Meleager
Would God ye could carry me
Forth of all these;
Heap sand and bury me
By the Chersonese
Where the thundering Bosphorus answers
the thunder of Pontic seas.
Oeneus
Dost thou mock at our praise
And the singing begun
And the men of strange days
Praising my son
In the folds of the hills of home,
high places of Calydon?