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 belovéd 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 Demands lament for Hercules; And the monster of Stymphalus' pool, Whose spreading wings shut out the day, By great Alcides' arrows slain. 1890 Weep thou, Cleonae, weep and wail For him; for once the lion huge Which held your walls in terror, he, By his strong hand, o'ercame and slew. Ye Thracian matrons, beat your breasts, And let cold Hebrus resound to your beating. 1895 Lament for Alcides: no longer your children Are born for the stables; no longer your vitals Wild horses devour. O ye African lands, From Antaeus delivered, ye regions of Spain From Geryon saved, come, weep for your hero. 1900 Yea, all ye wretched nations, weep With me and smite your breasts in woe, And let your blows be heard afar, By eastern and by western shores. Ye dwellers in the whirling sky, Ye gods above, do ye, too, weep The fate of Hercules; for he 1905 Your heavens upon his shoulders bore, When Atlas, who was wont to bear The spangled skies, was eased awhile Of his vast load. Where now, O Jove, Is the promised palace of the sky, 1910 Those heavenly heights? Alcides dies And is entombed--the common lot. How often has he spared for thee The deadly thunderbolt of wrath! How seldom wast thou forced to hurl Thy fires! But hurl 'gainst me at least One shaft, and think me Semele. 1915 And now, O son, hast thou obtained The fields Elysian, the shore To which the voice of nature calls All nations? Or has gloomy Styx