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What urn of most prized jewels, or most rare work of gorgeous emerald, or brilliant diamond, could ever, my Lord, worthily, with love, hold the sacred ashes I still treasure? His proud soul the angelic chorus next to God welcomed, now looks down to sees me crying--nothing we buried him in is worthy--I long for the purest silver, the brightest gold. Yet the finest, noblest will follow his footsteps and his acts will be honored as long as honor survives; immortal histories and wise hearts shall be the sacred temples where your name swells these other urns are too ephemeral. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XXXIV:24. See also B A1:34, 20; R XXXII:99. This reads as if written in response to someone. Key |
