Vittorelli

Translated by Lord Byron

OF two fair virgins, modest, though admired,

Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,

And gazing upon either, both required.

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired

Becomes extinguish’d, soon—too soon—expires:

But thine, within the closing grate retired,

Eternal captive, to her God aspires.

But thou, at least, from out the jealous door,

Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,

May’st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:

I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rush,—the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,

And knock, and knock, and knock—but none replies.