Daughter of sorrow, Harmony! Harmony! Sweet speech for love by Nature set apart! To us thou camest from Italy--to her From Heaven. Sweet language of the heart, In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraid And hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak, Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be. Who knows the mysteries that a child may hear And utter in thy sighs divine, like thee Born of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice, And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tear Is seen, yet all the rest is mystery Unknown to the careless world, like that of waves, Of night, or of the unfathomed wilderness... We were alone and sad; I looked on her. The dying echo of her song seemed still To vibrate in our souls. All passionless Drooping upon my heart, she leaned her head. The cry of Desdemona didst thou hear In thee, dear girl? I know not--only this, That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adored Sweet mouth in sadness let me press mine own; Thy sorrow was it that received my kiss... So kissed I thee, all cold and colourless; So, two short months being sped, wert thou Laid in the grave; so didst thou fade in death Oh my chaste flower! And thy dying was A smile as sweet as thy fair life had been. God took thee pure as when He gave thee breath.
Sweet mystery of the home of innocence, Songs, dreams of love, laughter and childish words, And thou, all-conquering charm, unknown and mild,
Yet strong to make even Faustus pause before The sill of Marguerite at thy command, Where are you all? Peace to thy soul, oh child! Profoundest peace be to thy memories! Farewell! On summer nights thy fair white hand Will rest no more upon the ivory keys...
Dear friends belovèd, when I die, Plant near my grave a willow-tree. I love its pale, down-drooping leaves Its grace is sweet and dear to me, And light its tender shade will be. Upon the green earth where I lie....
“Lugete, O Veneres Cupidenesque, et quantum est hominum venustiorum.”
I bid you all, ye Loves and Cupids, mourn, With what of pitying kindness men may know.
The sparrow of my little maid forlorn Ay, even my sweetheart’s sparrow, cherished so, (Loved like her very eyes, ah heavy woe!) Is dead. Full sweet was he, and knew her well As she her mother knew, nor long would stray From her fair breast, save here to hop, or there; His pretty pipings were for her alway. Yet now he wings the shadowy gloom of Hell, Whence none return to breathe Earth’s pleasant air.