Great Herakles the triumph-crowned my song extolleth ever, 680
In feasts my theme, where beakers gleam of Bromius wine-giver,
And where the lyre of sevenfold string
Sounds, and where Libyan flutes outring:
Ceaseless I'll hear the Muses sing, queens of my inspiration.
(Ant. 2)
As maids of Delos chant the pæan's holy strain immortal,
Whose white feet glance as sweeps the dance round Leto's scion's portal, 690
So will I raise the pagan-lay,
Swan-song of singer hoary-grey:
The portals of thine halls to-day shall hear the old lips chanting.
Proud theme hath minstrelsy, to sing mine hero's high achieving:
He is Zeus' son, but deeds hath done whose glory mounts, far-leaving
The praise of birth divine behind,
Whose toils gave peace to humankind,
Slaying dread shapes that filled man's mind with terrors ceaseless-haunting. 700
Enter Lykus, attended. Re-enter Amphitryon.
Lykus.
So!—in good time, Amphitryon, com'st thou forth.
Ye have tarried all too long as ye arrayed
Your limbs in robes and trappings of the grave.
Haste, bid the sons and wife of Herakles
