Killing the Lion at Nemea

Hercules and the Nemean Lion, Francesco de Zuburan (1634)

by Brett Rutherford

     After Archias, The Greek Anthology, xvi, 94

It was not much of a place,
     where wasted ploughmen tilled
          an always-reluctant earth.

He was not much of a lion,
     either. He had no wife, no pride.
          Last of his kind, he was starving.

Some days he barely raised himself
     on spindly legs, to seize a lamb
          fresh born from a protesting ewe;

some days he menaced the farmers’
     sons, but not in memory
          had he tasted the sweet man-flesh

that is the Lion’s high delight;
     and as for bulls (he counted four),
          they tossed him up and over them

and snorted in contempt. Now who
     should come to annoy his rest
          but that club-wielder, Heracles!

Cudgel discarded, the hero stalked
     in circles around the somnolent
          lion, kneading his iron-strong fingers

palm to palm. “With my own hands, dread
     killer of the Nemean plain,
          I plan to strangle you. Rise up

"and offer fang and claw, that I
     may interrupt your best attempt
          at fatal leap with one fore-arm,

“for I am Heracles, killer
     of monsters. Up, I command you!”
          The lion only flicked his long tail.

“That is my brother’s coat you wear,”
     the Lion responded. “Does the skin
          of a lion make you a lion?”

The foe with shoulder broad as ox
     tossed off the pelt to face him nude.
          “Lion! I am a son of Zeus!

“No more the lamb need fear the day,
     no more shall Echo hear thy roar
          and mimic it to chill the blood.” —

“Oh, no more speeches, Heracles!
     All know that Hera despises
          her husband’s half-human offspring.” —

“Fight me, thou sluggard cat!” shouted
     the outraged demigod. Instead,
          the Lion sighed — rolled over — died.