VERSES ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

Tell me, dear Garcilasso, thou Who ever aim'dst at Good, And in the spirit of thy vow So swift her course pursued, That thy few steps sufficed to place The angel in thy loved embrace, Won instant, soon as wooed,— Why took'st thou not, when winged to flee From this dark world, Boscán with thee?

Why, when ascending to the star Where now thou sitt'st enshrined, Left'st thou thy weeping friend afar, Alas, so far behind! Oh, I do think, had it remained With thee to alter aught ordained By the Eternal Mind, Thou wouldst not on this desert spot Have left thy other self forgot.

For if through life thy love was such, As still to take a pride In having me so oft and much Close to thy envied side— I cannot doubt, I must believe Thou wouldst at least have taken leave Of me, or if denied, Have come back afterwards, unblest Till I too shared thy heavenly rest.

To the soft wind, the' eternal guest Of these delicious skies, Thou yet, sweet lute, hast been but prest In beauty's cause, at love's behest, To sing of bright blue eyes.

But leave these idle themes, and sound His glory to the stars, Whose footsteps ranged on classic ground, Till Garonne saw him deal around The battle-bolts of Mars.

Woe to the heart of Aquitaine! Woe to the men she bred! When, sheathed in steel, with fierce disdain, He loosed a stream in every vein, And dyed her ramparts red.

But, freed from war, he bound his brow With myrtle leaves again, To Venus paid a votary's vow, And hymned her birth, assuming now The falchion, now the pen.

Sweet as the swan, when death was nigh, On Danube's willowed banks, He held the waters roaring by, With magic of his melody, Congealed in crystal ranks.

Long, long that tune the stream shall keep, And whisper as it flows; Let Love too tell in murmurs deep The noble words she heard him weep, For well those words she knows.

Well as his song, grave, tender, sweet, Beneath the beechen shade, The wild brook babbling at his feet, When he bewailed the chaste deceit Of his beloved maid.

But hush the chords, for there, ah there, Salicio too grew mute, And broken-hearted with despair For the too false, forsaking fair, Hung up his useless lute!

What daring hand may hope to raise To thee the double trophy due, Whom not alone the poet's bays Distinguished, but the warrior's too? What tributary voice in one Collect thy various praises? None.

In thy melodious verse, where yet Thy spirit breathes, thy glory glows, Immortal shalt thou live, till set The stars in darkness whence they rose. Shower, virgins, shower with sad concern, Wild thyme and rose-leaves round his urn!

Whilst I his glories, dumb with grief, Point to the frequent passer-by, Worthy the blazoning bas-relief, The sculptured bust, the speaking die: 'Lo! 'midst green ivies, flowers, and palms, Lasso's hushed lyre and rusting arms!'

With purple flowers, oh Muse, each morn, The freshest flowers in bloom, Scattered with pious hands, adorn Thy Lasso's holy tomb; In grief for the lamented dead, Thy golden tresses, Venus, spread Dishevelled;—mourn his doom, His timeless doom, ye little Loves, In concord with your Mother's doves!

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!

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!