"Take this," he said, "O son of Poeas, take this as the gift And pledge of love from Hercules to thee. These deadly shafts the poisonous hydra felt; 1650 With these the vile Stymphalian birds lie low; And every other monster which I slew With distant aim. O noble youth, go on In victory, for never 'gainst thy foes Shalt thou send these in vain. Wouldst wish to bring Birds from the very clouds? Down shall they fall, And with them come thine arrows sure of prey. 1655 This bow shall never disappoint thy hand. Well has it learned to poise the feathered shaft And send it flying in unerring course. The shafts themselves as well, loosed from the string, Have never failed to find their destined mark. But do thou in return, my only prayer, Bring now the funeral torch and light the pyre. 1660 This club," he said, "which never hand but mine Has wielded, shall the flames consume with me. This weapon, only, shall to Hercules Belong. But this, too, thou shouldst have from me If thou couldst bear its weight. But let it serve To aid its master's pyre." Then he required 1665 The shaggy spoil of the dire Nemean beast To burn with him. The huge skin hid the pyre. Now all the gazing crowd begin to groan, And tears of woe to fall from every eye. His mother bares her breast in eager grief And smites her body stripped e'en to the loins 1670 For unrestrained lament; then all the gods And Jupiter himself she supplicates, While all the place re-echoes with her shrieks. "Thou dost disgrace the death of Hercules, O mother, check thy tears," Alcides said; "Within thy heart thy woman's grief confine. Why shouldst thou make this day a time of joy 1675 For Juno with thy tears? For she, be sure, Rejoices to behold her rival weep. Then this unworthy grief, my mother, check. It is not meet to abuse the breast that nursed, And the womb that bore Alcides." Thus he spake; Then with a dreadful cry, as when he led 1680 The awful dog throughout the towns of Greece, Returned triumphant o'er the shades of hell, Scorning the lord of death and death itself, So did he lay him down upon the pyre. What victor in his chariot ever shone With such triumphant joy? What tyrant king With such a countenance e'er uttered laws Unto his subject tribes? So deep his calm 1685 Of soul. All tears were dried, our sorrows shamed To silence, and we groaned no more to think That he must perish. E'en Alcmena's self, Whose sex is prone to mourn, now tearless stood, A worthy mother of her noble son. 1690 _Nurse:_ But did he, on the verge of death, no prayer To heaven breathe, no aid from Jove implore?