O son, he said, son, lift thine eyes, draw breath,
  Pity me; but Meleager with sharp lips
  Gasped, and his face waxed like as sunburnt grass.

  SEMICHORUS.

    Cry aloud, O thou kingdom, O nation,
      O stricken, a ruinous land.

  Second Messenger.

  Whereat king Oeneus, straightening feeble knees,
  With feeble hands heaved up a lessening weight,
  And laid him sadly in strange hands, and wept.

  SEMICHORUS.

    Thou art smitten, her lord, her desire,
      Thy dear blood wasted as rain.

  Second Messenger.

  And they with tears and rendings of the beard
  Bear hither a breathing body, wept upon
  And lightening at each footfall, sick to death.

  SEMICHORUS.

    Thou madest thy sword as a fire,
      With fire for a sword thou art slain.

  Second Messenger.

And lo, the feast turned funeral, and the crowns
Fallen; and the huntress and the hunter trapped;
And weeping and changed faces and veiled hair. 
Meleager.

Let your hands meet
Round the weight of my head,
Lift ye my feet
As the feet of the dead;
For the flesh of my body is molten,
the limbs of it molten as lead.

Chorus.

O thy luminous face,
Thine imperious eyes! 
O the grief, O the grace,
As of day when it dies! 
Who is this bending over thee, lord,
with tears and suppression of sighs?

Meleager.

Is a bride so fair? 
Is a maid so meek? 
With unchapleted hair,
With unfilleted cheek,
Atalanta, the pure among women,
whose name is as blessing to speak.

Atalanta.

I would that with feet
Unsandaled, unshod,
Overbold, overfleet,
I had swum not nor trod
From Arcadia to Calydon northward,
a blast of the envy of God.

Meleager.

Unto each man his fate;
Unto each as he saith
In whose fingers the weight
Of the world is as breath;
Yet I would that in clamour of battle mine hands
had laid hold upon death.

Chorus.

Not with cleaving of shields
And their clash in thine ear,
When the lord of fought fields
Breaketh spearshaft from spear,
Thou art broken, our lord, thou art broken;
with travail and labour and fear,

Meleager.

Would God he had found me
Beneath fresh boughs
Would God he had bound me
Unawares in mine house,
With light in mine eyes, and songs in my lips,
and a crown on my brows!

Chorus.

Whence art thou sent from us? 
Whither thy goal? 
How art thou rent from us,
Thou that wert whole,
As with severing of eyelids and eyes,
as with sundering of body and soul!

Meleager.

My heart is within me
As an ash in the fire;
Whosoever hath seen me,
Without lute, without lyre,
Shall sing of me grievous things,
even things that were ill to desire.