Prepare your wreaths, Aonian maids divine, To strew the tranquil bed where I shall sleep; In tears, the myrtle and the laurel steep, And let Erato's hand the trophies twine. No parian marble, there, with labored line, Shall bid the wandering lover stay to weep; There holy silence shall her vigils keep, Save, when the nightingale such woes as mine Shall sadly sing; as twilight's curtains spread, There shall the branching lotus widely wave, Sprinkling soft showers upon the lily's head, Sweet drooping emblem for a lover's grave! And there shall Phaon pearls of pity shed, To gem the vanquished heart he scorned to save! |