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But now, thy youngest, dearest one has perished,

The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,

And fed with true love tears, instead of dew;

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 50 Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,

The bloom, whose petals, nipped before they blew,

Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies the storm is overpast.

To that high Capital, where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,

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A grave among the eternal. Come away! Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is

yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still 60 He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

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Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and wingèd reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more
weak;

And dull the barbèd fire against his frozen cheek.

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