Eumelus.
Woe for my lot!—to the tomb hath my mother descended, descended!
Never again, O my father, she seeth the light of the sun!
In anguish she leaves us forsaken: the story is ended, is ended,
Of her sheltering love, and the tale of the motherless life is begun.
Look—look on her eyelids, her hands drooping nerveless! O hear me, O hear me! 400
It is I—I beseech thee, my mother!—thine own little, own little bird!
It is I—O, I cast me upon thee—thy lips are so near me, so near me,
Unto mine am I pressing them, mother!—I plead for a word—but a word!
Admetus.
With her who heareth not, nor seeth: ye
And I are stricken with a heavy doom. 405
Eumelus.
And I am but a little one, father—so young, and forsaken, forsaken,
Forlorn of my mother—O hapless! a weariful lot shall be mine!
And thou, little maiden, my sister, the burden hast taken, hast taken,
Which thy brother may bear not alone, and a weariful lot shall be thine. 410
