Translated from the Italian of Petrarch on the Death of Laura
Fall’n is the pillar high, the laurel green,
That to my wearied thought erst gave a shade!
Nor can by lands, by power, by India’s gems
By countless gold, my loss be e’er repaid.
Death has destroy’d, what most my soul held dear;
The treasure that with rapture fill’d my mind;
Now lost is that, which though to either pole
In weary search I roam, I ne’er shall find!
But if stern destiny’s stern will it be,
Why flows complaint, why starts th’ unbidden tear,
Oh! life at first what charms in thee appear,
How gay thou art, how cheerful & how free,
Yet in one fatal morn, how oft we see
Destroy’d, the soul of many a weary circling year.