Lament XII

I think no father under any sky     More fondly loved a daughter than did I,     And scarcely ever has a child been born     Whose loss her parents could more justly mourn.     Unspoiled and neat, obedient at all times,     She seemed already versed in songs and rhymes,     And with a highborn courtesy and art,     Though but a babe, she played a maiden's part.     Discreet and modest, sociable and free     From jealous habits, docile, mannerly,     She never thought to taste her morning fare     Until she should have said her morning prayer;     She never went to sleep at night until     She had prayed God to save us all from ill.     She used to run to meet her father when     He came from any journey home again;     She loved to work and to anticipate     The servants of the house ere they could wait     Upon her parents. This she had begun     When thirty months their little course had run.     So many virtues and such active zeal     Her youth could not sustain; she fell from weal     Ere harvest. Little ear of wheat, thy prime     Was distant; 'tis before thy proper time     I sow thee once again in the sad earth,     Knowing I bury with thee hope and mirth.     For thou wilt not spring up when blossoms quicken     But leave mine eyes forever sorrow-stricken.