“ ’Tis said, Alcides hither took his way From Spain, and drove along his conquer’d prey; Then, leaving in the fields his grazing cows, He sought himself some hospitable house; Good Croton entertain’d his godlike guest; While he repair’d his weary limbs with rest. The hero, thence departing, bless’d the place; ‘And here,’ he said, ‘in lime’s revolving race, A rising town shall take his name from thee.’ Revolving time fulfill’d the prophecy. For Myscelos, the justest man on earth, Alemon’s son, at Argos had his birth. Him Hercules, arm’d with his club of oak, O’ershadow’d in a dream, and thus bespoke: ‘Go, leave thy native soil, and make abode Where Aesaris rolls down his rapid flood.’ He said; and sleep forsook him, and the god. Trembling he waked, and rose with anxious heart; His country laws forbade him to depart. What should he do? ’twas death to go away, And the god menaced if he dared to stay. All day he doubted, and when night came on, Sleep, and the same forewarning dream, begun: Once more the god stood threatening o’er his head: