ppho, we had thought,
Hearing thy songs so sweetly, deftly wrought,
That thou shouldst have an heritage one day
Beyond thy father's lands: his lute to play.
For not an hour of daylight's joyous round
But thou didst fill it full of lovely sound,
Just as the nightingale doth scatter pleasure
Upon the dark, in glad unstinted measure.
Then Death came stalking near thee, timid thing,
And thou in sudden terror tookest wing.
Ah, that delight, it was not overlong
And I pay dear with sorrow for brief song.
Thou still wert singing when thou cam'st to die;
Kissing thy mother, thus thou saidst good-bye:
"My mother, I shall serve thee now no more
Nor sit about thy table's charming store;
I must lay down my keys to go from here,
To leave the mansion of my parents dear."
This and what sorrow now will let me tell
No longer, were my darling's last farewell.
Ah, strong her mother's heart, to feel the pain
Of those last words and not to burst in twain.

LAMENT VII

Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses
That touched her like caresses,
Why do you draw my mournful eyes? To borrow
A newer weight of sorrow?
No longer will you clothe her form, to fold her
Around, and wrap her, hold her.
A hard, unwaking sleep has overpowered
Her limbs, and now the flowered
Cool muslin and the ribbon snoods are bootless,
The gilded girdles fruitless.
My little girl, 'twas to a bed far other
That one day thy poor mother
Had thought to lead thee, and this simple dower
Suits not the bridal hour;
A tiny shroud and gown of her own sewing
She gives thee at thy going.
Thy rather brings a clod of earth, a somber
Pillow for thy last slumber.
And so a single casket, scant of measure,
Locks thee and all thy treasure.

LAMENT VIII

Thou hast made all the house an empty thing,
Dear Ursula, by this thy vanishing.
Though we are here, 'tis yet a vacant place,
One little soul had filled so great a space.
For thou didst sing thy joyousness to all,
Running through every nook of house and hall.
Thou wouldst not have thy mother grieve, nor let
Thy father with too solemn thinking fret
His head, but thou must kiss them, daughter mine,
And all with that entrancing laugh of thine!
Now on the house has fallen a dumb blight:
Thou wilt not come with archness and delight,
But every corner lodges lurking grief
And all in vain the heart would seek relief.

LAMENT IX

Thou shouldst be purchased, Wisdom, for