From the Italian of Sannazaro

Oh! pure and blessèd soul,
That, from thy clay’s control
Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere,
And from thy crystal throne
Look’st down, with smiles alone,
On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear;

Thy happy feet have trod
The starry spangled road,
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding;
And from their erring track
Thou charm’st thy shepherds back,
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding.

Oh! who shall Death withstand--
Death, whose impartial hand
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine!
When shall our ears again
Drink in so sweet a strain,
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine!