes of earth Shall surely seek the land of shades, And on the still Cocytus spread Their sails; all things the sun beholds, 870 In rising and in setting, grow But to decay. Then spare, O death, Those who are doomed to come to thee. Life is but practicing for death; Though thou be slow in coming, still We hasten of ourselves. The hour Which gave us life begins our death. The joyful day of Thebes is here; 875 Now at the altars sacrifice, And let the choicest victims fall. Ye maids and men, in mingled bands Begin the stately choral dance; And let the cattle of the fields 880 Put off their yokes and be glad today; For by the hand of Hercules Has peace from east to west been won,