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		The saddest of all the Muses must be Melpomene,    for she is the goddess that inspires the lore of tragedy. Some examples can be found here: Another eye-opening, heart-rending glimpse into the soul of Harriet Beecher Stowe, the multi-faceted writer and activist, is shown in this poem. Pietro Bembo laments on the loss of his friend here. A mournful poem from the Renaissance and a 19th century poem equally sad is also here, there is also a short, short story called The Maelstrom. More Elizabethan angst, by  Francis Quarles. Another story that proves the power of good literature: The Cypress Crown by  La Motte Fouque translated from the French by an anonymous or uncredited Dutch translator.   The translation is a literal one, but despite the minor awkwardness (although it does add  interest) of some of the phrasing, the story is still well told and evocative.   It is proof that a great story can transcend language differences.  The meaning here is not  'lost in translation' --  still eerie, still gloomy, still sad. The White Wolf of Kostopchin by Sir Gilbert Campbell is a short story from the early 1900's that Melpomene would be proud of. The ancient tale of doomed lovers, told best by Luigi da Porto, 16th century soldier-poet,  in La Giulietta, translated by Thomas Roscoe. The Haunted Ships, by Allen Cunningham. To Weep Irish, a poem by Lionel Johnson. Dead Love, by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Oh me, oh my!  Walt Whitman wrote a collection of poems called Memories of Abraham Lincoln.  The two best are these:  O Captain! My Captain! and The Wound-dresser. Rustic Chivalry by Giovanni Verga, a 19th century short tragedy (classed inappropriately as a romance in the source used).  The translator from the Italian of  Cavalleria Rusticana is unattributed as well -- another sort of tragedy. A Lament by Sir William Davenant (17th Century).     THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD. PRESERVE thy sighs, unthrifty girl.     To purify the air; Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,     On bracelets of thy hair. The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,    And wakes the louder drum; Expense of grief gains no remorse     When sorrow should be dumb: For I must go where lazy Peace    Will hide her drowsy head, And, for the sport of kings, increase     The number of the dead. But first I'll chide thy cruel theft:     Can I in war delight Who, being of my heart bereft,     Can have no heart to fight? Thou know'st the sacred laws of old     Ordained a thief should pay, To quit him of his theft, sevenfold     What he had stol'n away. Thy payment shall but double be:     O then with speed resign My own seduced heart to me     Accompanied with thine. Modernized by A. H. Bullen, from Musa Proterva: Love- Poems of he Restoration; London: privately printed; 1889, pp. 6-7.