An Epitaph

O Passer, Hyacinthe lies hallowed here,
Who, Lord of Maugiron was, now cold as stone—
God rest the soul, and all the sins condone,
Of him who fell unshaken with a fear.

None, not e'en Quelus decked with pearl-gemmed gear,
In plaited ruff or plumed cap princelier shone,
And so thou seest this mournful marble own
A branch of jacinth cut by Myron's peer.

King Henry kissed and clipped him and his shroud
Put on; then willed that to Saint-Germain proud
Be borne his pale, cold form of matchless grace;

And that such grief as his might never die,
He raised this emblem in this sacred place—
Sad, sweet memorial of Apollo's sigh.