Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/299

Rh 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 all the world 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, 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 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; 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, 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; Let Maenala re-echo loud Your sounds of woe. The bristly boar Within your borders overthrown