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