In him reposed thy honourable, discreet,
And wise opinions, used but as the case
Chimed with his own; in him were seen to meet
Thy every virtue, excellence, and grace,
With lovely light, as in a crystal vase
Or glassy column, whose transparence shows
All things reflected in its lucid face,—
Sunlight, gem, flower, the rainbow, and the rose,
Clear in its vivid depth plays, sparkles, smiles, or glows.
Oh the dark doom, the miserable lot
Of human life, that through such trouble flies!
One storm comes threatening ere the last's forgot,
Fast as one ill departs, severer rise;
Whom has not war snatched from our weeping eyes!
Whom has not toil worn out! who has not laved
In blood his foeman's sword! who not seen rise
A thousand times the phantom he has braved,
But by hair-breadth escapes miraculously saved!
To many, oh how many, will be lost
Home, son, wife, memory, undistracted brain,
And fortune unincumbered! of this cost,
What rich returns, what vestiges remain?
Fortune? 'tis nought; fame? glory? victory? gain?
Distinction? would'st thou know, our history read;
Thou wilt there find that our fatigue and pain,
Like dust upon the wind is driven with speed,
Long ere our bright designs successfully proceed.
Invidious Death oft from the unripe ear
Gathers the grain; but in this cruel turn,
Not satisfied with being but so severe,
Has neither spared his youth, nor our concern;
Who could have prophesied a stroke so stern!
Whom had not hope deceived, alas, to vow
That one so virtuous from the dreary urn
Was surely charmed by that ingenuous brow,
O'er which the furrowing years had not yet driven their plough!
Yet is it not his losses, but our own
That we should weep; remorseless Death has made
A thousand clear discoveries, he has shown
Long life a torment, joy a posting shade,
And youth, grace, beauty, gems but to be paid,
Poor Nature's tax, at his tyrannic shrine;
Yet could not Death so far thy form degrade,
But that, when life itself was past, each line
Should yet of beauty speak, and workmanship divine.
'Tis true, it was a beauty unattended
By the rose-hues which Nature with such skill
Had with the virgin lily's whiteness blended
During thy life; the Spoiler had turned chill
The flame that tempered its chaste snows, but still
'Twas beauty most emphatic! thou didst rest
Calm and composed, as though 'twas but thy will
To sleep; a smile upon thy lips impressed
Told of the life to come, and spoke thy spirit blest.
What will the mother of thy love do now,
Who loved thee as her soul? ah me, I hear
The sound of her laments! what shrieks avow
Her agony! shrieks ringing far and near,
Which thy four sisters echo back, whose drear
Distress augments her grief; I see them go,
Forlorn, distracted, scattering o'er thy bier
Of their long ravished locks the golden flow,
Outraging every charm in concord with her woe.
I see old Tormes, full of sad concern,
With his white choir of nymphs forsake the waves,
And water earth with tears; not o'er his urn
Couched in the sweet cool of moist shady caves,
But on hot summer sands outstretched, he braves
The flaring sunbeams; flung abandoned down,
He with hoarse groans for Bernardino raves;
The yellow daffodils his locks that crown,
Tears with his tangled beard, and rends his sea-green gown.
His weeping Nymphs stand round him, unadorned,
Uncombed their yellow tresses; weep no more,
Your radiant eyes sufficiently have mourned,
Beauteous frequenters of the reedy shore!
With more availing sympathy restore
The mother, standing on distraction's verge;
Soon shall the dear chaste relics you deplore,
Inurned in marble, sleep beside your surge,
And your melodious waves prolong my funeral dirge.
And you, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, that in green bowers
Live free from care, search each Sicilian steep
For salutary herbs and virtuous flowers,
To cure Fernando of a grief so deep;
Search every secret shade, as when you peep
After the lightfoot nymphs, and bounding go
O'er vales and rocks, so may they when asleep
You in their solitudes surprise them, show
Kind as yourselves can wish, and with like fervour glow.