COULD we forget the widow'd hour
And look on Spirits breathed away,
As on a maiden in the day

When first she wears her orange flower!

When crown'd with blessings she doth rise

To take her latest leave of home,

And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes;

And doubtful joys the father move,
And tears are on the mother's face,
As parting with a long embrace

She enters other realms of love;

XXX.

HEI mihi! si nobis orbata intercidat hora,

Si liceat carum sic meminisse caput,

Ut sponsam meminisse juvat quo tempore crines
Virgineos proprio flore ligavit Hymen!

Illa, suis jam fausta precantibus omnia, notos
Supremum alloquitur mox abitura locos,
Dum desiderium teneros leve turbat ocellos,
Spesque simul, vernum ut sol pluviaeque diem.
Gaudia nunc agitant animos incerta paternos,
Matris et humectat lacryma multa genas,
Filia dum longo complexu avulsa suorum

Quaerit quae potior federa jungit amor.

Her office there to rear, to teach,
Becoming as is meet and fit

A link among the days, to knit
The generations each with each;

And, doubtless, unto thee is given
A life that bears immortal fruit
In such great offices as suit
The full-grown energies of heaven.

Ay me, the difference I discern!

How often shall her old fire side

Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, How often she herself return,

And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those who miss'd her most, Shall count new things as dear as old:

Illi pars alere, et praeceptis fingere prolem,
Et fungi quae lex munera fasque jubet,
Jungere praesentes annis venientibus annos,
Et sobolem veteri consociare novam.

Tu quoque jam peragis, credo, felicius aevum,
Quodque facis nunquam mors abolebit opus;
Tu quoque, caelicolum jam viribus auctus adultis,
Officio fungi nobiliore potes.

At tua sors ista quantum heu! diversa videtur;
Gaudebit quoties, sit procul illa, domus,
Prospera sollicitas cum fama advenerit aures !
Et quoties patrios cum petet ipsa focos!
Illic saepe novam prolem ostentare juvabit,
Saepe suis placeat quod didicisse loqui,
Dum dolor amissae si cui prius acrior esset,
Ipse novas pariter res placuisse ferat.

But thou and I have shaken hands,
Till growing winters lay me low;

My paths are in the fields I know,
And thine in undiscover'd lands.

In Memoriam, xxxix.