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