How long shall Grief lie smother’d? ah! how long Shall Sorrow’s signet seal my silent tongue? How long shall sighs me suffocate? and make My lips to quiver and my heart to ache? How long shall I with pain suppress my cries, And seek for holes to wipe my watery eyes? Why may not I, by sorrow thus oppressed, Pour forth my grief into another’s breast? If that be true which once was said by one, That “He mourns truly who doth mourn alone:” {180} Then may I truly say, my grief is true, Since it hath yet been known to very few. Nor is it now mine aim to make it known To those to whom these verses may be shown; But to assuage my sorrow-swollen heart, Which silence caused to taste so deep of smart. This is my end, that so I may prevent The vessel’s bursting by a timely vent. _Quis talia fando_ _Temperet a lacrymis_! Who can forbear, when such things spoke he hears, His grave to water with a flood of tears? E cho ye woods, resound ye hollow places, L et tears and paleness cover all men’s faces. L et groans, like claps of thunder, pierce the air, W hile I the cause of my just grief declare, O that mine eyes could, like the streams of Nile O ’erflow their watery banks; and thou meanwhile D rink in my trickling tears, oh thirsty ground, S o might’st thou henceforth fruitfuler be found. L ament, my soul, lament; thy loss is deep, A nd all that Sion love sit down and weep, M ourn, oh ye virgins, and let sorrow be E ach damsel’s dowry, and (alas, for me!) N e’er let my sobs and sighings have an end T ill I again embrace my ascended friend; A nd till I feel the virtue of his life T o consolate me, and repress my grief: I nfuse into my heart the oil of gladness O nce more, and by its strength remove that sadness N ow pressing down my spirit, and restore F ully that joy I had in him before; O f whom a word I fain would stammer forth, R ather to ease my heart than show his worth: H is worth, my grief, which words too shallow are I n demonstration fully to declare, S ighs, sobs, my best interpreters now are. E nvy begone; black Momus quit the place; N e’er more, Zoilus, show thy wrinkled face, D raw near, ye bleeding hearts, whose sorrows are E qual with mine; in him ye had like share. A dd all your losses up, and ye shall see R emainder will be nought but woe is me. E ndeared lambs, ye that have the white stone, D o know full well his name—it is your own. E ternitized be that right worthy name; D eath hath but kill’d his body, not his fame, W hich in its brightness shall for ever dwell, A nd like a box of ointment sweetly smell. R ighteousness was his robe; bright majesty D ecked his brow; his look was heavenly.