Messenger.

  O queen, for queenlike hast thou borne thyself,
  A little word may hold so great mischance. 
  For in division of the sanguine spoil
  These men thy brethren wrangling bade yield up
  The boar’s head and the horror of the hide
  That this might stand a wonder in Calydon,
  Hallowed; and some drew toward them; but thy son
  With great hands grasping all that weight of hair
  Cast down the dead heap clanging and collapsed
  At female feet, saying This thy spoil not mine,
  Maiden, thine own hand for thyself hath reaped,
  And all this praise God gives thee:  she thereat
  Laughed, as when dawn touches the sacred night
  The sky sees laugh and redden and divide
  Dim lips and eyelids virgin of the sun,
  Hers, and the warm slow breasts of morning heave,
  Fruitful, and flushed with flame from lamp-lit hours,
  And maiden undulation of clear hair
  Colour the clouds; so laughed she from pure heart
  Lit with a low blush to the braided hair,
  And rose-coloured and cold like very dawn,
  Golden and godlike, chastely with chaste lips,
  A faint grave laugh; and all they held their peace,
  And she passed by them.  Then one cried Lo now,
  Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips at us,
  Saying all we were despoiled by this one girl? 
  And all they rode against her violently
  And cast the fresh crown from her hair, and now
  They had rent her spoil away, dishonouring her,
  Save that Meleager, as a tame lion chafed,
  Bore on them, broke them, and as fire cleaves wood
  So clove and drove them, smitten in twain; but she
  Smote not nor heaved up hand; and this man first,
  Plexippus, crying out This for love’s sake, sweet,
  Drove at Meleager, who with spear straightening
  Pierced his cheek through; then Toxeus made for him,
  Dumb, but his spear spake; vain and violent words,
  Fruitless; for him too stricken through both sides
  The earth felt falling, and his horse’s foam
  Blanched thy son’s face, his slayer; and these being slain,
  None moved nor spake; but Oeneus bade bear hence
  These made of heaven infatuate in their deaths,
  Foolish; for these would baffle fate, and fell. 
  And they passed on, and all men honoured her,
  Being honourable, as one revered of heaven.

  Althaea.

  What say you, women? is all this not well done?

  Chorus.

  No man doth well but God hath part in him.

  Althaea.

  But no part here; for these my brethren born
  Ye have no part in, these ye know not of
  As I that was their sister, a sacrifice
  Slain in their slaying.  I would I had died for these,
  For this man dead walked with me, child by child,
  And made a weak staff for my feebler feet
  With his own tender wrist and hand, and held
  And led me softly and shewed me gold and