O happy herse!
Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrows' source,
O joyful verse!
"Why wail we then? why weary we the gods with plaints,
As if some evil were to her betight?
She reigns a goddess now among the saints,
That whilome was the saint of shepheards light,
And is installed now in heavens' height,
I see thee, blessed soul! I see
Walk in Elysian fields so free.