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Her ancient-walls, which still with fear and love The world admires, whene’er it calls to mind The days of Eld, and turns to look behind; Her hoar and caverned monuments above The dust of men whose fame, until the world In dissolution sink, can never fail; Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurled, Hopes to have healed by thee its every ail. O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead! To you what triumph, where ye now are blest, If of our worthy choice the fame have spread! And how his laurelled crest Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!

—MACGREGOR.

The next year, 1348, was one of havoc and desolation for Europe, through the ravages of the Black Death, which swept away a larger proportion of her inhabitants than any similar visitation recorded in history. Laura was among the victims, dying on April 6, the anniversary of her meeting with Petrarch. Cardinal Colonna, his chief patron since the death of the Bishop of Lombès, was also carried off on July 3. Nothing can be added to his own words: