O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, on some other day, From isles Lethean, sigh to us - O sigh! Spirits of grief, sing not your «Well-a-way!» For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta’en away her Basil sweet.
LXIII.
And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, Imploring for her Basil to the last. No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d: Still is the burthen sung - «O cruelty, «To steal my Basil-pot away from me!»