DEAR mother Earth, within your breast Take old Amyntichus to rest, Remembering the years, not few, Spent in various toil for you. Many's the time in you he'd plant Olive-trees, that never want For foliage, and array you fine In livery of branching vine; With fields of corn he'd make you rich, And lead through many a channelled ditch The waterbrooks, letting your ground Abound with fruits, with herbs abound. Lay, in return, a gentle, light Burden upon his temples white, And, for his grave's adornment, bring Flowers and verdure in the spring. |