And where, between two virgal evergreens,
A little mound more dear than any seems:
The grave of our Levilla Modest child,
On whose sweet brow but three bright summers smiled.
She was her mother's idol and firstborn,
Her childish virtues memory still adorn.
But this request she coolly yet declined,
As if no love to living or dead remained.
Then, taking that one warm and little hand,
We slowly walked to where cold marbles stand.