Whether—now buried in the ghostly gloom
Below ground—he was child of Zeus indeed,
Or mere Amphitruon's mortal seed—
To him I weave the wreath of song, his labor's meed.
For, is my hero perished in the feat?
The virtues of brave toils, in death complete,
These save the dead in song,—their glory-garland meet!
First, then, he made the wood
Of Zeus a solitude,
Slaying its lion-tenant; and he spread