STANCHEZZA.

Lo Zephyr floats, on pinions delicate,

Past the dark belfry, where a deep-toned bell

Sways back and forth, Grief tolling out the knell

For thee, my friend, so young and yet so great.

Dead — thou art dead. The destiny of men

Is ever thus, like waves upon the main

To rise, grow great, fall with a crash and wane,

While still another grows to wane again,

Dead — thou art dead. Would that I too were gone

And that the grass which rustles on thy grave

Might also over mine forever wave

Made living by the death it grew upon.

I ask not Orpheus-like, that Pluto give

Thy soul to earth. I would not have thee live.