Meekly I do submit myself. Oh, ye
Who may survive me,— when the spring returns,
Remember how I loved its loveliness!
How oft I sung its perfume and its air.
I pray you sometimes to recall a line
From out my songs—my soul is written there:
But fatal Muses, love and misery,
Taught my best poetry.
When the designs of mighty Providence
Are work'd in me, internal music marks
The coming of the angel of the grave:
Nor fearful, nor yet terrible, he spreads
His white wings; and, though compass’d by night,
A thousand omens tell of his approach.
If the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear
His voice; and when night falls, the shadows round
Seem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe.
At noon, when life sees only the clear sky,
Feels only the bright sun, the fated one
Whom Death hath called, upon the distance marks
The heavy shade so soon to shroud
All nature from their eyes.
Youth, hope, emotions of the heart—ye all
Are now no more. Far from me—vain regrets;
If I can yet obtain some falling tears,
If I can yet believe myself beloved,
It is because I am about to die.
Could I recall my fleeting life,—that life,
Soon would it turn upon me all its stings.
And Rome! Rome, where my ashes will be borne!
Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive,
If, with a trembling step, I join the shades,
The multitude of your illustrious dead!
Forgive me for my pity of myself.*[1]
Feelings and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance
As might have yielded fruit—expire with me.
Of all the powers of mind which nature gave,
The power of suffering has been,the sole one,
Which I have used to its extent.
- ↑ * J'ai pitié de moi-même."—Corneille.
