2.

  Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
    When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
  In darkness?  Where was lorn Urania
    When Adonais died?  With veiled eyes,
    ’Mid listening Echoes, in her paradise 5
  She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
    Rekindled all the fading melodies
  With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of Death.

3.

  Oh weep for Adonais—­he is dead! 
    Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!—­
  Yet wherefore?  Quench within their burning bed
    Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep,
    Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 5
  For he is gone where all things wise and fair
    Descend.  Oh dream not that the amorous deep
  Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

4.

  Most musical of mourners, weep again! 
    Lament anew, Urania!—­He died
  Who was the sire of an immortal strain,
    Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride
    The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, 5
  Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite
    Of lust and blood.  He went unterrified
  Into the gulf of death; but his clear sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth, the third among the Sons of Light.

5.

  Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 
    Not all to that bright station dared to climb: 
  And happier they their happiness who knew,
    Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
    In which suns perished.  Others more sublime, 5
  Struck by the envious wrath of man or God,
    Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
  And some yet live, treading the thorny road
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.

6.

  But now thy youngest, dearest one has perished,
    The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
  Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
    And fed with true love tears instead of dew. 
    Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 5
  Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
    The bloom whose petals, nipt before they blew,
  Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies—­the storm is overpast.

7.

  To that high Capital where kingly Death
    Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay
  He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
    A grave among the eternal.—­Come away! 
    Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 5
  Is yet his fitting charnel-roof, while still
    He lies as if in dewy sleep he lay. 
  Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

8.