Herrera, on the Death of Garcilasso

Musa, esparze purpureas frescas flores.

With purple flowers, oh Muse, each morn, The freshest flowers in bloom, Scattered with pious hands, adorn Thy Lasso's holy tomb; In grief for the lamented dead, Thy golden tresses, Venus, spread Dishevelled;—mourn his doom, His timeless doom, ye little Loves, In concord with your Mother's doves!

As burns the bird whose perished frame Arabian herbs inter, Your broken bows give to the flame With rosemary and myrrh; And oh, for his lamented sake, Apollo, to thy temples take The wreath of funeral fir, And sadly to the solemn string His glory and thy sorrows sing!

His name, Parnassus, whose proud song, Pure, sweet, and tender, gave Fame to thy rosy peaks, prolong Through each revering cave; Lasso, through whose harmonious shell Tagus rich Tiber does excel, And Arno's purer wave,— For whose hushed voice a nation grieves, Lies dead amidst green amaranth leaves!