Lament XII

I think no father under any sky

More fondly loved a daughter than did I,

And scarcely ever has a child been born

Whose loss her parents could more justly mourn.

Unspoiled and neat, obedient at all times,

She seemed already versed in songs and rhymes,

And with a highborn courtesy and art,

Though but a babe, she played a maiden’s part.

Discreet and modest, sociable and free

From jealous habits, docile, mannerly,

She never thought to taste her morning fare

Until she should have said her morning prayer;

She never went to sleep at night until

She had prayed God to save us all from ill.

She used to run to meet her father when

He came from any journey home again;

She loved to work and to anticipate

The servants of the house ere they could wait

Upon her parents. This she had begun

When thirty months their little course had run.

So many virtues and such active zeal

Her youth could not sustain; she fell from weal

Ere harvest. Little ear of wheat, thy prime

Was distant; ’tis before thy proper time

I sow thee once again in the sad earth,

Knowing I bury with thee hope and mirth.

For thou wilt not spring up when blossoms quicken

But leave mine eyes forever sorrow-stricken.