As burns the bird whose perished frame
Arabian herbs inter,
Your broken bows give to the flame
With rosemary and myrrh;
And oh, for his lamented sake,
Apollo, to thy temples take
The wreath of funeral fir,
And sadly to the solemn string
His glory and thy sorrows sing!
3.
His name, Parnassus, whose proud song,
Pure, sweet, and tender, gave
Fame to thy rosy peaks, prolong
Through each revering cave;
Lasso, through whose harmonious shell
Tagus rich Tiber does excel,
And Arno's purer wave,—
For whose hushed voice a nation grieves,
Lies dead amidst green amaranth leaves!
THE WORKS OF GARCILASSO.