The only known copy of this little volume, the text of which I reproduce in extenso, belonged [in 1865] to M. Joachim Gomez de la Cortina, Marquis de Morante, who was so exceedingly kind as to send it from Madrid to Paris, that I might examine it at my leisure. M. de la Cortina has described it in the fifth volume of the catalogue of his library (Madrid, 1859; octavo). My only previous knowledge of it was derived from that catalogue, although it was bought of M. Techener not more than ten years ago, for 80 reals (20 francs).
Go, book, to the sacred sanctuaries of pious poets; you are light, polished, radiant, and neat. Splendidly arrayed you are, and have nard, and roses, and saffron; the Latin goddesses, gracious divinities, together with Phœbus. Be not afraid lest you do not carry with you the favour of the gods; they will lift you, laurel-scented, above the stars.
_Agnes Tory, sweetest and most modest of maidens, addresses the wayfarer from her tomb._
Thou who passest with light foot, beloved wayfarer, stay thy step a little; lo, I wish to say a few words to thee. Live in remembrance of death, free from vices, and, if thou art wise, cast aside that hope of life which thou cherishest. Thou art radiant with beauty to-day, but, when the thread is cut, impious Fate hurries thee straight on to nought. I know this by experience, for, lately but a young girl of ten, I was suddenly snatched away. Like a rose I bloomed, sharer in those virtues which are usually seen in tender maidenhood. But yet I died, overwhelmed by the cruel fates, and now I am food for the flesh-eating worms. Food for the flesh-eating worms I lie, but not so wholly lifeless that I cannot speak the truth to thee. I speak in the Latin tongue, and this is not strange, fair friend, for I am to be named the daughter of a pious poet. Desiring to instruct me in the Ausonian tongue, and also to render me accomplished in the polite arts, he, like a most affectionate father, teaching me night and day, himself laid the foundations, sweet and ample, for my life. I should be accomplished in the learning of the famous Muses, and I should sing beautiful songs in pleasing measure; and then my sire would have given me fond kisses, placing the laurel-wreath upon my head. O pitiful lot of human beings! O hopes doomed to perish! On earth there is nothing that can be lasting. Not only does death show herself face to face to wretched mortals, but with silent step she steals upon them secretly and unbeknown. Ah! beware, therefore, beware, thou who art doomed to die, the world will certainly in a moment's time fall and crash about thee. Thou, while thou still livest, while thou seekest great honours, art with infirm and rapid step steadily approaching thy doom. If thou departest satisfied with this one certain warning, and if thou believest that I speak the truth, bestrew me with flowers, violets and lilies, and nard. Pray for me too, if it please thee, and weep. Me thou wilt cause by thy prayers to mount to the lofty vault of Heaven, where is perpetual light, peace, and grateful rest. This was the little that I wished thee to know. Live in remembrance of death, thou who art destined soon to die. Farewell.