LXVIII.

TO MONSIGNOR LODOVICO BECCADELLI.

_URBINO._

_Per croce e grazia._

God's grace, the cross, our troubles multiplied, Will make us meet in heaven, full well I know: Yet ere we yield our breath, on earth below Why need a little solace be denied?

Though seas and mountains and rough ways divide Our feet asunder, neither frost nor snow Can make the soul her ancient love forgo; Nor chains nor bonds the wings of thought have tied.

Borne by these wings with thee I dwell for aye, And weep, and of my dead Urbino talk, Who, were he living, now perchance would be,

For so 'twas planned, thy guest as well as I: Warned by his death another way I walk To meet him where he waits to live with me.