Oh! but what their cruel purpose! Oh! the thought is endless wo; I looked down, in hopes the sunlight Through some grave-wall chink might flow; But I saw then my husband lower'd Into darkness—lower'd slow.
VOCERO ON THE DEATH OF ROMANA, THE DAUGHTER OF DARIOLA DANESI OF ZUANI.
See, she lies now on the tola, She, my child of sixteen years. Darling daughter! her short life-lease Has been fraught with pain and tears, Now her snowy festal garment— Her transparent veil she wears.
In that snowy festal garment Far away she now must go, For the Lord of all forbids her Longer to remain below. They who wear an angel's semblance, Early to the angels go.
Where, belov'd, are now the roses On thy chisell'd cheeks and lips?— All the blossoms of thy beauty Death with icy fingers strips; Seems the change on which I'm gazing, Like a sudden sun-eclipse.
Oh! amongst the band of maidens Thou wert fairest of the fair; To the rose all flowers are subject, With the moon no stars compare; Other charms with thine contrasted, Show'd thy beauty still more rare.
When the youths from yonder village To thy presence would aspire, Straight they seem'd like pine-wood torches Kindled at a glowing fire. Thou to all wert mild and courteous, But not one might venture nigher.
In the church each eye was straining To espy thee as we pass'd; All, from first to last, kept gazing, But thine eyes were downward cast. Service ended, thou wouldst pray me, "Let us hurry homeward fast."
Oh how highly wert thou valued, Honour'd both by great and small; Taught and train'd by Heavenly teaching, Wise with wisdom best of all! From the world thy spirit screening, Prayer and praise its special call.
Who can ever soothe my anguish? Oh, my glory and my pride! Since the Lord has bid thee leave me, Call'd thee with Him to abide; Wherefore does not His compassion Bid my agony subside!
Yet in heaven thou'rt resting sweetly, From all burdens smiling free; If too bright for earth thy beauty, As all own'd who look'd on thee— How much brighter, thro' its presence, Henceforth Paradise will be!
But for me the earth will only Seem a place of wo and tears, And each day of hopeless longing Lengthen to a thousand years; While I ask of thee, my daughter, From each stranger that appears.