Page:Atalanta in Calydon - a tragedy (IA atalantaincalydo00swinrich).pdf/131

 Child, I salute thee with sad heart and tears, And bid thee comfort, being a perfect man In fight, and honourable in the house of peace. The gods give thee fair wage and dues of death, And me brief days and ways to come at thee.

Pray thou thy days be long before thy death, And full of ease and kingdom; seeing in death There is no comfort and none aftergrowth, Nor shall one thence look up and see day’s dawn Nor light upon the land whither I go. Live thou and take thy fill of days and die When thy day comes; and make not much of death Lest ere thy day thou reap an evil thing. Thou too, the bitter mother and mother-plague Of this my weary body—thou too, queen, The source and end, the sower and the scythe, The rain that ripens and the drought that slays, The sand that swallows and the spring that feeds, To make me and unmake me—thou, I say, Althæa, since my father’s ploughshare, drawn Through fatal seedland of a female field, Furrowed thy body, whence a wheaten ear