And it hath still high duties. Now, my wife!
Thou mother of my children—of the dead—
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope—
Farewell!
Elm. No, not farewell! My soul hath risen
To mate itself with thine; and by thy side,
Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand,
As one on whom a brave man’s love hath been
Wasted not utterly.
Gon. I thank thee, heaven!