The sonnets, triumphs, and other poems of Petrarch (part 3 of 5)

The sonnets, triumphs, and other poems of Petrarch (part 3 of 5)

Alas, Sennuccio! would thy mind could frame What now I suffer! what my life's drear reign; Consumed beneath my heart's continued pain, At will she guides me--yet am I the same. Now humble--then doth pride her soul inflame; Now harsh--then gentle; cruel--kind again; Now all reserve--then borne on frolic's vein; Disdain alternates with a milder claim. Here once she sat, and there so sweetly sang; Here turn'd to look on me, and lingering stood; There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole: And here she smiled, and there her accents rang, Her speaking face here told another mood. Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XC.

Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio.

THE MERE SIGHT OF VAUCLUSE MAKES HIM FORGET ALL THE PERILS OF HIS JOURNEY.

Friend, on this spot, I life but half endure (Would I were wholly here and you content), Where from the storm and wind my course I bent, Which suddenly had left the skies obscure. Fain would I tell--for here I feel me sure-- Why lightnings now no fear to me present; And why unmitigated, much less spent, E'en as before my fierce desires allure. Soon as I reach'd these realms of love, and saw Where, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came, Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays; Love in my soul, where she alone gives law, Quench'd the cold fear and kindled the fast flame; What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCI.

Dell' empia Babilonia, ond' è fuggita.

LEAVING ROME, HE DESIRES ONLY PEACE WITH LAURA AND PROSPERITY TO COLONNA.

Yes, out of impious Babylon I'm flown, Whence flown all shame, whence banish'd is all good, That nurse of error, and of guilt th' abode, To lengthen out a life which else were gone: There as Love prompts, while wandering alone, I now a garland weave, and now an ode; With him I commune, and in pensive mood Hope better times; this only checks my moan. Nor for the throng, nor fortune do I care, Nor for myself, nor sublunary things, No ardour outwardly, or inly springs: I ask two persons only: let my fair For me a kind and tender heart maintain; And be my friend secure in his high post again.

NOTT.

From impious Babylon, where all shame is dead, And every good is banish'd to far climes, Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes, Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled: Alone, at last alone, and here, as led At Love's sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes, Self-parleying, and still on better times Wrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed. Cares for the world or fortune I have none, Nor much for self, nor any common theme: Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat. Two friends alone I ask, and that the one More merciful and meek to me may seem, The other well as erst, and firm of feet.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCII.

In mezzo di duo amanti onesta altera.

LAURA TURNING TO SALUTE HIM, THE SUN, THROUGH JEALOUSY, WITHDREW BEHIND A CLOUD.

'Tween two fond lovers I a lady spied, Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord, By gods above and men below adored-- The sun on this, myself upon that side-- Soon as she found herself the sphere denied Of her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour'd A flood of life and joy, which hope restored Less cold to me will be her future pride. Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirth The jealous fear to which at his first sight So high a rival in my heart gave birth; As suddenly his sad and rueful plight From further scrutiny a small cloud veil'd, So much it ruffled him that then he fail'd.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCIII.

Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza.

WHEREVER HE IS, HE SEES ONLY LAURA.

O'erflowing with the sweets ineffable, Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew, What time they seal'd, for very rapture, grew. On meaner beauty never more to dwell, Whom most I love I left: my mind so well Its part, to muse on her, is train'd to do, None else it sees; what is not hers to view, As of old wont, with loathing I repel. In a low valley shut from all around, Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs, Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone: Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found, And of that day blest images arise, Which my thought shapes where'er I turn mine eyes.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCIV.

Se 'l sasso ond' è più chiusa questa valle.

COULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLY.

If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone, From which its present name we closely trace, Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrown Its back to Babel and to Rome its face; Then had my sighs a better pathway known To where their hope is yet in life and grace: They now go singly, yet my voice all own; And, where I send, not one but finds its place. There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweet They ever find, that none returns again, But still delightedly with her remain. My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet-- Not the fair scenes my soul so long'd to see-- Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCV.

Rimansi addietro il sestodecim' anno.

THOUGH HE IS UNHAPPY, HIS LOVE REMAINS EVER UNCHANGED.

My sixteenth year of sighs its course has run, I stand alone, already on the brow Where Age descends: and yet it seems as now My time of trial only were begun. 'Tis sweet to love, and good to be undone; Though life be hard, more days may Heaven allow Misfortune to outlive: else Death may bow The bright head low my loving praise that won. Here am I now who fain would be elsewhere; More would I wish and yet no more I would; I could no more and yet did all I could: And new tears born of old desires declare That still I am as I was wont to be, And that a thousand changes change not me.

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE XII.

Una donna più bella assai che 'l sole.

GLORY AND VIRTUE.

A lady, lovelier, brighter than the sun, Like him superior o'er all time and space, Of rare resistless grace, Me to her train in early life had won: She, from that hour, in act, and word and thought, --For still the world thus covets what is rare-- In many ways though brought Before my search, was still the same coy fair: For her alone my plans, from what they were, Grew changed, since nearer subject to her eyes; Her love alone could spur My young ambition to each hard emprize: So, if in long-wish'd port I e'er arrive, I hope, for aye through her, When others deem me dead, in honour to survive.

Full of first hope, burning with youthful love, She, at her will, as plainly now appears, Has led me many years, But for one end, my nature best to prove: Oft showing me her shadow, veil, and dress, But never her sweet face, till I, who right Knew not her power to bless, All my green youth for these, contented quite, So spent, that still the memory is delight: Since onward yet some glimpse of her is seen, I now may own, of late, Such as till then she ne'er for me had been, She shows herself, shooting through all my heart An icy cold so great That save in her dear arms it ne'er can thence depart.

Not that in this cold fear I all did shrink, For still my heart was to such boldness strung That to her feet I clung, As if more rapture from her eyes to drink: And she--for now the veil was ta'en away Which barr'd my sight--thus spoke me, "Friend, you see How fair I am, and may Ask, for your years, whatever fittest be." "Lady," I said, "so long my love on thee Has fix'd, that now I feel myself on fire, What, in this state, to shun, and what desire." She, thereon, with a voice so wond'rous sweet And earnest look replied, By turns with hope and fear it made my quick heart beat:--

"Rarely has man, in this full crowd below, E'en partial knowledge of my worth possess'd Who felt not in his breast At least awhile some spark of spirit glow: But soon my foe, each germ of good abhorr'd, Quenches that light, and every virtue dies, While reigns some other lord Who promises a calmer life shall rise: Love, of your mind, to him that naked lies, So shows the great desire with which you burn, That safely I divine It yet shall win for you an honour'd urn; Already one of my few friends you are, And now shall see in sign A lady who shall make your fond eyes happier far."

"It may not, cannot be," I thus began; --When she, "Turn hither, and in yon calm nook Upon the lady look So seldom seen, so little sought of man!" I turn'd, and o'er my brow the mantling shame, Within me as I felt that new fire swell, Of conscious treason came. She softly smiled, "I understand you well; E'en as the sun's more powerful rays dispel And drive the meaner stars of heaven from sight, So I less fair appear, Dwindling and darken'd now in her more light; But not for this I bar you from my train, As one in jealous fear-- One birth, the elder she, produced us, sisters twain."

Meanwhile the cold and heavy chain was burst Of silence, which a sense of shame had flung Around my powerless tongue, When I was conscious of her notice first: And thus I spoke, "If what I hear be true, Bless'd be the sire, and bless'd the natal day Which graced our world with you! Blest the long years pass'd in your search away! From the right path if e'er I went astray, It grieves me more than, haply, I can show: But of your state, if I Deserve more knowledge, more I long to know." She paused, then, answering pensively, so bent On me her eloquent eye, That to my inmost heart her looks and language went:--

"As seem'd to our Eternal Father best, We two were made immortal at our birth: To man so small our worth Better on us that death, like yours, should rest. Though once beloved and lovely, young and bright, So slighted are we now, my sister sweet Already plumes for flight Her wings to bear her to her own old seat; Myself am but a shadow thin and fleet; Thus have I told you, in brief words, whate'er You sought of us to find: And now farewell! before I mount in air This favour take, nor fear that I forget." Whereat she took and twined A wreath of laurel green, and round my temples set.

My song! should any deem thy strain obscure, Say, that I care not, and, ere long to hear, In certain words and clear, Truth's welcome message, that my hope is sure; For this alone, unless I widely err Of him who set me on the task, I came, That others I might stir To honourable acts of high and holy aim.

MACGREGOR.

MADRIGALE IV.

Or vedi, Amor, che giovinetta donna.

A PRAYER TO LOVE THAT HE WILL TAKE VENGEANCE ON THE SCORNFUL PRIDE OF LAURA.

Now, Love, at length behold a youthful fair, Who spurns thy rule, and, mocking all my care, 'Mid two such foes, is safe and fancy free. Thou art well arm'd, 'mid flowers and verdure she, In simplest robe and natural tresses found, Against thee haughty still and harsh to me; I am thy thrall: but, if thy bow be sound, If yet one shaft be thine, in pity, take Vengeance upon her for our common sake.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCVI.

Quelle pietose rime, in ch' io m' accorsi.

TO ANTONIO OF FERRARA, WHO, IN A POEM, HAD LAMENTED PETRARCH'S SUPPOSED DEATH.

Those pious lines wherein are finely met Proofs of high genius and a spirit kind, Had so much influence on my grateful mind That instantly in hand my pen I set To tell you that death's final blow--which yet Shall me and every mortal surely find-- I have not felt, though I, too, nearly join'd The confines of his realm without regret; But I turn'd back again because I read Writ o'er the threshold that the time to me Of life predestinate not all was fled, Though its last day and hour I could not see. Then once more let your sad heart comfort know, And love the living worth which dead it honour'd so.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCVII.

Dicesett' anni ha già rivolto il cielo.

E'EN IN OUR ASHES LIVE OUR WONTED FIRES.

The seventeenth summer now, alas! is gone, And still with ardour unconsumed I glow; Yet find, whene'er myself I seek to know, Amidst the fire a frosty chill come on. Truly 'tis said, 'Ere Habit quits her throne, Years bleach the hair.' The senses feel life's snow, But not less hot the tides of passion flow: Such is our earthly nature's malison! Oh! come the happy day, when doom'd to smart No more, from flames and lingering sorrows free, Calm I may note how fast youth's minutes flew! Ah! will it e'er be mine the hour to see, When with delight, nor duty nor my heart Can blame, these eyes once more that angel face may view?

WRANGHAM.

For seventeen summers heaven has o'er me roll'd Since first I burn'd, nor e'er found respite thence, But when to weigh our state my thoughts commence I feel amidst the flames a frosty cold. We change the form, not nature, is an old And truthful proverb: thus, to dull the sense Makes not the human feelings less intense; The dark shades of our painful veil still hold. Alas! alas! will e'er that day appear When, my life's flight beholding, I may find Issue from endless fire and lingering pain,-- The day which, crowning all my wishes here, Of that fair face the angel air and kind Shall to my longing eyes restore again?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCVIII.

Quel vago impallidir che 'l dolce riso.

LEAVE-TAKING.

That witching paleness, which with cloud of love Veil'd her sweet smile, majestically bright, So thrill'd my heart, that from the bosom's night Midway to meet it on her face it strove. Then learnt I how, 'mid realms of joy above, The blest behold the blest: in such pure light I scann'd her tender thought, to others' sight Viewless!--but my fond glances would not rove. Each angel grace, each lowly courtesy, E'er traced in dame by Love's soft power inspired, Would seem but foils to those which prompt my lay: Upon the ground was cast her gentle eye, And still methought, though silent, she inquired, "What bears my faithful friend so soon, so far away?"

WRANGHAM.

There was a touching paleness on her face, Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace, As if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade; Then knew I how the blessed ones above Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss, For never yet was look of mortal love So pure, so tender, so serene as this. The softest glance fond woman ever sent To him she loved, would cold and rayless be Compared to this, which she divinely bent Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me, That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say, "Who takes from me my faithful friend away?"

E. (New Monthly Magazine.)

SONNET XCIX.

Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva.

THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE.

Love, Fortune, and my melancholy mind, Sick of the present, lingering on the past, Afflict me so, that envious thoughts I cast On those who life's dark shore have left behind. Love racks my bosom: Fortune's wintry wind Kills every comfort: my weak mind at last Is chafed and pines, so many ills and vast Expose its peace to constant strifes unkind. Nor hope I better days shall turn again; But what is left from bad to worse may pass: For ah! already life is on the wane. Not now of adamant, but frail as glass, I see my best hopes fall from me or fade, And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid.

MACGREGOR.

Love, Fortune, and my ever-faithful mind, Which loathes the present in its memoried past, So wound my spirit, that on all I cast An envied thought who rest in darkness find. My heart Love prostrates, Fortune more unkind No comfort grants, until its sorrow vast Impotent frets, then melts to tears at last: Thus I to painful warfare am consign'd. My halcyon days I hope not to return, But paint my future by a darker tint; My spring is gone--my summer well-nigh fled: Ah! wretched me! too well do I discern Each hope is now (unlike the diamond flint) A fragile mirror, with its fragments shed.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE XIII.

Se 'l pensier che mi strugge.

HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE.

Oh! that my cheeks were taught By the fond, wasting thought To wear such hues as could its influence speak; Then the dear, scornful fair Might all my ardour share; And where Love slumbers now he might awake! Less oft the hill and mead My wearied feet should tread; Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream; If she, who cold as snow, With equal fire would glow-- She who dissolves me, and converts to flame.

Since Love exerts his sway, And bears my sense away, I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs: Nor leaves, nor blossoms show, Nor rind, upon the bough, What is the nature that thereto belongs. Love, and those beauteous eyes, Beneath whose shade he lies, Discover all the heart can comprehend: When vented are my cares In loud complaints, and tears; These harm myself, and others those offend.

Sweet lays of sportive vein, Which help'd me to sustain Love's first assault, the only arms I bore; This flinty breast say who Shall once again subdue, That I with song may soothe me as before? Some power appears to trace Within me Laura's face, Whispers her name; and straight in verse I strive To picture her again, But the fond effort's vain: Me of my solace thus doth Fate deprive.

E'en as some babe unties Its tongue in stammering guise, Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep: So fond words I essay; And listen'd be the lay By my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep! But if, of beauty vain, She treats me with disdain; Do thou, O verdant shore, attend my sighs: Let them so freely flow, That all the world may know, My sorrow thou at least didst not despise!

And well art thou aware, That never foot so fair The soil e'er press'd as that which trod thee late; My sunk soul and worn heart Now seek thee, to impart The secret griefs that on my passion wait. If on thy margent green, Or 'midst thy flowers, were seen Some traces of her footsteps lingering there. My wearied life 'twould cheer, Bitter'd with many a tear: Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care?

Where'er I bend mine eye, What sweet serenity I feel, to think here Laura shone of yore. Each plant and scented bloom I gather, seems to come From where she wander'd on the custom'd shore: Ofttimes in this retreat A fresh and fragrant seat She found; at least so fancy's vision shows: And never let truth seek Th' illusion dear to break-- O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows!

To thee, my simple song, No polish doth belong; Thyself art conscious of thy little worth! Solicit not renown Throughout the busy town, But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth.

NOTT.

CANZONE XIV.

Chiare, fresche e dolci acque.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUOLUSE--CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH.

Ye limpid brooks, by whose clear streams My goddess laid her tender limbs! Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly shade Gave shelter to the lovely maid! Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly press'd By her soft rising snowy breast! Ye Zephyrs mild, that breathed around The place where Love my heart did wound! Now at my summons all appear, And to my dying words give ear.

If then my destiny requires, And Heaven with my fate conspires, That Love these eyes should weeping close, Here let me find a soft repose. So Death will less my soul affright, And, free from dread, my weary spright Naked alone will dare t' essay The still unknown, though beaten way; Pleased that her mortal part will have So safe a port, so sweet a grave.

The cruel fair, for whom I burn, May one day to these shades return, And smiling with superior grace, Her lover seek around this place, And when instead of me she finds Some crumbling dust toss'd by the winds, She may feel pity in her breast, And, sighing, wish me happy rest, Drying her eyes with her soft veil, Such tears must sure with Heaven prevail.

Well I remember how the flowers Descended from these boughs in showers, Encircled in the fragrant cloud She set, nor midst such glory proud. These blossoms to her lap repair, These fall upon her flowing hair, (Like pearls enchased in gold they seem,) These on the ground, these on the stream; In giddy rounds these dancing say, Here Love and Laura only sway.

In rapturous wonder oft I said, Sure she in Paradise was made, Thence sprang that bright angelic state, Those looks, those words, that heavenly gait, That beauteous smile, that voice divine, Those graces that around her shine: Transported I beheld the fair, And sighing cried, How came I here? In heaven, amongst th' immortal blest, Here let me fix and ever rest.

MOLESWORTH.

Ye waters clear and fresh, to whose blight wave She all her beauties gave,-- Sole of her sex in my impassion'd mind! Thou sacred branch so graced, (With sighs e'en now retraced!) On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form reclined! Herbage and flowers that bent the robe beneath, Whose graceful folds compress'd Her pure angelic breast! Ye airs serene, that breathe Where Love first taught me in her eyes his lore! Yet once more all attest, The last sad plaintive lay my woe-worn heart may pour!

If so I must my destiny fulfil, And Love to close these weeping eyes be doom'd By Heaven's mysterious will, Oh! grant that in this loved retreat, entomb'd, My poor remains may lie, And my freed soul regain its native sky! Less rude shall Death appear, If yet a hope so dear Smooth the dread passage to eternity! No shade so calm--serene, My weary spirit finds on earth below; No grave so still--so green, In which my o'ertoil'd frame may rest from mortal woe!

Yet one day, haply, she--so heavenly fair! So kind in cruelty!-- With careless steps may to these haunts repair, And where her beaming eye Met mine in days so blest, A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest, And seeking me around, May mark among the stones a lowly mound, That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense! Then may she breathe a sigh, Of power to win me mercy from above! Doing Heaven violence, All-beautiful in tears of late relenting love!

Still dear to memory! when, in odorous showers, Scattering their balmy flowers, To summer airs th' o'ershadowing branches bow'd, The while, with humble state, In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate, Wrapt in the roseate cloud! Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture's hem, Now her bright tresses gem,-- (In that all-blissful day, Like burnish'd gold with orient pearls inwrought,) Some strew the turf--some on the waters float! Some, fluttering, seem to say In wanton circlets toss'd, "Here Love holds sovereign sway!"

Oft I exclaim'd, in awful tremor rapt, "Surely of heavenly birth This gracious form that visits the low earth!" So in oblivion lapp'd Was reason's power, by the celestial mien, The brow,--the accents mild-- The angelic smile serene! That now all sense of sad reality O'erborne by transport wild,-- "Alas! how came I here, and when?" I cry,-- Deeming my spirit pass'd into the sky! E'en though the illusion cease, In these dear haunts alone my tortured heart finds peace.

If thou wert graced with numbers sweet, my song! To match thy wish to please; Leaving these rocks and trees, Thou boldly might'st go forth, and dare th' assembled throng.

DACRE.

Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, Which the fair shape, who seems To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide; Fair bough, so gently fit, (I sigh to think of it,) Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; And turf, and flowers bright-eyed, O'er which her folded gown Flow'd like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hush'd, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd; Give ear, give ear, with one consenting, To my last words, my last and my lamenting.

If 'tis my fate below, And Heaven will have it so, That Love must close these dying eyes in tears, May my poor dust be laid In middle of your shade, While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres. The thought would calm my fears, When taking, out of breath, The doubtful step of death; For never could my spirit find A stiller port after the stormy wind; Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne, Slip from my travail'd flesh, and from my bones outworn.

Perhaps, some future hour, To her accustom'd bower Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she; And where she saw me first, Might turn with eyes athirst And kinder joy to look again for me; Then, oh! the charity! Seeing amidst the stones The earth that held my bones, A sigh for very love at last Might ask of Heaven to pardon me the past: And Heaven itself could not say nay, As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.

How well I call to mind, When from those boughs the wind Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower; And there she sat, meek-eyed, In midst of all that pride, Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower Some to her hair paid dower, And seem'd to dress the curls, Queenlike, with gold and pearls; Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp'd, Some on the earth, some on the water dropp'd; While others, fluttering from above, Seem'd wheeling round in pomp, and saying, "Here reigns Love."

How often then I said, Inward, and fill'd with dread, "Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!" For at her look the while, Her voice, and her sweet smile, And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs, I said, as far from men, "How came I here, and when?" I had forgotten; and alas! Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was; And from that time till this, I bear Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere.

LEIGH HUNT.

CANZONE XV.

In quella parte dov' Amor mi sprona.

HE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHERE.

When Love, fond Love, commands the strain, The coyest muse must sure obey; Love bids my wounded breast complain, And whispers the melodious lay: Yet when such griefs restrain the muse's wing, How shall she dare to soar, or how attempt to sing?

Oh! could my heart express its woe, How poor, how wretched should I seem! But as the plaintive accents flow, Soft comfort spreads her golden gleam; And each gay scene, that Nature holds to view, Bids Laura's absent charms to memory bloom anew.

Though Fate's severe decrees remove Her gladsome beauties from my sight, Yet, urged by pity, friendly Love Bids fond reflection yield delight; If lavish spring with flowerets strews the mead, Her lavish beauties all to fancy are displayed!

When to this globe the solar beams Their full meridian blaze impart, It pictures Laura, that inflames With passion's fires each human heart: And when the sun completes his daily race, I see her riper age complete each growing grace.

When milder planets, warmer skies O'er winter's frozen reign prevail; When groves are tinged with vernal dyes, And violets scent the wanton gale; Those flowers, the verdure, then recall that day, In which my Laura stole this heedless heart away.

The blush of health, that crimson'd o'er Her youthful cheek; her modest mien; The gay-green garment that she wore, Have ever dear to memory been; More dear they grow as time the more inflames This tender breast o'ercome by passion's wild extremes!

The sun, whose cheering lustre warms The bosom of yon snow-clad hill, Seems a just emblem of the charms, Whose power controls my vanquish'd will; When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart, Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene'er those charms depart.

Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold, That play around her face so fair-- Her face which, oft as I behold, Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care! While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that love Which from this faithful breast no time can e'er remove.

If to the transient storm of night Succeeds a star-bespangled sky, And the clear rain-drops catch the light, Glittering on all the foliage nigh; Methinks her eyes I view, as on that day When through the envious veil they shot their magic ray.

With brightness making heaven more bright, As then they did, I see them now; I see them, when the morning light Purples the misty mountain's brow: When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole; Methinks 'tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul.

In stately jars of burnish'd gold Should lilies spread their silvery pride, With fresh-blown roses that unfold Their leaves, in heaven's own crimson dyed; Then Laura's bloom I see, and sunny hair Flowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far.

The flowerets brush'd by zephyr's wing, Waving their heads in frolic play, Oft to my fond remembrance bring The happy spot, the happier day, In which, disporting with the gale, I view'd Those sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued.

Oh! could I count those orbs that shine Nightly o'er yon ethereal plain, Or in some scanty vase confine Each drop that ocean's bounds contain, Then might I hope to fly from beauty's rays, Laura o'er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty's blaze.

Should I all heaven, all earth explore, I still should lovely Laura find; Laura, whose beauties I adore, Is ever present to my mind: She's seen in all that strikes these partial eyes, And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs.

But soft, my song,--not thine the power To paint that never-dying flame, Which gilds through life the gloomy hour, Which nurtures this love-wasted frame; For since with Laura dwells my wander'd heart, Cheer'd by that fostering flame, I brave Death's ebon dart.

ANON 1777.

CANZONE XVI.

Italia mia, benchè 'l parlar sia indarno.

TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.

O my own Italy! though words are vain The mortal wounds to close, Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain, Yet may it soothe my pain To sigh forth Tyber's woes, And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shore Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour. Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love That could thy Godhead move To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth, Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye: See, God of Charity! From what light cause this cruel war has birth; And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd, Thou, Father! from on high, Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!

Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide Of this fair land the reins,-- (This land for which no pity wrings your breast)-- Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest? That her green fields be dyed, Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins? Beguiled by error weak, Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek: When throng'd your standards most, Ye are encompass'd most by hostile bands. O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands, That rushing down amain O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain! Alas! if our own hands Have thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain?

Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state, Rear her rude Alpine heights, A lofty rampart against German hate; But blind ambition, seeking his own ill, With ever restless will, To the pure gales contagion foul invites: Within the same strait fold The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong: And these,--oh, shame avow'd!-- Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold: Fame tells how Marius' sword Erewhile their bosoms gored,-- Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud! When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood, With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood!

Great Cæsar's name I pass, who o'er our plains Pour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide, Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins; But now--nor know I what ill stars preside-- Heaven holds this land in hate! To you the thanks!--whose hands control her helm!-- You, whose rash feuds despoil Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm! Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate, To oppress the desolate? From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, The hard-earn'd dole to wring, While from afar ye bring Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire? In truth's great cause I sing. Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.

Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof, Bavaria's perfidy, Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof? (Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!) While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour Your inmost bosom's gore!-- Yet give one hour to thought, And ye shall own, how little he can hold Another's glory dear, who sets his own at nought O Latin blood of old! Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, Nor bow before a name Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce! For if barbarians rude Have higher minds subdued, Ours! ours the crime!--not such wise Nature's course.

Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd? And here, in cradled rest, Was I not softly hush'd?--here fondly rear'd? Ah! is not this my country?--so endear'd By every filial tie! In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie! Oh! by this tender thought, Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought, Look on the people's grief! Who, after God, of you expect relief; And if ye but relent, Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, Against blind fury bent, Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight; For no,--the ancient flame Is not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name!

Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong, Swift hurries life along! E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear. We sojourn here a day--the next, are gone! The soul disrobed--alone, Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear. Oh! at the dreaded bourne, Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn, (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!) And ye, whose cruelty Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire To win the honest meed Of just renown--the noble mind's desire! Thus sweet on earth the stay! Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way!

My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth, Thy daring reasons grace, For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, Must woo to gentle ruth, Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, Ever to truth averse! Thee better fortunes wait, Among the virtuous few--the truly great! Tell them--but who shall bid my terrors cease? Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!

DACRE.

* * * * *

See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing! See Life, how swift it runs the race of years, And on its weary shoulders death appears! Now all is life and all is spring: Think on the winter and the darker day When the soul, naked and alone, Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown, Yet ever beaten way. And through this fatal vale Would you be wafted with some gentle gale? Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain, Clouds that involve our life's serene, And storms that ruffle all the scene; Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain, On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow; Whether with hand or wit you raise Some monument of peaceful praise, Some happy labour of fair love: 'Tis all of heaven that you can find below, And opens into all above.

BASIL KENNET.

CANZONE XVII.

Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte.

DISTANCE AND SOLITUDE.

From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought, With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly, For there in vain the tranquil life is sought: If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill, Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie, In its calm shade my trembling heart's still; And there, if Love so will, I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear. While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul, The wild emotions roll, Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear; That whosoe'er has proved the lover's state Would say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.

On mountains high, in forests drear and wide, I find repose, and from the throng'd resort Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside; At each lone step thoughts ever new arise Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs; Yet e'en these ills I prize, Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removed For my heart whispers me, Love yet has power To grant a happier hour: Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved: E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave, Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?

Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone With thought intense her beauteous face engrave; Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find With tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus alone Hast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind? But as with fixed mind On this fair image I impassion'd rest, And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills, Love my rapt fancy fills; In its own error sweet the soul is blest, While all around so bright the visions glide; Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.

Her form portray'd within the lucid stream Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn, Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam So lovely fair, that Leda's self might say, Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn A star when cover'd by the solar ray: And, as o'er wilds I stray Where the eye nought but savage nature meets, There Fancy most her brightest tints employs; But when rude truth destroys The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets, I sit me down on the cold rugged stone, Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.

Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime, On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings, Led by desire intense the steep I climb; And tracing in the boundless space each woe, Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings, Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow: While, viewing all below, From me, I cry, what worlds of air divide The beauteous form, still absent and still near! Then, chiding soft the tear, I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'd That thou art far away: a thought so sweet Awhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.

Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound, Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene, There by a murmuring stream may I be found, Whose gentle airs around Waft grateful odours from the laurel green; Nought but my empty form roams here unblest, There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.

DACRE.

SONNET C.

Poi che 'l cammin m' è chiuso di mercede.

THOUGH FAR FROM LAURA, SOLITARY AND UNHAPPY, ENVY STILL PURSUES HIM.

Since mercy's door is closed, alas! to me, And hopeless paths my poor life separate From her in whom, I know not by what fate, The guerdon lay of all my constancy, My heart that lacks not other food, on sighs I feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears: Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appears My present grief than others can surmise. On thy dear portrait rests alone my view, Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew, But a more bold and cunning pencil framed. What shore can hide me, or what distance shield, If by my cruel exile yet untamed Insatiate Envy finds me here concealed?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CI.

Io canterei d' Amor sì novamente.

REPLY TO A SONNET OF JACOPO DA LENTINO.

Ways apt and new to sing of love I'd find, Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh, And re-enkindle in her frozen mind Desires a thousand, passionate and high; O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass, See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns, As one who sorrows when too late, alas! For his own error and another's pains; See the fresh roses edging that fair snow Move with her breath, that ivory descried, Which turns to marble him who sees it near; See all, for which in this brief life below Myself I weary not but rather pride That Heaven for later times has kept me here.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CII.

S' Amor non è, che dunque è quel ch' i' sento?

THE CONTRADICTIONS OF LOVE.

If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be gode, from whence cometh my woe? If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh me When every torment and adversite That cometh of him may to me savory thinke: For aye more thurst I the more that I drinke. And if that at my owne lust I brenne, From whence cometh my wailing and my pleinte? If harme agre me whereto pleine I thenne? I not nere why unwery that I feinte. O quickè deth, O surelè harme so quainte, How may I see in me such quantite, But if that I consent that so it be?

CHAUCER.

If 'tis not love, what is it feel I then? If 'tis, how strange a thing, sweet powers above! If love be kind, why does it fatal prove? If cruel, why so pleasing is the pain? If 'tis my will to love, why weep, why plain? If not my will, tears cannot love remove. O living death! O rapturous pang!--why, love! If I consent not, canst thou o'er me reign? If I consent, 'tis wrongfully I mourn: Thus on a stormy sea my bark is borne By adverse winds, and with rough tempest tost; Thus unenlightened, lost in error's maze, My blind opinion ever dubious strays; I'm froze by summer, scorched by winter's frost.

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CIII.

Amor m' ha posto come segno a strale.

LOVE'S ARMOURY.

Love makes me as the target for his dart, As snow in sunshine, or as wax in flame, Or gale-driven cloud; and, Laura, on thy name I call, but thou no pity wilt impart. Thy radiant eyes first caused my bosom's smart; No time, no place can shield me from their beam; From thee (but, ah, thou treat'st it as a dream!) Proceed the torments of my suff'ring heart. Each thought's an arrow, and thy face a sun, My passion's flame: and these doth Love employ To wound my breast, to dazzle, and destroy. Thy heavenly song, thy speech with which I'm won, All thy sweet breathings of such strong controul, Form the dear gale that bears away my soul.

NOTT.

Me Love has placed as mark before the dart, As to the sun the snow, as wax to fire, As clouds to wind: Lady, e'en now I tire, Craving the mercy which never warms thy heart. From those bright eyes was aim'd the mortal blow, 'Gainst which nor time nor place avail'd me aught; From thee alone--nor let it strange be thought-- The sun, the fire, the wind whence I am so. The darts are thoughts of thee, thy face the sun, The fire my passion; such the weapons be With which at will Love dazzles yet destroys. Thy fragrant breath and angel voice--which won My heart that from its thrall shall ne'er be free-- The wind which vapour-like my frail life flies.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CIV.

Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra.

LOVE'S INCONSISTENCY.

I fynde no peace and all my warre is done, I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse; I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse; And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season, That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson, And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse. Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce, And yet of death it giveth none occasion. Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne; I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health; I love another, and yet I hate my self; I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne, Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf, And my delight is cawser of my greif.

WYATT.[S]

[Footnote S: Harrington's Nugæ Antiquæ.]

Warfare I cannot wage, yet know not peace; I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again; Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face; Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain. His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain; In toils he holds me not, nor will release; He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain; Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease. Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn; I scorn existence, and yet court its stay; Detest myself, and for another burn; By grief I'm nurtured; and, though tearful, gay; Death I despise, and life alike I hate: Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!

NOTT.

CANZONE XVIII.

Qual più diversa e nova.

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ALL THAT IS MOST STRANGE IN CREATION.

Whate'er most wild and new Was ever found in any foreign land, If viewed and valued true, Most likens me 'neath Love's transforming hand. Whence the bright day breaks through, Alone and consortless, a bird there flies, Who voluntary dies, To live again regenerate and entire: So ever my desire, Alone, itself repairs, and on the crest Of its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun, There melts and is undone, And sinking to its first state of unrest, So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes, And, Phoenix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms.

Where Indian billows sweep, A wondrous stone there is, before whose strength Stout navies, weak to keep Their binding iron, sink engulf'd at length: So prove I, in this deep Of bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride, That fair rock knew to guide Where now my life in wreck and ruin drives: Thus too the soul deprives, By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was, It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed: For mine, O fate accurst! A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws, Whom still i' the flesh a magnet living, sweet, Drags to the fatal shore a certain doom to meet.

Neath the far Ethiop skies A beast is found, most mild and meek of air, Which seems, yet in her eyes Danger and dool and death she still does bear: Much needs he to be wise To look on hers whoever turns his mien: Although her eyes unseen, All else securely may be viewed at will But I to mine own ill Run ever in rash grief, though well I know My sufferings past and future, still my mind Its eager, deaf and blind Desire o'ermasters and unhinges so, That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face, Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace.

In the rich South there flows A fountain from the sun its name that wins, This marvel still that shows, Boiling at night, but chill when day begins; Cold, yet more cold it grows As the sun's mounting car we nearer see: So happens it with me (Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat), When the bright light and sweet, My only sun retires, and lone and drear My eyes are left, in night's obscurest reign, I burn, but if again The gold rays of the living sun appear, My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange; Within me and without I feel the frozen change!

Another fount of fame Springs in Epirus, which, as bards have told, Kindles the lurking flame, And the live quenches, while itself is cold. My soul, that, uncontroll'd, And scathless from love's fire till now had pass'd, Carelessly left at last Near the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh, Was kindled instantly: Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night, A heart of marble had to mercy shamed. Which first her charms inflamed Her fair and frozen virtue quenched the light; That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire, Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire.

Beyond our earth's known brinks, In the famed Islands of the Blest, there be Two founts: of this who drinks Dies smiling: who of that to live is free. A kindred fate Heaven links To my sad life, who, smilingly, could die For like o'erflowing joy, But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay. Love! still who guidest my way, Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites, Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour, Ever with larger power O'erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites; So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet, But in that season most when I my Lady met.

Should any ask, my Song! Or how or where I am, to such reply: Where the tall mountain throws Its shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows, He roams, where never eye Save Love's, who leaves him not a step, is by, And one dear image who his peace destroys, Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CV.

Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova.

HE INVEIGHS AGAINST THE COURT OF ROME.

Vengeaunce must fall on thee, thow filthie whore Of Babilon, thow breaker of Christ's fold, That from achorns, and from the water colde, Art riche become with making many poore. Thow treason's neste that in thie harte dost holde Of cankard malice, and of myschief more Than pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde, Slave to delights that chastitie hath solde; For wyne and ease which settith all thie store Uppon whoredome and none other lore, In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and olde Theare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde: Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde: It is but late, as wryting will recorde, That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde; Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde, In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode, That it dothe stincke before the face of God.

(?) WYATT.[T]

[Footnote T: Harrington's Nugæ Antiquæ.]

May fire from heaven rain down upon thy head, Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by, Made rich and great by others' poverty; How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed! Nest of all treachery, in which is bred Whate'er of sin now through the world doth fly; Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony; With sensuality's excesses fed! Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance; Then in the midst see Belzebub advance With mirrors and provocatives obscene. Erewhile thou wert not shelter'd, nursed on down; But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown: Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean.

NOTT.

SONNET CVI.

L' avara Babilonia ha colmo 'l sacco.

HE PREDICTS TO ROME THE ARRIVAL OF SOME GREAT PERSONAGE WHO WILL BRING HER BACK TO HER OLD VIRTUE.

Covetous Babylon of wrath divine By its worst crimes has drain'd the full cup now, And for its future Gods to whom to bow Not Pow'r nor Wisdom ta'en, but Love and Wine. Though hoping reason, I consume and pine, Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan's brow, Who shall again build up, and we avow One faith in God, in Rome one head and shrine. Her idols shall be shatter'd, in the dust Her proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl'd, Her wardens into flames and exile thrust, Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the world Possess in peace; and we shall see it made All gold, and fully its old works display'd.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CVII.

Fontana di dolore, albergo d' ira.

HE ATTRIBUTES THE WICKEDNESS OF THE COURT OF ROME TO ITS GREAT WEALTH.

Spring of all woe, O den of curssed ire, Scoole of errour, temple of heresye; Thow Pope, I meane, head of hypocrasye, Thow and thie churche, unsaciat of desyre, Have all the world filled full of myserye; Well of disceate, thow dungeon full of fyre, That hydes all truthe to breed idolatrie. Thow wicked wretche, Chryste cannot be a lyer, Behold, therefore, thie judgment hastelye; Thye first founder was gentill povertie, But there against is all thow dost requyre. Thow shameless beaste wheare hast thow thie trust, In thie whoredome, or in thie riche attyre? Loe! Constantyne, that is turned into dust, Shall not retourne for to mayntaine thie lust; But now his heires, that might not sett thee higher, For thie greate pryde shall teare thye seate asonder, And scourdge thee so that all the world shall wonder.

(?) WYATT.[U]

[Footnote U: Harrington's Nugæ Antiquæ.]

Fountain of sorrows, centre of mad ire, Rank error's school and fane of heresy, Once Rome, now Babylon, the false and free, Whom fondly we lament and long desire. O furnace of deceits, O prison dire, Where good roots die and the ill-weed grows a tree Hell upon earth, great marvel will it be If Christ reject thee not in endless fire. Founded in humble poverty and chaste, Against thy founders lift'st thou now thy horn, Impudent harlot! Is thy hope then placed In thine adult'ries and thy wealth ill-born? Since comes no Constantine his own to claim, The vext world must endure, or end its shame.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CVIII.

Quanto più desiose l' ali spando.

FAR FROM HIS FRIENDS, HE FLIES TO THEM IN THOUGHT.

The more my own fond wishes would impel My steps to you, sweet company of friends! Fortune with their free course the more contends, And elsewhere bids me roam, by snare and spell The heart, sent forth by me though it rebel, Is still with you where that fair vale extends, In whose green windings most our sea ascends, From which but yesterday I wept farewell. It took the right-hand way, the left I tried, I dragg'd by force in slavery to remain, It left at liberty with Love its guide; But patience is great comfort amid pain: Long habits mutually form'd declare That our communion must be brief and rare.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CIX.

Amor che nel pensier mio vive e regna.

THE COURAGE AND TIMIDITY OF LOVE.

The long Love that in my thought I harbour, And in my heart doth keep his residence, Into my face pressèth with bold pretence, And there campèth displaying his bannèr. She that me learns to love and to suffèr, And wills that my trust, and lust's negligence Be rein'd by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness takes displeasure. Wherewith Love to the heart's forest he fleeth, Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, And there him hideth, and not appearèth. What may I do, when my master fearèth, But in the field with him to live and die? For good is the life, ending faithfully.

WYATT.

Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought, That built its seat within my captive breast; Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. She, that me taught to love, and suffer pain; My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire With shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain, Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire. And coward love then to the heart apace Taketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plains His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains. Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove: Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.

SURREY.

Love in my thought who ever lives and reigns, And in my heart still holds the upper place, At times come forward boldly in my face, There plants his ensign and his post maintains: She, who in love instructs us and its pains, Would fain that reason, shame, respect should chase Presumptuous hope and high desire abase, And at our daring scarce herself restrains, Love thereon to my heart retires dismay'd, Abandons his attempt, and weeps and fears, And hiding there, no more my friend appears. What can the liege whose lord is thus afraid, More than with him, till life's last gasp, to dwell? For who well loving dies at least dies well.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CX.

Come talora al caldo tempo suole.

HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE'S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH.

As when at times in summer's scorching heats. Lured by the light, the simple insect flies, As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes, Whence death the one and pain the other meets, Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet, Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness lies That reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies, And by strong will is better judgment beat. I clearly see they value me but ill, And, for against their torture fails my strength. That I am doom'd my life to lose at length: But Love so dazzles and deludes me still, My heart their pain and not my loss laments, And blind, to its own death my soul consents.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA V.

Alia dolce ombra de le belle frondi.

HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LOVE, RESOLVING HENCEFORTH TO DEVOTE HIMSELF TO GOD.

Beneath the pleasant shade of beauteous leaves I ran for shelter from a cruel light, E'en here below that burnt me from high heaven, When the last snow had ceased upon the hills, And amorous airs renew'd the sweet spring time, And on the upland flourish'd herbs and boughs.

Ne'er did the world behold such graceful boughs, Nor ever wind rustled so verdant leaves, As were by me beheld in that young time: So that, though fearful of the ardent light, I sought not refuge from the shadowing hills, But of the plant accepted most in heaven.

A laurel then protected from that heaven: Whence, oft enamour'd with its lovely boughs, A roamer I have been through woods, o'er hills, But never found I other trunk, nor leaves Like these, so honour'd with supernal light, Which changed not qualities with changing time.

Wherefore each hour more firm, from time to time Following where I heard my call from heaven, And guided ever by a soft clear light, I turn'd, devoted still, to those first boughs, Or when on earth are scatter'd the sere leaves, Or when the sun restored makes green the hills.

The woods, the rocks, the fields, the floods, and hills, All that is made, are conquer'd, changed by time: And therefore ask I pardon of those leaves, If after many years, revolving heaven Sway'd me to flee from those entangling boughs, When I begun to see its better light.

So dear to me at first was the sweet light, That willingly I pass'd o'er difficult hills, But to be nearer those beloved boughs; Now shortening life, the apt place and full time Show me another path to mount to heaven, And to make fruit not merely flowers and leaves.

Other love, other leaves, and other light, Other ascent to heaven by other hills I seek--in sooth 'tis time--and other boughs.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXI.

Quand' io v' odo parlar si dolcemente.

TO ONE WHO SPOKE TO HIM OF LAURA.

Whene'er you speak of her in that soft tone Which Love himself his votaries surely taught, My ardent passion to such fire is wrought, That e'en the dead reviving warmth might own: Where'er to me she, dear or kind, was known There the bright lady is to mind now brought, In the same bearing which, to waken thought, Needed no sound but of my sighs alone. Half-turn'd I see her looking, on the breeze Her light hair flung; so true her memories roll On my fond heart of which she keeps the keys; But the surpassing bliss which floods my soul So checks my tongue, to tell how, queen-like, there, She sits as on her throne, I never dare.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXII.

Nè così bello il sol giammai levarsi.

THE CHARMS OF LAURA WHEN SHE FIRST MET HIS SIGHT.

Ne'er can the sun such radiance soft display, Piercing some cloud that would its light impair; Ne'er tinged some showery arch the humid air, With variegated lustre half so gay, As when, sweet-smiling my fond heart away, All-beauteous shone my captivating fair; For charms what mortal can with her compare! But truth, impartial truth! much more might say. I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyes With such bewitching, am'rous sweetness roll, That every human glance I since despise. Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy; Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul; Yet, ah! once more I'd view the dang'rous joy.

ANON. 1777.

Sun never rose so beautiful and bright When skies above most clear and cloudless show'd, Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glow'd With tints so varied, delicate, and light, As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight, The day I first took up this am'rous load, That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode-- Even my praise to paint it seems a slight! Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bend So sweetly, every other face obscure Has from that hour till now appear'd to me. The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend, From whom life since has never been secure, Whom still I madly yearn again to see.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXIII.

Pommi ove 'l sol occide i fiori e l' erba.

HIS INVINCIBLE CONSTANCY.

Place me where herb and flower the sun has dried, Or where numb winter's grasp holds sterner sway: Place me where Phoebus sheds a temperate ray, Where first he glows, where rests at eventide. Place me in lowly state, in power and pride, Where lour the skies, or where bland zephyrs play Place me where blind night rules, or lengthened day, In age mature, or in youth's boiling tide: Place me in heaven, or in the abyss profound, On lofty height, or in low vale obscure, A spirit freed, or to the body bound; Bank'd with the great, or all unknown to fame, I still the same will be! the same endure! And my trilustral sighs still breathe the same!

DACRE.

Place me where Phoebus burns each herb, each flower; Or where cold snows, and frost o'ercome his rays: Place me where rolls his car with temp'rate blaze; In climes that feel not, or that feel his power. Place me where fortune may look bright, or lour; Mid murky airs, or where soft zephyr plays: Place me in night, in long or short-lived days, Where age makes sad, or youth gilds ev'ry hour: Place me on mountains high, in vallies drear, In heaven, on earth, in depths unknown to-day; Whether life fosters still, or flies this clay: Place me where fame is distant, where she's near: Still will I love; nor shall those sighs yet cease, Which thrice five years have robb'd this breast of peace.

ANON. 1777.

Place me where angry Titan burns the Moor, And thirsty Afric fiery monsters brings, Or where the new-born phoenix spreads her wings, And troops of wond'ring birds her flight adore: Place me by Gange, or Ind's empamper'd shore, Where smiling heavens on earth cause double springs: Place me where Neptune's quire of Syrens sings, Or where, made hoarse through cold, he leaves to roar: Me place where Fortune doth her darlings crown, A wonder or a spark in Envy's eye, Or late outrageous fates upon me frown, And pity wailing, see disaster'd me. Affection's print my mind so deep doth prove, I may forget myself, but not my love.

DRUMMOND.

SONNET CXIV.

O d' ardente virtute ornata e calda.

HE CELEBRATES LAURA'S BEAUTY AND VIRTUE.

O mind, by ardent virtue graced and warm'd. To whom my pen so oft pours forth my heart; Mansion of noble probity, who art A tower of strength 'gainst all assault full arm'd. O rose effulgent, in whose foldings, charm'd, We view with fresh carnation snow take part! O pleasure whence my wing'd ideas start To that bless'd vision which no eye, unharm'd, Created, may approach--thy name, if rhyme Could bear to Bactra and to Thule's coast, Nile, Tanaïs, and Calpe should resound, And dread Olympus.--But a narrower bound Confines my flight: and thee, our native clime Between the Alps and Apennine must boast.

CAPEL LOFFT.

With glowing virtue graced, of warm heart known, Sweet Spirit! for whom so many a page I trace, Tower in high worth which foundest well thy base! Centre of honour, perfect, and alone! O blushes! on fresh snow like roses thrown, Wherein I read myself and mend apace; O pleasures! lifting me to that fair face Brightest of all on which the sun e'er shone. Oh! if so far its sound may reach, your name On my fond verse shall travel West and East, From southern Nile to Thule's utmost bound. But such full audience since I may not claim, It shall be heard in that fair land at least Which Apennine divides, which Alps and seas surround.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXV.

Quando 'l voler, che con duo sproni ardenti.

HER LOOKS BOTH COMFORT AND CHECK HIM.

When, with two ardent spurs and a hard rein, Passion, my daily life who rules and leads, From time to time the usual law exceeds That calm, at least in part, my spirits may gain, It findeth her who, on my forehead plain, The dread and daring of my deep heart reads, And seeth Love, to punish its misdeeds, Lighten her piercing eyes with worse disdain. Wherefore--as one who fears the impending blow Of angry Jove--it back in haste retires, For great fears ever master great desires; But the cold fire and shrinking hopes which so Lodge in my heart, transparent as a glass, O'er her sweet face at times make gleams of grace to pass.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXVI.

Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro.

HE EXTOLS THE LAUREL AND ITS FAVOURITE STREAM.

Not all the streams that water the bright earth, Not all the trees to which its breast gives birth, Can cooling drop or healing balm impart To slack the fire which scorches my sad heart, As one fair brook which ever weeps with me, Or, which I praise and sing, as one dear tree. This only help I find amid Love's strife; Wherefore it me behoves to live my life In arms, which else from me too rapid goes. Thus on fresh shore the lovely laurel grows; Who planted it, his high and graceful thought 'Neath its sweet shade, to Sorga's murmurs, wrote.

MACGREGOR.

[IMITATION.]

Nor Arne, nor Mincius, nor stately Tiber, Sebethus, nor the flood into whose streams He fell who burnt the world with borrow'd beams; Gold-rolling Tagus, Munda, famous Iber, Sorgue, Rhone, Loire, Garron, nor proud-bank'd Seine, Peneus, Phasis, Xanthus, humble Ladon, Nor she whose nymphs excel her who loved Adon, Fair Tamesis, nor Ister large, nor Rhine, Euphrates, Tigris, Indus, Hermus, Gange, Pearly Hydaspes, serpent-like Meander,-- The gulf bereft sweet Hero her Leander-- Nile, that far, far his hidden head doth range, Have ever had so rare a cause of praise As Ora, where this northern Phoenix stays.

DRUMMOND.

BALLATA VI.

Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura.

THOUGH SHE BE LESS SEVERE, HE IS STILL NOT CONTENTED AND TRANQUIL AT HEART.

From time to time more clemency for me In that sweet smile and angel form I trace; Seem too her lovely face And lustrous eyes at length more kind to be. Yet, if thus honour'd, wherefore do my sighs In doubt and sorrow flow, Signs that too truly show My anguish'd desperate life to common eyes? Haply if, where she is, my glance I bend, This harass'd heart to cheer, Methinks that Love I hear Pleading my cause, and see him succour lend. Not therefore at an end the strife I deem, Nor in sure rest my heart at last esteem; For Love most burns within When Hope most pricks us on the way to win.

MACGREGOR.

From time to time less cruelty I trace In her sweet smile and form divinely fair; Less clouded doth appear The heaven of her fine eyes and lovely face. What then at last avail to me those sighs, Which from my sorrows flow, And in my semblance show The life of anguish and despair I lead? If towards her perchance I bend mine eyes, Some solace to bestow Upon my bosom's woe, Methinks Love takes my part, and lends me aid: Yet still I cannot find the conflict stay'd, Nor tranquil is my heart in every state: For, ah! my passion's heat More strongly glows within as my fond hopes increase.

NOTT.

SONNET CXVII.

Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?

DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.

P. What actions fire thee, and what musings fill? Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne? H. Our lot I know not, but, as I discern, Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill. P. What profit, with those eyes if she at will Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn? H. From him, not her those orbs their movement learn. P. What's he to us, she sees it and is still. H. Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright, Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief. P. Nathless the mind not thus itself contents, Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite, For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.

MACGREGOR.

P. What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul? Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail? H. Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol. P. But that is vain, since by her eyes' control With nature I no sympathy inhale. H. Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail. P. No balm to me, since she will not condole. H. When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves, In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eye Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze! P. Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives Is not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie. The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CXVIII.

Nom d' atra e tempestosa onda marina.

HE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASON.

No wearied mariner to port e'er fled From the dark billow, when some tempest's nigh, As from tumultuous gloomy thoughts I fly-- Thoughts by the force of goading passion bred: Nor wrathful glance of heaven so surely sped Destruction to man's sight, as does that eye Within whose bright black orb Love's Deity Sharpens each dart, and tips with gold its head. Enthroned in radiance there he sits, not blind, Quiver'd, and naked, or by shame just veil'd, A live, not fabled boy, with changeful wing; Thence unto me he lends instruction kind, And arts of verse from meaner bards conceal'd, Thus am I taught whate'er of love I write or sing.

NOTT.

Ne'er from the black and tempest-troubled brine The weary mariner fair haven sought, As shelter I from the dark restless thought Whereto hot wishes spur me and incline: Nor mortal vision ever light divine Dazzled, as mine, in their rare splendour caught Those matchless orbs, with pride and passion fraught, Where Love aye haunts his darts to gild and fine. Him, blind no more, but quiver'd, there I view, Naked, except so far as shame conceals, A winged boy--no fable--quick and true. What few perceive he thence to me reveals; So read I clearly in her eyes' dear light Whate'er of love I speak, whate'er I write.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXIX.

Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d' orsa.

HE PRAYS HER EITHER TO WELCOME OR DISMISS HIM AT ONCE.

Fiercer than tiger, savager than bear, In human guise an angel form appears, Who between fear and hope, from smiles to tears So tortures me that doubt becomes despair. Ere long if she nor welcomes me, nor frees, But, as her wont, between the two retains, By the sweet poison circling through my veins, My life, O Love! will soon be on its lees. No longer can my virtue, worn and frail With such severe vicissitudes, contend, At once which burn and freeze, make red and pale: By flight it hopes at length its grief to end, As one who, hourly failing, feels death nigh: Powerless he is indeed who cannot even die!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXX.

Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core.

HE IMPLORES MERCY OR DEATH.

Go, my warm sighs, go to that frozen breast, Burst the firm ice, that charity denies; And, if a mortal prayer can reach the skies, Let death or pity give my sorrows rest! Go, softest thoughts! Be all you know express'd Of that unnoticed by her lovely eyes, Though fate and cruelty against me rise, Error at least and hope shall be repress'd. Tell her, though fully you can never tell, That, while her days calm and serenely flow, In darkness and anxiety I dwell; Love guides your flight, my thoughts securely go, Fortune may change, and all may yet be well; If my sun's aspect not deceives my woe.

CHARLEMONT.

Go, burning sighs, to her cold bosom go, Its circling ice which hinders pity rend, And if to mortal prayer Heaven e'er attend, Let death or mercy finish soon my woe. Go forth, fond thoughts, and to our lady show The love to which her bright looks never bend, If still her harshness, or my star offend, We shall at least our hopeless error know. Go, in some chosen moment, gently say, Our state disquieted and dark has been, Even as hers pacific and serene. Go, safe at last, for Love escorts your way: From my sun's face if right the skies I guess Well may my cruel fortune now be less.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXI.

Le stelle e 'l cielo e gli elementi a prova.

LAURA'S UNPARALLELED BEAUTY AND VIRTUE.

The stars, the elements, and Heaven have made With blended powers a work beyond compare; All their consenting influence, all their care, To frame one perfect creature lent their aid. Whence Nature views her loveliness display'd With sun-like radiance sublimely fair: Nor mortal eye can the pure splendour bear: Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace array'd. The very air illumed by her sweet beams Breathes purest excellence; and such delight That all expression far beneath it gleams. No base desire lives in that heavenly light, Honour alone and virtue!--fancy's dreams Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright.

CAPEL LOFFT.

The stars, the heaven, the elements, I ween, Put forth their every art and utmost care In that bright light, as fairest Nature fair, Whose like on earth the sun has nowhere seen; So noble, elegant, unique her mien, Scarce mortal glance to rest on it may dare, Love so much softness and such graces rare Showers from those dazzling and resistless een. The atmosphere, pervaded and made pure By their sweet rays, kindles with goodness so, Thought cannot equal it nor language show. Here no ill wish, no base desires endure, But honour, virtue. Here, if ever yet, Has lust his death from supreme beauty met.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXII.

Non fur mai Giove e Cesare sì mossi.

LAURA IN TEARS.

High Jove to thunder ne'er was so intent, So resolute great Cæsar ne'er to strike, That pity had not quench'd the ire of both, And from their hands the accustom'd weapons shook. Madonna wept: my Lord decreed that I Should see her then, and there her sorrows hear; So joy, desire should fill me to the brim, Thrilling my very marrow and my bones. Love show'd to me, nay, sculptured on my heart, That sweet and sparkling tear, and those soft words Wrote with a diamond on its inmost core, Where with his constant and ingenious keys He still returneth often, to draw thence True tears of mine and long and heavy sighs.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXIII.

I' vidi in terra angelici costumi.

THE EFFECTS OF HER GRIEF.

On earth reveal'd the beauties of the skies, Angelic features, it was mine to hail; Features, which wake my mingled joy and wail, While all besides like dreams or shadows flies. And fill'd with tears I saw those two bright eyes, Which oft have turn'd the sun with envy pale; And from those lips I heard--oh! such a tale, As might awake brute Nature's sympathies! Wit, pity, excellence, and grief, and love With blended plaint so sweet a concert made, As ne'er was given to mortal ear to prove: And heaven itself such mute attention paid, That not a breath disturb'd the listening grove-- Even æther's wildest gales the tuneful charm obey'd.

WRANGHAM.

Yes, I beheld on earth angelic grace, And charms divine which mortals rarely see, Such as both glad and pain the memory; Vain, light, unreal is all else I trace: Tears I saw shower'd from those fine eyes apace, Of which the sun ofttimes might envious be; Accents I heard sigh'd forth so movingly, As to stay floods, or mountains to displace. Love and good sense, firmness, with pity join'd And wailful grief, a sweeter concert made Than ever yet was pour'd on human ear: And heaven unto the music so inclined, That not a leaf was seen to stir the shade; Such melody had fraught the winds, the atmosphere.

NOTT.

SONNET CXXIV.

Quel sempre acerbo ed onorato giorno.

HE RECALLS HER AS HE SAW HER WHEN IN TEARS.

That ever-painful, ever-honour'd day So left her living image on my heart Beyond or lover's wit or poet's art, That oft to it will doting memory stray. A gentle pity softening her bright mien, Her sorrow there so sweet and sad was heard, Doubt in the gazer's bosom almost stirr'd Goddess or mortal, which made heaven serene. Fine gold her hair, her face as sunlit snow, Her brows and lashes jet, twin stars her eyne, Whence the young archer oft took fatal aim; Each loving lip--whence, utterance sweet and low Her pent grief found--a rose which rare pearls line, Her tears of crystal and her sighs of flame.

MACGREGOR.

That ever-honour'd, yet too bitter day, Her image hath so graven in my breast, That only memory can return it dress'd In living charms, no genius could portray: Her air such graceful sadness did display, Her plaintive, soft laments my ear so bless'd, I ask'd if mortal, or a heavenly guest, Did thus the threatening clouds in smiles array. Her locks were gold, her cheeks were breathing snow, Her brows with ebon arch'd--bright stars her eyes, Wherein Love nestled, thence his dart to aim: Her teeth were pearls--the rose's softest glow Dwelt on that mouth, whence woke to speech grief's sighs Her tears were crystal--and her breath was flame.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CXXV.

Ove ch' i' posi gli occhi lassi o giri.

HER IMAGE IS EVER IN HIS HEART.

Where'er I rest or turn my weary eyes, To ease the longings which allure them still, Love pictures my bright lady at his will, That ever my desire may verdant rise. Deep pity she with graceful grief applies-- Warm feelings ever gentle bosoms fill-- While captived equally my fond ears thrill With her sweet accents and seraphic sighs. Love and fair Truth were both allied to tell The charms I saw were in the world alone, That 'neath the stars their like was never known. Nor ever words so dear and tender fell On listening ear: nor tears so pure and bright From such fine eyes e'er sparkled in the light.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXVI.

In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea.

HE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURA.

Say from what part of heaven 'twas Nature drew, From what idea, that so perfect mould To form such features, bidding us behold, In charms below, what she above could do? What fountain-nymph, what dryad-maid e'er threw Upon the wind such tresses of pure gold? What heart such numerous virtues can unfold? Although the chiefest all my fond hopes slew. He for celestial charms may look in vain, Who has not seen my fair one's radiant eyes, And felt their glances pleasingly beguile. How Love can heal his wounds, then wound again, He only knows, who knows how sweet her sighs, How sweet her converse, and how sweet her smile.

NOTT.

In what celestial sphere--what realm of thought, Dwelt the bright model from which Nature drew That fair and beauteous face, in which we view Her utmost power, on earth, divinely wrought? What sylvan queen--what nymph by fountain sought, Upon the breeze such golden tresses threw? When did such virtues one sole breast imbue? Though with my death her chief perfection's fraught. For heavenly beauty he in vain inquires, Who ne'er beheld her eyes' celestial stain, Where'er she turns around their brilliant fires: He knows not how Love wounds, and heals again, Who knows not how she sweetly smiles, respires The sweetest sighs, and speaks in sweetest strain!

ANON.

SONNET CXXVII.

Amor ed io sì pien di maraviglia.

HER EVERY ACTION IS DIVINE.

As one who sees a thing incredible, In mutual marvel Love and I combine, Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine, None but herself can be her parallel. Where the fine arches of that fair brow swell So sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine, Than whom no safer brighter beacons shine His course to guide who'd wisely love and well. What miracle is this, when, as a flower, She sits on the rich grass, or to her breast, Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press'd And oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour, To see her pass, alone, in pure thought there, Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXVIII.

O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi e pronti.

EVERY CIRCUMSTANCE OF HIS PASSION IS A TORMENT TO HIM.

O scatter'd steps! O vague and busy thoughts! O firm-set memory! O fierce desire! O passion powerful! O failing heart! O eyes of mine, not eyes, but fountains now! O leaf, which honourest illustrious brows, Sole sign of double valour, and best crown! O painful life, O error oft and sweet! That make me search the lone plains and hard hills. O beauteous face! where Love together placed The spurs and curb, to strive with which is vain, They prick and turn me so at his sole will. O gentle amorous souls, if such there be! And you, O naked spirits of mere dust, Tarry and see how great my suffering is!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXIX.

Lieti flori e felici, e ben nate erbe.

HE ENVIES EVERY SPOT THAT SHE FREQUENTS.

Gay, joyous blooms, and herbage glad with showers, O'er which my pensive fair is wont to stray! Thou plain, that listest her melodious lay, As her fair feet imprint thy waste of flowers! Ye shrubs so trim; ye green, unfolding bowers; Ye violets clad in amorous, pale array; Thou shadowy grove, gilded by beauty's ray, Whose top made proud majestically towers! O pleasant country! O translucent stream, Bathing her lovely face, her eyes so clear, And catching of their living light the beam! I envy ye her actions chaste and dear: No rock shall stud thy waters, but shall learn Henceforth with passion strong as mine to burn.

NOTT.

O bright and happy flowers and herbage blest, On which my lady treads!--O favour'd plain, That hears her accents sweet, and can retain The traces by her fairy steps impress'd!-- Pure shrubs, with tender verdure newly dress'd,-- Pale amorous violets,--leafy woods, whose reign Thy sun's bright rays transpierce, and thus sustain Your lofty stature, and umbrageous crest;-- O thou, fair country, and thou, crystal stream, Which bathes her countenance and sparkling eyes, Stealing fresh lustre from their living beam; How do I envy thee these precious ties! Thy rocky shores will soon be taught to gleam With the same flame that burns in all my sighs.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CXXX.

Amor, che vedi ogni pensiero aperto.

HE CARES NOT FOR SUFFERINGS, SO THAT HE DISPLEASE NOT LAURA.

Love, thou who seest each secret thought display'd, And the sad steps I take, with thee sole guide; This throbbing breast, to thee thrown open wide, To others' prying barr'd, thine eyes pervade. Thou know'st what efforts, following thee, I made, While still from height to height thy pinions glide; Nor deign'st one pitying look to turn aside On him who, fainting, treads a trackless glade. I mark from far the mildly-beaming ray To which thou goad'st me through the devious maze; Alas! I want thy wings, to speed my way-- Henceforth, a distant homager, I'll gaze, Content by silent longings to decay, So that my sighs for her in her no anger raise.

WRANGHAM.

O Love, that seest my heart without disguise, And those hard toils from thee which I sustain, Look to my inmost thought; behold the pain To thee unveil'd, hid from all other eyes. Thou know'st for thee this breast what suffering tries; Me still from day to day o'er hill and plain Thou chasest; heedless still, while I complain As to my wearied steps new thorns arise. True, I discern far off the cheering light To which, through trackless wilds, thou urgest me: But wings like thine to bear me to delight I want:--Yet from these pangs I would not flee, Finding this only favour in her sight, That not displeased my love and death she see.

CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET CXXXI.

Or che 'l ciel e la terra e 'l vento tace.

NIGHT BRINGS PEACE TO ALL SAVE HIM.

O'er earth and sky her lone watch silence keeps, And bird and beast in stirless slumber lie, Her starry chariot Night conducts on high, And in its bed the waveless ocean sleeps. I wake, muse, burn, and weep; of all my pain The one sweet cause appears before me still; War is my lot, which grief and anger fill, And thinking but of her some rest I gain. Thus from one bright and living fountain flows The bitter and the sweet on which I feed; One hand alone can harm me or can heal: And thus my martyrdom no limit knows, A thousand deaths and lives each day I feel, So distant are the paths to peace which lead.

MACGREGOR.

'Tis now the hour when midnight silence reigns O'er earth and sea, and whispering Zephyr dies Within his rocky cell; and Morpheus chains Each beast that roams the wood, and bird that wings the skies. More blest those rangers of the earth and air, Whom night awhile relieves from toil and pain; Condemn'd to tears and sighs, and wasting care. To me the circling sun descends in vain! Ah me! that mingling miseries and joys, Too near allied, from one sad fountain flow! The magic hand that comforts and annoys Can hope, and fell despair, and life, and death bestow! Too great the bliss to find in death relief: Fate has not yet fill'd up the measure of my grief.

WOODHOUSELEE.

SONNET CXXXII.

Come 'l candido piè per l' erba fresca.

HER WALK, LOOKS, WORDS, AND AIR.

As o'er the fresh grass her fair form its sweet And graceful passage makes at evening hours, Seems as around the newly-wakening flowers Found virtue issue from her delicate feet. Love, which in true hearts only has his seat, Nor elsewhere deigns to prove his certain powers, So warm a pleasure from her bright eyes showers, No other bliss I ask, no better meat. And with her soft look and light step agree Her mild and modest, never eager air, And sweetest words in constant union rare. From these four sparks--nor only these we see-- Springs the great fire wherein I live and burn, Which makes me from the sun as night-birds turn.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXXIII.

S' io fossi stato fermo alla spelunca.

TO ONE WHO DESIRED LATIN VERSE OF HIM.

Still had I sojourn'd in that Delphic cave Where young Apollo prophet first became, Verona, Mantua were not sole in fame, But Florence, too, her poet now might have: But since the waters of that spring no more Enrich my land, needs must that I pursue Some other planet, and, with sickle new, Reap from my field of sticks and thorns its store. Dried is the olive: elsewhere turn'd the stream Whose source from famed Parnassus was derived. Whereby of yore it throve in best esteem. Me fortune thus, or fault perchance, deprived Of all good fruit--unless eternal Jove Shower on my head some favour from above.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXXIV.

Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina.

LAURA SINGS.

If Love her beauteous eyes to earth incline, And all her soul concentring in a sigh, Then breathe it in her voice of melody, Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine; My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign, And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,-- "Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully, If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!" But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound, And the strong will, thus listening to possess Heaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay. And thus I live; and thus drawn out and wound Is my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness, By this sole syren from the realms of day.

DACRE.

Her bright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends-- Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh-- A brief pause--a fond hush--her voice on high, Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends. Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends, New thoughts and wishes so within me vie, Perforce I say,--"Thus be it mine to die, If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!" But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense, The strong desire of more that in me yearns, Restrain my spirit in its parting hence. Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turns The yarn of life which to my lot is given, Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXXV.

Amor mi manda quel dolce pensero.

LIFE WILL FAIL HIM BEFORE HOPE.

Love to my mind recalling that sweet thought, The ancient confidant our lives between, Well comforts me, and says I ne'er have been So near as now to what I hoped and sought. I, who at times with dangerous falsehood fraught, At times with partial truth, his words have seen, Live in suspense, still missing the just mean, 'Twixt yea and nay a constant battle fought. Meanwhile the years pass on: and I behold In my true glass the adverse time draw near Her promise and my hope which limits here. So let it be: alone I grow not old; Changes not e'en with age my loving troth; My fear is this--the short life left us both.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXXVI.

Pien d' un vago pensier, che me desvia.

HIS TONGUE IS TIED BY EXCESS OF PASSION.

Such vain thought as wonted to mislead me In desert hope, by well-assurèd moan, Makes me from company to live alone, In following her whom reason bids me flee. She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty; And after her my heart would fain be gone, But armèd sighs my way do stop anon, 'Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty; Yet as I guess, under disdainful brow One beam of ruth is in her cloudy look: Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook: And therewithal bolded I seek the way how To utter the smart I suffer within; But such it is, I not how to begin.

WYATT.

Full of a tender thought, which severs me From all my kind, a lonely musing thing, From my breast's solitude I sometimes spring, Still seeking her whom most I ought to flee; And see her pass though soft, so adverse she, That my soul spreads for flight a trembling wing: Of armèd sighs such legions does she bring, The fair antagonist of Love and me. Yet from beneath that dark disdainful brow, Or much I err, one beam of pity flows, Soothing with partial warmth my heart's distress: Again my bosom feels its wonted glow! But when my simple hope I would disclose, My o'er-fraught faltering tongue the crowded thoughts oppress.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CXXXVII.

Più volte già dal bel sembiante umano.

LOVE UNMANS HIS RESOLUTION.

Oft as her angel face compassion wore, With tears whose eloquence scarce fails to move, With bland and courteous speech, I boldly strove To soothe my foe, and in meek guise implore: But soon her eyes inspire vain hopes no more; For all my fortune, all my fate in love, My life, my death, the good, the ills I prove, To her are trusted by one sovereign power. Hence 'tis, whene'er my lips would silence break, Scarce can I hear the accents which I vent, By passion render'd spiritless and weak. Ah! now I find that fondness to excess Fetters the tongue, and overpowers intent: Faint is the flame that language can express!

NOTT.

Oft have I meant my passion to declare, When fancy read compliance in her eyes; And oft with courteous speech, with love-lorn sighs, Have wish'd to soften my obdurate fair: But let that face one look of anger wear, The intention fades; for all that fate supplies, Or good, or ill, all, all that I can prize, My life, my death, Love trusts to her dear care. E'en I can scarcely hear my amorous moan, So much my voice by passion is confined; So faint, so timid are my accents grown! Ah! now the force of love I plainly see; What can the tongue, or what the impassion'd mind? He that could speak his love, ne'er loved like me.

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CXXXVIII.

Giunto m' ha Amor fra belle e crude braccia.

HE CANNOT END HER CRUELTY, NOR SHE HIS HOPE.

Me Love has left in fair cold arms to lie, Which kill me wrongfully: if I complain, My martyrdom is doubled, worse my pain: Better in silence love, and loving die! For she the frozen Rhine with burning eye Can melt at will, the hard rock break in twain, So equal to her beauty her disdain That others' pleasure wakes her angry sigh. A breathing moving marble all the rest, Of very adamant is made her heart, So hard, to move it baffles all my art. Despite her lowering brow and haughty breast, One thing she cannot, my fond heart deter From tender hopes and passionate sighs for her.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXXIX.

O Invidia, nemica di virtute.

ENVY MAY DISTURB, BUT CANNOT DESTROY HIS HOPE.

O deadly Envy, virtue's constant foe, With good and lovely eager to contest! Stealthily, by what way, in that fair breast Hast entrance found? by what arts changed it so? Thence by the roots my weal hast thou uptorn, Too blest in love hast shown me to that fair Who welcomed once my chaste and humble prayer, But seems to treat me now with hate and scorn. But though you may by acts severe and ill Sigh at my good and smile at my distress, You cannot change for me a single thought. Not though a thousand times each day she kill Can I or hope in her or love her less. For though she scare, Love confidence has taught.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXL.

Mirando 'l sol de' begli occhi sereno.

THE SWEETS AND BITTERS OF LOVE.

Marking of those bright eyes the sun serene Where reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves, My hopeless heart the weary spirit leaves Once more to gain its paradise terrene; Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene, And in the world how vast the web it weaves. A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves, Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been. By these two contrary and mix'd extremes, With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught, To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems: Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought, But mostly contrite for its bold emprize, For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLI.

Fera stella (se 'l cielo ha forza in noi).

TO PINE FOR HER IS BETTER THAN TO ENJOY HAPPINESS WITH ANY OTHER.

Ill-omen'd was that star's malignant gleam That ruled my hapless birth; and dim the morn That darted on my infant eyes the beam; And harsh the wail, that told a man was born; And hard the sterile earth, which first was worn Beneath my infant feet; but harder far, And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn, In league with savage Love, inflamed the war Of all my passions.--Love himself more tame, With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart, Insensible to the devouring flame Which wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart. One thought is comfort--that her scorn to bear, Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.

WOODHOUSELEE.

An evil star usher'd my natal morn (If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said), Hard was the cradle where I lay when born, And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd; Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scorn And fatal bow, whose mark I still was made, Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mourn Whose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid. But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring: She, too, severer would have wished the blow, A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting. One comfort rests--better to suffer so For her, than others to enjoy: and I, Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLII.

Quando mi vene innanzi il tempo e 'l loco.

RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LOVE.

The time and scene where I a slave became When I remember, and the knot so dear Which Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here, Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game; My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flame Of those soft sighs familiar to mine ear, So lit within, its very sufferings cheer; On these I live, and other aid disclaim. That sun, alone which beameth for my sight, With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burns Now in the eve of life as in its prime, And from afar so gives me warmth and light, Fresh and entire, at every hour, returns On memory the knot, the scene, the time.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLIII.

Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggi.

EVER THINKING ON HER, HE PASSES FEARLESS AND SAFE THROUGH THE FOREST OF ARDENNES.

Through woods inhospitable, wild, I rove, Where armèd travellers bend their fearful way; Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love, Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray. Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray, Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove: And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, move Like nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her play I seem to hear her, when the whispering gale Steals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird, When purls the stream along yon verdant vale. How grateful might this darksome wood appear, Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard; But, ah! 'tis far from all my heart holds dear.

ANON. 1777.

Amid the wild wood's lone and difficult ways, Where travel at great risk e'en men in arms, I pass secure--for only me alarms That sun, which darts of living love the rays-- Singing fond thoughts in simple lays to her Whom time and space so little hide from me; E'en here her form, nor hers alone, I see, But maids and matrons in each beech and fir: Methinks I hear her when the bird's soft moan, The sighing leaves I hear, or through the dell Where its bright lapse some murmuring rill pursues. Rarely of shadowing wood the silence lone, The solitary horror pleased so well, Except that of my sun too much I lose.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLIV

Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi.

TO BE NEAR HER RECOMPENSES HIM FOR ALL THE PERILS OF THE WAY.

Love, who his votary wings in heart and feet, To the third heaven that lightly he may soar, In one short day has many a stream and shore Given to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet. Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweet Where war in earnest strikes, nor tells before-- A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar-- My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete; But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme, Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings, From too great courage conscious terror springs. But this fair country and belovèd stream With smiling welcome reassures my heart, Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLV.

Amor mi sprona in un tempo ed affrena.

HE HEARS THE VOICE OF REASON, BUT CANNOT OBEY.

Love in one instant spurs me and restrains, Assures and frightens, freezes me and burns, Smiles now and scowls, now summons me and spurns, In hope now holds me, plunges now in pains: Now high, now low, my weary heart he hurls, Until fond passion loses quite the path, And highest pleasure seems to stir but wrath-- My harass'd mind on such strange errors feeds! A friendly thought there points the proper track, Not of such grief as from the full eye breaks, To go where soon it hopes to be at ease, But, as if greater power thence turn'd it back, Despite itself, another way it takes, And to its own slow death and mine agrees.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLVI.

Geri, quando talor meco s' adira.

HE APPEASES HER BY HUMILITY, AND EXHORTS A FRIEND TO DO LIKEWISE.

When my sweet foe, so haughty oft and high, Moved my brief ire no more my sight can thole, One comfort is vouchsafed me lest I die, Through whose sole strength survives my harass'd soul; Where'er her eyes--all light which would deny To my sad life--in scorn or anger roll, Mine with such true humility reply, Soon their meek glances all her rage control, Were it not so, methinks I less could brook To gaze on hers than on Medusa's mien, Which turn'd to marble all who met her look. My friend, act thus with thine, for closed I ween All other aid, and nothing flight avails Against the wings on which our master sails.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLVII.

Po, ben puo' tu portartene la scorza.

TO THE RIVER PO, ON QUITTING LAURA.

Thou Po to distant realms this frame mayst bear, On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide; But the free spirit that within doth bide Nor for thy might, nor any might doth care: Not varying here its course, nor shifting there, Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide; Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride, In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air. Monarch of floods, magnificent and strong, That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day, But in the west dost quit a fairer light; Thy curvèd course this body wafts along; My spirit on Love's pinions speeds its way, And to its darling home directs its flight!

NOTT.

Po, thou upon thy strong and rapid tide, This frame corporeal mayst onward bear: But a free spirit is concealèd there, Which nor thy power nor any power can guide. That spirit, light on breeze auspicious buoy'd, With course unvarying backward cleaves the air-- Nor wave, nor wind, nor sail, nor oar its care-- And plies its wings, and seeks the laurel's pride. 'Tis thine, proud king of rivers, eastward borne To meet the sun, as he leads on the day; And from a brighter west 'tis thine to turn: Thy hornèd flood these passive limbs obey-- But, uncontrollèd, to its sweet sojourn On Love's untiring plumes my spirit speeds its way.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CXLVIII.

Amor fra l' orbe una leggiadra rete.

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BIRD CAUGHT IN A NET.

Love 'mid the grass beneath a laurel green-- The plant divine which long my flame has fed, Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen-- A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread: Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I ween Bitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread: Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has been Since first on Adam's eyes the day was shed: And the bright light which disenthrones the sun Was flashing round, and in her hand, more fair Than snow or ivory, was the master rope. So fell I in the snare; their slave so won Her speech angelical and winning air, Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLIX.

Amor che 'ncende 'l cor d' ardente zelo.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY.

'Tis Love's caprice to freeze the bosom now With bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn; And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern-- Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow. In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow, Now thrill'd with love, with jealousy now torn: As if her thin robe by a rival worn, Or veil, had screen'd him from my vengeful blow But more 'tis mine to burn by night, by day; And how I love the death by which I die, Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing: Not so my freezing fire--impartially She shines to all; and who would speed his way To that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.

WRANGHAM.

Love with hot zeal now burns the heart within, Now holds it fetter'd with a frozen fear, Leaving it doubtful to our judgment here If hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win. In June I shiver, burn December in, Full of desires, from jealousy ne'er clear; E'en as a lady who her loving fee Hides 'neath a little veil of texture thin. Of the two ills the first is all mine own, By day, by night to burn; how sweet that pain Dwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings: Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown, She levels all: who hopes the crest to gain Of that proud light expands in vain his wings.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CL.

Se 'l dolce sguardo di costei m' ancide.

HE IS CONTINUALLY IN FEAR OF DISPLEASING HER.

If thus the dear glance of my lady slay, On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait, If o'er me Love usurp a power so great, Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play; Alas! what were it if she put away, Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate, Her eyes from pity, and to death's full hate, Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray. Thus if at heart with terror I am cold, When o'er her fair face doubtful shadows spring, The feeling has its source in sufferings old. Woman by nature is a fickle thing, And female hearts--time makes the proverb sure-- Can never long one state of love endure.

MACGREGOR.

If the soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise, Of that beloved one can wound me so, And if, whene'er she lets her accents flow, Or even smiles, Love gains such victories; Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes, Which now secure my life through weal and woe, From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slow To shed on me their light in pity's guise? And if my trembling spirit groweth cold Whene'er I see change to her aspect spring, This fear is only born of trials old; (Woman by nature is a fickle thing,) And hence I know her heart hath power to hold But a brief space Love's sweet imagining!

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CLI.

Amor, Natura, e la bell' alma umile.

DURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURA.

Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines, She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns, Against my peace: To pierce with mortal pains Love toils--such ever are his stern designs. Nature by bonds so slight to earth confines Her slender form, a breath may break its chains; And she, so much her heart the world disdains, Longer to tread life's wearying round repines. Hence still in her sweet frame we view decay All that to earth can joy and radiance lend, Or serve as mirror to this laggard age; And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay, Too well I see where all those hopes must end, With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.

WRANGHAM.

Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright, Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns, Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strains His every power that I may perish quite. Nature her delicate form by bonds so slight Holds in existence, that no help sustains; She is so modest that she now disdains Longer to brook this vile life's painful fight. Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day, Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait, Our mirror of true grace which wont to give: And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away, Alas! too well I see in what sad state Are those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLII.

Questa Fenice dell' aurata piuma.

HE COMPARES HER TO THE PHOENIX.

This wondrous Phoenix with the golden plumes Forms without art so rare a ring to deck That beautiful and soft and snowy neck, That every heart it melts, and mine consumes: Forms, too, a natural diadem which lights The air around, whence Love with silent steel Draws liquid subtle fire, which still I feel Fierce burning me though sharpest winter bites; Border'd with azure, a rich purple vest, Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair: Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone! Fame, in the opulent and odorous breast Of Arab mountains, buries her sole lair, Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLIII.

Se Virgilio ed Omero avessin visto.

THE MOST FAMOUS POETS OF ANTIQUITY WOULD HAVE SUNG HER ONLY, HAD THEY SEEN HER.

Had tuneful Maro seen, and Homer old, The living sun which here mine eyes behold, The best powers they had join'd of either lyre, Sweetness and strength, that fame she might acquire; Unsung had been, with vex'd Æneas, then Achilles and Ulysses, godlike men, And for nigh sixty years who ruled so well The world; and who before Ægysthus fell; Nay, that old flower of virtues and of arms, As this new flower of chastity and charms, A rival star, had scarce such radiance flung. In rugged verse him honour'd Ennius sung, I her in mine. Grant, Heaven! on my poor lays She frown not, nor disdain my humble praise.

ANON.

SONNET CLIV.

Giunto Alessandro alla famosa tomba.

HE FEARS THAT HE IS INCAPABLE OF WORTHILY CELEBRATING HER.

The son of Philip, when he saw the tomb Of fierce Achilles, with a sigh, thus said: "O happy, whose achievements erst found room From that illustrious trumpet to be spread O'er earth for ever!"--But, beyond the gloom Of deep Oblivion shall that loveliest maid, Whose like to view seems not of earthly doom, By my imperfect accents be convey'd? Her of the Homeric, the Orphèan Lyre, Most worthy, or that shepherd, Mantua's pride, To be the theme of their immortal lays; Her stars and unpropitious fate denied This palm:--and me bade to such height aspire, Who, haply, dim her glories by my praise.

CAPEL LOFFT.

When Alexander at the famous tomb Of fierce Achilles stood, the ambitious sigh Burst from his bosom--"Fortunate! on whom Th' eternal bard shower'd honours bright and high." But, ah! for so to each is fix'd his doom, This pure fair dove, whose like by mortal eye Was never seen, what poor and scanty room For her great praise can my weak verse supply? Whom, worthiest Homer's line and Orpheus' song, Or his whom reverent Mantua still admires-- Sole and sufficient she to wake such lyres! An adverse star, a fate here only wrong, Entrusts to one who worships her dear name, Yet haply injures by his praise her fame.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLV.

Almo Sol, quella fronde ch' io sola amo.

TO THE SUN, WHOSE SETTING HID LAURA'S DWELLING FROM HIS VIEW.

O blessed Sun! that sole sweet leaf I love, First loved by thee, in its fair seat, alone, Bloometh without a peer, since from above To Adam first our shining ill was shown. Pause we to look on her! Although to stay Thy course I pray thee, yet thy beams retire; Their shades the mountains fling, and parting day Parts me from all I most on earth desire. The shadows from yon gentle heights that fall, Where sparkles my sweet fire, where brightly grew That stately laurel from a sucker small, Increasing, as I speak, hide from my view The beauteous landscape and the blessèd scene, Where dwells my true heart with its only queen.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLVI.

Passa la nave mia colma d' oblio.

UNDER THE FIGURE OF A TEMPEST-TOSSED VESSEL, HE DESCRIBES HIS OWN SAD STATE.

My bark, deep laden with oblivion, rides O'er boisterous waves, through winter's midnight gloom, 'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis, while, in room Of pilot, Love, mine enemy, presides; At every oar a guilty fancy bides, Holding at nought the tempest and the tomb; A moist eternal wind the sails consume, Of sighs, of hopes, and of desire besides. A shower of tears, a fog of chill disdain Bathes and relaxes the o'er-wearied cords, With error and with ignorance entwined; My two loved lights their wonted aid restrain; Reason or Art, storm-quell'd, no help affords, Nor hope remains the wish'd-for port to find.

CHARLEMONT.

My lethe-freighted bark with reckless prore Cleaves the rough sea 'neath wintry midnight skies, My old foe at the helm our compass eyes, With Scylla and Charybdis on each shore, A prompt and daring thought at every oar, Which equally the storm and death defies, While a perpetual humid wind of sighs, Of hopes, and of desires, its light sail tore. Bathe and relax its worn and weary shrouds (Which ignorance with error intertwines), Torrents of tears, of scorn and anger clouds; Hidden the twin dear lights which were my signs; Reason and Art amid the waves lie dead, And hope of gaining port is almost fled.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLVII.

Una candida cerva sopra l' erba.

THE VISION OF THE FAWN.

Beneath a laurel, two fair streams between, At early sunrise of the opening year, A milk-white fawn upon the meadow green, Of gold its either horn, I saw appear; So mild, yet so majestic, was its mien, I left, to follow, all my labours here, As miners after treasure, in the keen Desire of new, forget the old to fear. "Let none impede"--so, round its fair neck, run The words in diamond and topaz writ-- "My lord to give me liberty sees fit." And now the sun his noontide height had won When I, with weary though unsated view, Fell in the stream--and so my vision flew.

MACGREGOR.

A form I saw with secret awe, nor ken I what it warns; Pure as the snow, a gentle doe it seem'd, with silver horns: Erect she stood, close by a wood, between two running streams; And brightly shone the morning sun upon that land of dreams! The pictured hind fancy design'd glowing with love and hope; Graceful she stepp'd, but distant kept, like the timid antelope; Playful, yet coy, with secret joy her image fill'd my soul; And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet oblivion stole. Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that she wore; Words, too--but theirs were characters of legendary lore. "Cæsar's decree hath made me free; and through his solemn charge, Untouch'd by men o'er hill and glen I wander here at large." The sun had now, with radiant brow, climb'd his meridian throne, Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely one. A voice was heard--quick disappear'd my dream--the spell was broken. Then came distress: to the consciousness of life I had awoken.

FATHER PROUT.

SONNET CLVIII.

Siccome eterna vita è veder Dio.

ALL HIS HAPPINESS IS IN GAZING UPON HER.

As life eternal is with God to be, No void left craving, there of all possess'd, So, lady mine, to be with you makes blest, This brief frail span of mortal life to me. So fair as now ne'er yet was mine to see-- If truth from eyes to heart be well express'd-- Lovely and blessèd spirit of my breast, Which levels all high hopes and wishes free. Nor would I more demand if less of haste She show'd to part; for if, as legends tell And credence find, are some who live by smell, On water some, or fire who touch and taste, All, things which neither strength nor sweetness give, Why should not I upon your dear sight live?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLIX.

Stiamo, Amor, a veder la gloria nostra.

TO LOVE, ON LAURA WALKING ABROAD.

Here stand we, Love, our glory to behold-- How, passing Nature, lovely, high, and rare! Behold! what showers of sweetness falling there! What floods of light by heaven to earth unroll'd! How shine her robes, in purple, pearls, and gold, So richly wrought, with skill beyond compare! How glance her feet!--her beaming eyes how fair Through the dark cloister which these hills enfold! The verdant turf, and flowers of thousand hues Beneath yon oak's old canopy of state, Spring round her feet to pay their amorous duty. The heavens, in joyful reverence, cannot choose But light up all their fires, to celebrate Her praise, whose presence charms their awful beauty.

MERIVALE.

Here tarry, Love, our glory to behold; Nought in creation so sublime we trace; Ah! see what sweetness showers upon that face, Heaven's brightness to this earth those eyes unfold! See, with what magic art, pearls, purple, gold, That form transcendant, unexampled, grace: Beneath the shadowing hills observe her pace, Her glance replete with elegance untold! The verdant turf, and flowers of every hue, Clustering beneath yon aged holm-oak's gloom, For the sweet pressure of her fair feet sue; The orbs of fire that stud yon beauteous sky, Cheer'd by her presence and her smiles, assume Superior lustre and serenity.

NOTT.

SONNET CLX.

Pasco la mente d' un sì nobil cibo.

TO SEE AND HEAR HER IS HIS GREATEST BLISS.

I feed my fancy on such noble food, That Jove I envy not his godlike meal; I see her--joy invades me like a flood, And lethe of all other bliss I feel; I hear her--instantly that music rare Bids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow; Borne by the hand of Love I know not where, A double pleasure in one draught I know. Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well, So winning are its words, its sound so sweet, None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell; Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meet All charms of eye and ear wherewith our race Art, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace.

MACGREGOR.

Such noble aliment sustains my soul, That Jove I envy not his godlike food; I gaze on her--and feel each other good Engulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl: Her every word I in my heart enrol, That on its grief it still may constant brood; Prostrate by Love--my doom not understood From that one form, I feel a twin control. My spirit drinks the music of her voice, Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear) They only feel who in its tone partake: Again within her face my eyes rejoice, For in its gentle lineaments appear What Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXI.

L' aura gentil che rasserena i poggi.

JOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHES.

The gale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue, And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade, I know; its breathings such impression made, Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too: My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieu To those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd; And, to dispel the gloom around me spread, I seek this day my cheering sun to view, Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great, That Love again compels me to its light; Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight. Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fate I ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die, When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.

NOTT.

The gentle air, which brightens each green hill, Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade, I recognise it by its soft breath still, My sorrow and renown which long has made: Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought, From my dear native Tuscan air I flee: That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought, I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see. That sun so great and genial sweetness brings, That Love compels me to his beams again, Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain: I ask for my escape not arms, but wings: Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die, Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXII.

Di dì in dì vo cangiando il viso e 'l pelo.

HIS WOUNDS CAN BE HEALED ONLY BY PITY OR DEATH.

I alter day by day in hair and mien, Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear, Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green, Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear. Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen, Ere I shall cease to covet and to fear Her lovely shadow, and--which ill I screen-- To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish'd here: For never hope I respite from my pain, From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free, Unless mine enemy some pity deign, Till things impossible accomplish'd be, None but herself or death the blow can heal Which Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIII.

L' aura serena che fra verdi fronde.

THE GENTLE BREEZE (L' AURA) RECALLS TO HIM THE TIME WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER.

The gentle gale, that plays my face around, Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove, To fond remembrance brings the time, when Love First gave his deep, although delightful wound; Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne'er found Veil'd, as disdain or jealousy might move; To view her locks that shone bright gold above, Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound: Those locks she sweetly scatter'd to the wind, And then coil'd up again so gracefully, That but to think on it still thrills the sense. These Time has in more sober braids confined; And bound my heart with such a powerful tie, That death alone can disengage it thence.

NOTT.

The balmy airs that from yon leafy spray My fever'd brow with playful murmurs greet, Recall to my fond heart the fatal day When Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet, And gave me the fair face--in scorn away Since turn'd, or hid by jealousy--to meet; The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array, Whose shining tints with finest gold compete, So sweetly on the wind were then display'd, Or gather'd in with such a graceful art, Their very thought with passion thrills my mind. Time since has twined them in more sober braid, And with a snare so powerful bound my heart, Death from its fetters only can unbind.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIV.

L' aura celeste che 'n quel verde Lauro.

HER HAIR AND EYES.

The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd, Where Love to Phoebus whilom dealt his stroke, Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke, That freedom thence I hope not to behold, O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab old Medusa, when she changed him to an oak; Nor ever can the fairy knot be broke Whose light outshines the sun, not merely gold; I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snare Which folds and fastens with so sweet a grace My soul, whose humbleness defends alone. Her mere shade freezes with a cold despair My heart, and tinges with pale fear my face; And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXV.

L' aura soave ch' al sol spiega e vibra.

HIS HEART LIES TANGLED IN HER HAIR.

The pleasant gale, that to the sun unplaits And spreads the gold Love's fingers weave, and braid O'er her fine eyes, and all around her head, Fetters my heart, the wishful sigh creates: No nerve but thrills, no artery but beats, Approaching my fair arbiter with dread, Who in her doubtful scale hath ofttimes weigh'd Whether or death or life on me awaits; Beholding, too, those eyes their fires display, And on those shoulders shine such wreaths of hair, Whose witching tangles my poor heart ensnare. But how this magic's wrought I cannot say; For twofold radiance doth my reason blind, And sweetness to excess palls and o'erpowers my mind.

NOTT.

The soft gale to the sun which shakes and spreads The gold which Love's own hand has spun and wrought. There, with her bright eyes and those fairy threads, Binds my poor heart and sifts each idle thought. My veins of blood, my bones of marrow fail, Thrills all my frame when I, to hear or gaze, Draw near to her, who oft, in balance frail, My life and death together holds and weighs, And see those love-fires shine wherein I burn, And, as its snow each sweetest shoulder heaves, Flash the fair tresses right and left by turn; Verse fails to paint what fancy scarce conceives. From two such lights is intellect distress'd, And by such sweetness weary and oppress'd.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVI.

O bella man, che mi distringi 'l core.

THE STOLEN GLOVE.

O beauteous hand! that dost my heart subdue, And in a little space my life confine; Hand where their skill and utmost efforts join Nature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show! Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue, To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine! Love, who towards me kindness doth design, For once permits ye naked to our view. Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white, Encasing ivory tinted with the rose; More precious covering ne'er met mortal sight. Would I such portion of thy veil had gain'd! O fleeting gifts which fortune's hand bestows! 'Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain'd.

NOTT.

O beauteous hand! which robb'st me of my heart, And holdest all my life in little space; Hand! which their utmost effort and best art Nature and Heaven alike have join'd to grace; O sister pearls of orient hue, ye fine And fairy fingers! to my wounds alone Cruel and cold, does Love awhile incline In my behalf, that naked ye are shown? O glove! most snowy, delicate, and dear, Which spotless ivory and fresh roses set, Where can on earth a sweeter spoil be met, Unless her fair veil thus reward us here? Inconstancy of human things! the theft Late won and dearly prized too soon from me is reft!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVII.

Non pur quell' una bella ignuda mano.

HE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTY.

Not of one dear hand only I complain, Which hides it, to my loss, again from view, But its fair fellow and her soft arms too Are prompt my meek and passive heart to pain. Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain, Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new, That so her high and heavenly part endue, No style can equal it, no mind attain. That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes, The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and rose Contrast each other, whence rich music flows, These fill the gazer with a fond surprise, The fine head, the bright tresses which defied The sun to match them in his noonday pride.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVIII.

Mia ventura ed Amor m' avean sì adorno.

HE REGRETS HAVING RETURNED HER GLOVE.

Me Love and Fortune then supremely bless'd! Her glove which gold and silken broidery bore! I seem'd to reach of utmost bliss the crest, Musing within myself on her who wore. Ne'er on that day I think, of days the best, Which made me rich, then beggar'd as before, But rage and sorrow fill mine aching breast. With slighted love and self-shame boiling o'er; That on my precious prize in time of need I kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand 'Gainst what at best was merely angel force, That my feet were not wings their flight to speed, And so at last take vengeance on the hand, Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIX.

D' un bel, chiaro, polito e vivo ghiaccio.

THOUGH RACKED BY AGONY, HE DOES NOT COMPLAIN OF HER.

The flames that ever on my bosom prey From living ice or cold fair marble pour, And so exhaust my veins and waste my core, Almost insensibly I melt away. Death, his stern arm already rear'd to slay, As thunders angry heaven or lions roar, Pursues my life that vainly flies before, While I with terror shake, and mute obey. And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they might A double column for my succour throw Between my worn soul and the mortal blow: It may not be; such feelings in the sight Of my loved foe and mistress never stir; The fault is in my fortune, not in her.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXX.

Lasso, ch' i' ardo, ed altri non mel crede!

POSTERITY WILL ACCORD TO HIM THE PITY WHICH LAURA REFUSES.

Alas, with ardour past belief I glow! None doubt this truth, except one only fair, Who all excels, for whom alone I care; She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe. O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thou Look in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there? Were I not fated by my baleful star, For me from pity's fount might favour flow. My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed, And thy high praises pour'd through all my song, O'er many a breast may future influence spread: These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought, Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue, E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught.

NOTT.

Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gain All others credit it save only she All others who excels, alone for me; She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plain Infinite beauty, little faith and slow, Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes? Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies, From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow. Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care, And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes, May thousands yet inflame in after times; These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair, Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath, Shall lighten other loves and live in death.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXI.

Anima, che diverse cose tante.

HE REJOICES AT BEING ON EARTH WITH HER, AS HE IS THEREBY ENABLED BETTER TO IMITATE HER VIRTUES.

Soul! with such various faculties endued To think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear; My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear! Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good; Your fortune smiles; if after or before, The path were won so badly follow'd yet, Ye had not then her bright eyes' lustre met, Nor traced her light feet earth's green carpet o'er. Now with so clear a light, so sure a sign, 'Twere shame to err or halt on the brief way Which makes thee worthy of a home divine. That better course, my weary will, essay! To pierce the cloud of her sweet scorn be thine, Pursuing her pure steps and heavenly ray.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXII.

Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci.

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY.

Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery, Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill; Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill, That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be. Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently; And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fill With the sweet honour blend of loving still Her whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me." Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say: "For that high-boasted beauty of his day Enough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh. Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, why Could not these eyes that lovely form survey? Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"

NOTT.

Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet, Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear, Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair! That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat. Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet; And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to share Blend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greet In these soft words, "Thou only art my care!" Haply some youth shall sighing envious say, "Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true, For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!" While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate, Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view? Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"

ANON. 1777.

CANZONE XIX.

S' il dissi mai, ch' i' venga in odio a quella.

HE VEHEMENTLY REBUTS THE CHARGE OF LOVING ANOTHER.

Perdie! I said it not, Nor never thought to do: As well as I, ye wot I have no power thereto. And if I did, the lot That first did me enchain May never slake the knot, But strait it to my pain.

And if I did, each thing That may do harm or woe, Continually may wring My heart, where so I go! Report may always ring Of shame on me for aye, If in my heart did spring The words that you do say.

And if I did, each star That is in heaven above, May frown on me, to mar The hope I have in love! And if I did, such war As they brought unto Troy, Bring all my life afar From all his lust and joy!

And if I did so say, The beauty that me bound Increase from day to day, More cruel to my wound! With all the moan that may To plaint may turn my song; My life may soon decay, Without redress, by wrong!

If I be clear from thought, Why do you then complain? Then is this thing but sought To turn my heart to pain. Then this that you have wrought, You must it now redress; Of right, therefore, you ought Such rigour to repress.

And as I have deserved, So grant me now my hire; You know I never swerved, You never found me liar. For Rachel have I served, For Leah cared I never; And her I have reserved Within my heart for ever.

WYATT.

If I said so, may I be hated by Her on whose love I live, without which I should die-- If I said so, my days be sad and short, May my false soul some vile dominion court. If I said so, may every star to me Be hostile; round me grow Pale fear and jealousy; And she, my foe, As cruel still and cold as fair she aye must be.

If I said so, may Love upon my heart Expend his golden shafts, on her the leaden dart; Be heaven and earth, and God and man my foe, And she still more severe if I said so: If I said so, may he whose blind lights lead Me straightway to my grave, Trample yet worse his slave, Nor she behave Gentle and kind to me in look, or word, or deed.

If I said so, then through my brief life may All that is hateful block my worthless weary way: If I said so, may the proud frost in thee Grow prouder as more fierce the fire in me: If I said so, no more then may the warm Sun or bright moon be view'd, Nor maid, nor matron's form, But one dread storm Such as proud Pharaoh saw when Israel he pursued.

If I said so, despite each contrite sigh, Let courtesy for me and kindly feeling die: If I said so, that voice to anger swell, Which was so sweet when first her slave I fell: If I said so, I should offend whom I, E'en from my earliest breath Until my day of death, Would gladly take, Alone in cloister'd cell my single saint to make.

But if I said not so, may she who first, In life's green youth, my heart to hope so sweetly nursed, Deign yet once more my weary bark to guide With native kindness o'er the troublous tide; And graceful, grateful, as her wont before, When, for I could no more, My all, myself I gave, To be her slave, Forget not the deep faith with which I still adore.

I did not, could not, never would say so, For all that gold can give, cities or courts bestow: Let truth, then, take her old proud seat on high, And low on earth let baffled falsehood lie. Thou know'st me, Love! if aught my state within Belief or care may win, Tell her that I would call Him blest o'er all Who, doom'd like me to pine, dies ere his strife begin.

Rachel I sought, not Leah, to secure, Nor could I this vain life with other fair endure, And, should from earth Heaven summon her again, Myself would gladly die For her, or with her, when Elijah's fiery car her pure soul wafts on high.

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE XX.

Ben mi credea passar mio tempo omai.

HE CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT SEEING HER, BUT WOULD NOT DIE THAT HE MAY STILL LOVE HER.

As pass'd the years which I have left behind, To pass my future years I fondly thought, Amid old studies, with desires the same; But, from my lady since I fail to find The accustom'd aid, the work himself has wrought Let Love regard my tempter who became; Yet scarce I feel the shame That, at my age, he makes me thus a thief Of that bewitching light For which my life is steep'd in cureless grief; In youth I better might Have ta'en the part which now I needs must take, For less dishonour boyish errors make.

Those sweet eyes whence alone my life had health Were ever of their high and heavenly charms So kind to me when first my thrall begun, That, as a man whom not his proper wealth, But some extern yet secret succour arms, I lived, with them at ease, offending none: Me now their glances shun As one injurious and importunate, Who, poor and hungry, did Myself the very act, in better state Which I, in others, chid. From mercy thus if envy bar me, be My amorous thirst and helplessness my plea.

In divers ways how often have I tried If, reft of these, aught mortal could retain E'en for a single day in life my frame: But, ah! my soul, which has no rest beside, Speeds back to those angelic lights again; And I, though but of wax, turn to their flame, Planting my mind's best aim Where less the watch o'er what I love is sure: As birds i' th' wild wood green, Where less they fear, will sooner take the lure, So on her lovely mien, Now one and now another look I turn, Wherewith at once I nourish me and burn.

Strange sustenance! upon my death I feed, And live in flames, a salamander rare! And yet no marvel, as from love it flows. A blithe lamb 'mid the harass'd fleecy breed. Whilom I lay, whom now to worst despair Fortune and Love, as is their wont, expose. Winter with cold and snows, With violets and roses spring is rife, And thus if I obtain Some few poor aliments of else weak life, Who can of theft complain? So rich a fair should be content with this, Though others live on hers, if nought she miss.

Who knows not what I am and still have been, From the first day I saw those beauteous eyes, Which alter'd of my life the natural mood? Traverse all lands, explore each sea between, Who can acquire all human qualities? There some on odours live by Ind's vast flood; Here light and fire are food My frail and famish'd spirit to appease! Love! more or nought bestow; With lordly state low thrift but ill agrees; Thou hast thy darts and bow, Take with thy hands my not unwilling breath, Life were well closed with honourable death.

Pent flames are strongest, and, if left to swell, Not long by any means can rest unknown, This own I, Love, and at your hands was taught. When I thus silent burn'd, you knew it well; Now e'en to me my cries are weary grown, Annoy to far and near so long that wrought. O false world! O vain thought! O my hard fate! where now to follow thee? Ah! from what meteor light Sprung in my heart the constant hope which she, Who, armour'd with your might, Drags me to death, binds o'er it as a chain? Yours is the fault, though mine the loss and pain.

Thus bear I of true love the pains along, Asking forgiveness of another's debt, And for mine own; whose eyes should rather shun That too great light, and to the siren's song My ears be closed: though scarce can I regret That so sweet poison should my heart o'errun. Yet would that all were done, That who the first wound gave my last would deal; For, if I right divine, It were best mercy soon my fate to seal; Since not a chance is mine That he may treat me better than before, 'Tis well to die if death shut sorrow's door.

My song! with fearless feet The field I keep, for death in flight were shame. Myself I needs must blame For these laments; tears, sighs, and death to meet, Such fate for her is sweet. Own, slave of Love, whose eyes these rhymes may catch, Earth has no good that with my grief can match.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXIII.

Rapido fiume che d' alpestra vena.

JOURNEYING ALONG THE RHONE TO AVIGNON, PETRARCH BIDS THE RIVER KISS LAURA'S HAND, AS IT WILL ARRIVE AT HER DWELLING BEFORE HIM.

Impetuous flood, that from the Alps' rude head, Eating around thee, dost thy name obtain;[V] Anxious like me both night and day to gain Where thee pure nature, and me love doth lead; Pour on: thy course nor sleep nor toils impede; Yet, ere thou pay'st thy tribute to the main, Oh, tarry where most verdant looks the plain, Where most serenity the skies doth spread! There beams my radiant sun of cheering ray, Which deck thy left banks, and gems o'er with flowers; E'en now, vain thought! perhaps she chides my stay: Kiss then her feet, her hand so beauteous fair; In place of language let thy kiss declare Strong is my will, though feeble are my powers.

NOTT.

O rapid flood! which from thy mountain bed Gnawest thy shores, whence (in my tongue) thy name;[V] Thou art my partner, night and day the same, Where I by love, thou art by nature led: Precede me now; no weariness doth shed Its spell o'er thee, no sleep thy course can tame; Yet ere the ocean waves thy tribute claim, Pause, where the herb and air seem brighter fed. There beams our sun of life, whose genial ray With brighter verdure thy left shore adorns; Perchance (vain hope!) e'en now my stay she mourns. Kiss then her foot, her lovely hand, and may Thy kiss to her in place of language speak, The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

WOLLASTON.

[Footnote V: Deriving it from rodere, to gnaw.]

SONNET CLXXIV.

I' dolci colli ov' io lasciai me stesso.

HE LEAVES VAUCLUSE, BUT HIS SPIRIT REMAINS THERE WITH LAURA.

The loved hills where I left myself behind, Whence ever 'twas so hard my steps to tear, Before me rise; at each remove I bear The dear load to my lot by Love consign'd. Often I wonder inly in my mind, That still the fair yoke holds me, which despair Would vainly break, that yet I breathe this air; Though long the chain, its links but closer bind. And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart, Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast, Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd, So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart, Endure at once my death and my delight, Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight.

MACGREGOR.

Those gentle hills which hold my spirit still (For though I fly, my heart there must remain), Are e'er before me, whilst my burthen's pain, By love bestow'd, I bear with patient will. I marvel oft that I can yet fulfil That yoke's sweet duties, which my soul enchain, I seek release, but find the effort vain; The more I fly, the nearer seems my ill. So, like the stag, who, wounded by the dart, Its poison'd iron rankling in his side, Flies swifter at each quickening anguish'd throb,-- I feel the fatal arrow at my heart; Yet with its poison, joy awakes its tide; My flight exhausts me--grief my life doth rob!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXXV.

Non dall' Ispano Ibero all' Indo Idaspe.

HIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLED.

From Spanish Ebro to Hydaspes old, Exploring ocean in its every nook, From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian shore, In earth, in heaven one only Phoenix dwells. What fortunate, or what disastrous bird Omen'd my fate? which Parca winds my yarn, That I alone find Pity deaf as asp, And wretched live who happy hoped to be? Let me not speak of her, but him her guide, Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills-- Gifts which, from him o'erflowing, follow her, Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be, Dissembleth, careth not, or will not see That silver'd, ere my time, these temples are.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXVI.

Voglia mi sprona; Amor mi guida e scorge.

HE DESCRIBES HIS STATE, SPECIFYING THE DATE OF HIS ATTACHMENT.

Passion impels me, Love escorts and leads, Pleasure attracts me, habits old enchain, Hope with its flatteries comforts me again, And, at my harass'd heart, with fond touch pleads. Poor wretch! it trusts her still, and little heeds The blind and faithless leader of our train; Reason is dead, the senses only reign: One fond desire another still succeeds. Virtue and honour, beauty, courtesy, With winning words and many a graceful way, My heart entangled in that laurel sweet. In thirteen hundred seven and twenty, I --'Twas April, the first hour, on its sixth day-- Enter'd Love's labyrinth, whence is no retreat.

MACGREGOR.

By will impell'd, Love o'er my path presides; By Pleasure led, o'ercome by Habit's reign, Sweet Hope deludes, and comforts me again; At her bright touch, my heart's despair subsides. It takes her proffer'd hand, and there confides. To doubt its blind disloyal guide were vain; Each sense usurps poor Reason's broken rein; On each desire, another wilder rides! Grace, virtue, honour, beauty, words so dear, Have twined me with that laurell'd bough, whose power My heart hath tangled in its lab'rinth sweet: The thirteen hundred twenty-seventh year, The sixth of April's suns--in that first hour, My entrance mark'd, whence I see no retreat.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXXVII.

Beato in sogno, e di languir contento.

THOUGH SO LONG LOVE'S FAITHFUL SERVANT, HIS ONLY REWARD HAS BEEN TEARS.

Happy in visions, and content to pine, Shadows to clasp, to chase the summer gale, On shoreless and unfathom'd sea to sail, To build on sand, and in the air design, The sun to gaze on till these eyes of mine Abash'd before his noonday splendour fail, To chase adown some soft and sloping vale, The wingèd stag with maim'd and heavy kine; Weary and blind, save my own harm to all, Which day and night I seek with throbbing heart, On Love, on Laura, and on Death I call. Thus twenty years of long and cruel smart, In tears and sighs I've pass'd, because I took Under ill stars, alas! both bait and hook.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXVIII.

Grazie ch' a pochi 'l ciel largo destina.

THE ENCHANTMENTS THAT ENTHRALL HIM

Graces, that liberal Heaven on few bestows; Rare excellence, scarce known to human kind; With youth's bright locks age's ripe judgment join'd; Celestial charms, which a meek mortal shows; An elegance unmatch'd; and lips, whence flows Music that can the sense in fetters bind; A goddess step; a lovely ardent mind, That breaks the stubborn, and the haughty bows; Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies the heart, To glooms, to shades that can a light impart, Lift high the lover's soul, or plunge it low; Speech link'd by tenderness and dignity; With many a sweetly-interrupted sigh; Such are the witcheries that transform me so.

NOTT.

Graces which liberal Heaven grants few to share: Rare virtue seldom witness'd by mankind; Experienced judgment with fair hair combined; High heavenly beauty in a humble fair; A gracefulness most excellent and rare; A voice whose music sinks into the mind; An angel gait; wit glowing and refined, The hard to break, the high and haughty tear, And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone, Strong to enlighten hell and night, and take Souls from our bodies and their own to make; A speech where genius high yet gentle shone, Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs --Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA VI.

Anzi tre di creata era alma in parte.

THE HISTORY OF HIS LOVE; AND PRAYER FOR HELP.

Life's three first stages train'd my soul in part To place its care on objects high and new, And to disparage what men often prize, But, left alone, and of her fatal course As yet uncertain, frolicsome, and free, She enter'd at spring-time a lovely wood.

A tender flower there was, born in that wood The day before, whose root was in a part High and impervious e'en to spirit free; For many snares were there of forms so new, And such desire impell'd my sanguine course, That to lose freedom were to gain a prize.

Dear, sweet, yet perilous and painful prize! Which quickly drew me to that verdant wood, Doom'd to mislead me midway in life's course; The world I since have ransack'd part by part, For rhymes, or stones, or sap of simples new, Which yet might give me back the spirit, free.

But ah! I feel my body must be free From that hard knot which is its richest prize, Ere medicine old or incantations new Can heal the wounds which pierced me in that wood, Thorny and troublous, where I play'd such part, Leaving it halt who enter'd with hot course.

Yes! full of snares and sticks, a difficult course Have I to run, where easy foot and sure Were rather needed, healthy in each part; Thou, Lord, who still of pity hast the prize, Stretch to me thy right hand in this wild wood, And let thy sun dispel my darkness new.

Look on my state, amid temptations new, Which, interrupting my life's tranquil course, Have made me denizen of darkling wood; If good, restore me, fetterless and free, My wand'ring consort, and be thine the prize If yet with thee I find her in blest part.

Lo! thus in part I put my questions new, If mine be any prize, or run its course, Be my soul free, or captived in close wood.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXIX.

In nobil sangue vita umile e queta.

SHE UNITES IN HERSELF THE HIGHEST EXCELLENCES OF VIRTUE AND BEAUTY.

High birth in humble life, reserved yet kind, On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare, A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind, A happy spirit in a pensive air; Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrined All gifts and graces in this lady fair, True honour, purest praises, worth refined, Above what rapt dreams of best poets are. Virtue and Love so rich in her unite, With natural beauty dignified address, Gestures that still a silent grace express, And in her eyes I know not what strange light, That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear, Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear.

MACGREGOR.

Though nobly born, so humbly calm she dwells, So bright her intellect--so pure her mind-- The blossom and its bloom in her we find; With pensive look, her heart with mirth rebels: Thus by her planets' union she excels, (Nay--His, the stars' proud sov'reign, who enshrined There honour, worth, and fortitude combined!) Which to the bard inspired, his hope dispels. Love blooms in her, but 'tis his home most pure; Her daily virtues blend with native grace; Her noiseless movements speak, though she is mute: Such power her eyes, they can the day obscure, Illume the night,--the honey's sweetness chase, And wake its stream, where gall doth oft pollute.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXXX.

Tutto 'l di piango; e poi la notte, quando.

HER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIM.

Through the long lingering day, estranged from rest, My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow, Painful prerogative of lover's woe! In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest. With such deep anguish is my heart opprest, So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things below Most miserable I; for Cupid's bow Has banish'd quiet from this heaving breast. Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to morn And eve to eve succeeds, of death I view (So should this life be named) one-half gone by-- Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn; That she, my friend, so tender and so true, Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CLXXXI.

Già desiai con sì giusta querela.

HE LIVES DESTITUTE OF ALL HOPE SAVE THAT OF RENDERING HER IMMORTAL.

Erewhile I labour'd with complaint so true, And in such fervid rhymes to make me heard, Seem'd as at last some spark of pity stirr'd In the hard heart which frost in summer knew. Th' unfriendly cloud, whose cold veil o'er it grew, Broke at the first breath of mine ardent word Or low'ring still she others' blame incurr'd Her bright and killing eyes who thus withdrew No ruth for self I crave, for her no hate; I wish not this--that passes power of mine: Such was mine evil star and cruel fate. But I shall ever sing her charms divine, That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath, The world may know how sweet to me was death.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXII.

Tra quantunque leggiadre donne e belle.

ALL NATURE WOULD BE IN DARKNESS WERE SHE, ITS SUN, TO PERISH.

Where'er she moves, whatever dames among, Beauteous or graceful, matchless she below. With her fair face she makes all others show Dim, as the day's bright orb night's starry throng. And Love still whispers, with prophetic tongue,-- "Long as on earth is seen that glittering brow, Shall life have charms: but she shall cease to glow And with her all my power shall fleet along, Should Nature from the skies their twin-lights wrest; Hush every breeze, each herb and flower destroy; Strip man of reason--speech; from Ocean's breast His tides, his tenants chase--such, earth's annoy; Yea, still more darken'd were it and unblest, Had she, thy Laura, closed her eyes to love and joy."

WRANGHAM.

Whene'er amidst the damsels, blooming bright, She shows herself, whose like was never made, At her approach all other beauties fade, As at morn's orient glow the gems of night. Love seems to whisper,--"While to mortal sight Her graces shall on earth be yet display'd, Life shall be blest; 'till soon with her decay'd, The virtues, and my reign shall sink outright." Of moon and sun, should nature rob the sky, The air of winds, the earth of herbs and leaves, Mankind of speech and intellectual eye, The ocean's bed of fish, and dancing waves; Even so shall all things dark and lonely lye, When of her beauty Death the world bereaves!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET CLXXXIII.

Il cantar novo e 'l pianger degli augelli.

MORNING.

The birds' sweet wail, their renovated song, At break of morn, make all the vales resound; With lapse of crystal waters pouring round, In clear, swift runnels, the fresh shores among. She, whose pure passion knows nor guile nor wrong, With front of snow, with golden tresses crown'd, Combing her aged husband's hoar locks found, Wakes me when sportful wakes the warbling throng. Thus, roused from sleep, I greet the dawning day, And its succeeding sun, with one more bright, Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight: Both suns I've seen at once uplift their ray; This drives the radiance of the stars away, But that which gilds my life eclipses e'en his light.

NOTT.

Soon as gay morn ascends her purple car, The plaintive warblings of the new-waked grove, The murmuring streams, through flowery meads that rove, Fill with sweet melody the valleys fair. Aurora, famed for constancy in love, Whose face with snow, whose locks with gold compare. Smoothing her aged husband's silvery hair, Bids me the joys of rural music prove. Then, waking, I salute the sun of day; But chief that beauteous sun, whose cheering ray Once gilt, nay gilds e'en now, life's scene so bright. Dear suns! which oft I've seen together rise; This dims each meaner lustre of the skies, And that sweet sun I love dims every light.

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CLXXXIV.

Onde tolse Amor l' oro e di qual vena.

THE CHARMS OF HER COUNTENANCE AND VOICE.

Whence could Love take the gold, and from what vein, To form those bright twin locks? What thorn could grow Those roses? And what mead that white bestow Of the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain? Whence came those pearls that modestly restrain Accents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow? And whence those charms that so divinely show, Spread o'er a face serene as heaven's blue plain? Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere, Was that celestial song, which doth dispense Such potent magic to the ravish'd ear? What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes, Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise; Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?

NOTT.

Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn, Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould? What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born? Whence came so many graces to adorn That brow more fair than summer skies unfold? Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control The song divine which wastes my life away? (Who can with trifles now my senses move?) What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CLXXXV.

Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno.

THOUGH HER EYES DESTROY HIM, HE CANNOT TEAR HIMSELF AWAY.

What destiny of mine, what fraud or force, Unarm'd again conducts me to the field, Where never came I but with shame to yield 'Scape I or fall, which better is or worse? --Not worse, but better; from so sweet a source Shine in my heart those lights, so bright reveal'd The fatal fire, e'en now as then, which seal'd My doom, though twenty years have roll'd their course I feel death's messengers when those dear eyes, Dazzling me from afar, I see appear, And if on me they turn as she draw near, Love with such sweetness tempts me then and tries, Tell it I cannot, nor recall in sooth, For wit and language fail to reach the truth!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXVI.

Liete e pensose, accompagnate e sole.

NOT FINDING HER WITH HER FRIENDS, HE ASKS THEM WHY SHE IS ABSENT.

P. Pensive and glad, accompanied, alone, Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay, Where does my life, where does my death delay? Why not with you her form, as usual, shown? L. Glad are we her rare lustre to have known, And sad from her dear company to stay, Which jealousy and envy keep away O'er other's bliss, as their own ill who moan. P. Who lovers can restrain, or give them law? L. No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame; As erst in us, this now in her appears. As oft the face, betrays the heart, we saw Clouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came, And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXVII.

Quando 'l sol bagna in mur l' aurato carro.

HIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENT.

When in the sea sinks the sun's golden light, And on my mind and nature darkness lies, With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skies I pass a weary and a painful night: To her who hears me not I then rehearse My sad life's fruitless toils, early and late; And with the world and with my gloomy fate, With Love, with Laura and myself, converse. Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose, But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns, And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds; Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows, But not my soul; the sun which in it burns Alone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.

NOTT.

When Phoebus lashes to the western main His fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air; Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care; Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain. Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vain To heedless beings all those pangs I bear; Of the false world, of an unpitying fair, Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain! From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray, Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye; And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh. Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day, But cheers not me--for to my sorrowing heart One sun alone can cheering light impart!

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CLXXVIII.

S' una fede amorosa, un cor non finto.

THE MISERY OF HIS LOVE.

If faith most true, a heart that cannot feign, If Love's sweet languishment and chasten'd thought, And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught, If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain, If on the brow each pang pourtray'd to bear, Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw, Withheld by shame, or check'd by pious awe, If on the faded cheek Love's hue to wear, If than myself to hold one far more dear, If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow, Wrung from the heart by all Love's various woe, In absence if consumed, and chill'd when near,-- If these be ills in which I waste my prime, Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime.

DACRE.

If fondest faith, a heart to guile unknown, By melting languors the soft wish betray'd; If chaste desires, with temper'd warmth display'd; If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone; If every thought in every feature shown, Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey'd, As fear or shame my pallid cheek array'd In violet hues, with Love's thick blushes strown; If more than self another to hold dear; If still to weep and heave incessant sighs, To feed on passion, or in grief to pine, To glow when distant, and to freeze when near,-- If hence my bosom's anguish takes its rise, Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CLXXXIX.

Dodici donne onestamente lasse.

HAPPY WHO STEERED THE BOAT, OR DROVE THE CAR, WHEREIN SHE SAT AND SANG.

Twelve ladies, their rare toil who lightly bore, Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun, I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon, Whose like the waters never cleaved before: Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore, Whose fatal gold has ev'ry heart now won, Nor such the shepherd boy's, by whom undone Troy mourns, whose fame has pass'd the wide world o'er. I saw them next on a triumphal car, Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, aside My Laura sate and to them sweetly sung. Things not of earth to man such visions are! Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guide The bark, or car of band so bright and young.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXC

Passer mai solitario in alcun tetto.

FAR FROM HIS BELOVED, LIFE IS MISERABLE BY NIGHT AS BY DAY.

Never was bird, spoil'd of its young, more sad, Or wild beast in his lair more lone than me, Now that no more that lovely face I see, The only sun my fond eyes ever had. In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight: My food to poison turns, to grief my joy; The night is torture, dark the clearest sky, And my lone pillow a hard field of fight. Sleep is indeed, as has been well express'd. Akin to death, for it the heart removes From the dear thought in which alone I live. Land above all with plenty, beauty bless'd! Ye flowery plains, green banks and shady groves! Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCI.

Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespe.

HE ENVIES THE BREEZE WHICH SPORTS WITH HER, THE STREAM THAT FLOWS TOWARDS HER.

Ye laughing gales, that sporting with my fair, The silky tangles of her locks unbraid; And down her breast their golden treasures spread; Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair, You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bear The flaming darts by which my heart has bled; My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray'd To seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear. Methinks she's found--but oh! 'tis fancy's cheat! Methinks she's seen--but oh! 'tis love's deceit! Methinks she's near--but truth cries "'tis not so!" Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell! Go happy stream, and to my Laura tell What envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!

ANON. 1777.

Thou gale, that movest, and disportest round Those bright crisp'd locks, by them moved sweetly too, That all their fine gold scatter'st to the view, Then coil'st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound; About those eyes thou playest, where abound The am'rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew! And I my treasure tremblingly pursue, Like some scared thing that stumbles o'er the ground. Methinks I find her now, and now perceive She's distant; now I soar, and now descend; Now what I wish, now what is true believe. Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam; And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream, Why can't I change my course, and thine attend?

NOTT.

SONNET CXCII.

Amor con la man destra il lato manco.

UNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVE.

My poor heart op'ning with his puissant hand, Love planted there, as in its home, to dwell A Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might well In rivalry with proudest emeralds stand: Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd, Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell, It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell, Unparallel'd in any age or land. Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace, The chastest beauty in celestial frame,-- These be the roots whence birth so noble came. Such ever in my mind her form I trace, A happy burden and a holy thing, To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIII.

Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza.

THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.

I sang, who now lament; nor less delight Than in my song I found, in tears I find; For on the cause and not effect inclined, My senses still desire to scale that height: Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite, Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind, All I endure, nor care what weights they bind, E'en though her rage would break my armour quite. Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join, And still pursue their usual course for me, I care not, if unblest, in life to be. Let me or burn to death or living pine, No gentler state than mine beneath the sun, Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIV.

I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume.

AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.

I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light That living sun conceals not from my view, But virtuous love therein revealeth true His holy purposes and precious might; Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs To shorten of my life the friendless course, Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force To forward mine escape, nor even wings. But so profound and of so full a vein My suff'ring is, so far its shore appears, Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive: Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain, But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears, And checks my grief and wills me to survive.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCV.

I' mi vivea di mia sorte contento.

HE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHT.

I lived so tranquil, with my lot content, No sorrow visited, nor envy pined, To other loves if fortune were more kind One pang of mine their thousand joys outwent; But those bright eyes, whence never I repent The pains I feel, nor wish them less to find, So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind, Seems as my sun of life in them were spent. O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern, Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds, Such lovely things to make and mar in turn? True, from one living fount all power proceeds: But how couldst Thou consent, great God of Heaven, That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCVI.

Vincitore Alessandro l' ira vinse.

THE EVIL RESULTS OF UNRESTRAINED ANGER.

What though the ablest artists of old time Left us the sculptured bust, the imaged form Of conq'ring Alexander, wrath o'ercame And made him for the while than Philip less? Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus drove That dying he devour'd his slaughter'd foe; Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye, But blind to all, and kill'd him in the end. Well Valentinian knew that to such pain Wrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought. Strong against many, 'gainst himself at last. Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain'd, Long madness, which its master often leads To shame and crime, and haply e'en to death.

ANON.

SONNET CXCVII.

Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno.

HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.

Strange, passing strange adventure! when from one Of the two brightest eyes which ever were, Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim, Moved influence which my own made dull and weak. I had return'd, to break the weary fast Of seeing her, my sole care in this world, Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'en If all their other gifts together join'd, When from the right eye--rather the right sun-- Of my dear Lady to my right eye came The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes; As if it intellect possess'd and wings It pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky: Nature and pity then pursued their course.

ANON.

SONNET CXCVIII.

O cameretta che già fosti un porto.

HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.

Thou little chamber'd haven to the woes Whose daily tempest overwhelms my soul! From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control; Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows. My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose, 'Mid sorrows vast--Love's iv'ried hand hath stole Griefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll, That hand which good on all but me bestows. Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly, But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuit On pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport: The multitude I did so long defy, Now as my hope and refuge I salute, So much I tremble solitude to court.

WOLLASTON.

Room! which to me hast been a port and shield From life's rude daily tempests for long years, Now the full fountain of my nightly tears Which in the day I bear for shame conceal'd: Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yield Comfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fears Love o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears, Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd. But e'en than solitude and rest, I flee More from myself and melancholy thought, In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown. The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me, Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought, Such fear have I to find myself alone!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIX.

Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov' io non voglio.

HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO MUCH.

Alas! Love bears me where I would not go, And well I see how duty is transgress'd, And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast, More than my wont importunate I grow. Never from rocks wise sailor guarded so His ship of richest merchandise possess'd, As evermore I shield my bark distress'd From shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrow Torrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs --For, in my sea, nights horrible and dark And pitiless winter reign--have driven my bark, Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies, Or, drifting at the mercy of the main, Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CC.

Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire.

HE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR HIM.

O Love, I err, and I mine error own, As one who burns, whose fire within him lies And aggravates his grief, while reason dies, With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown. I strove mine ardent longing to restrain, Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb: I can no more; falls from my hand the curb, And my despairing soul is bold again; Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim, The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so, No way too rough or steep for her to go: But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blame Shrined in herself: let her at least feel this, Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA VII.

Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde.

HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED.

Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves, Not overhead, where circles the pale moon, Were stars so numerous ever seen by night, Nor dwell so many birds among the woods, Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill, As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.

Each day I hope that this my latest eve Shall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves, And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill; So many torments man beneath the moon Ne'er bore as I have borne; this know the woods Through which I wander lonely day and night.

For never have I had a tranquil night, But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve, Since love first made me tenant of the woods: The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves, The sun his light shall borrow from the moon, And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill.

Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill, Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night, No one state mine, but changeful as the moon; And when I see approaching the brown eve, Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves, The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.

Hostile the cities, friendly are the woods To thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill, Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves, Through the sweet silence of the spangled night, So that the livelong day I wait the eve, When the sun sets and rises the fair moon.

Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon, That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods, And that ere vesper she who makes my eve, With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill, Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night, While stood the sun nor sought his western waves.

Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon, Song, that art born of night amid the woods, Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve!

MACGREGOR.

Count the ocean's finny droves; Count the twinkling host of stars. Round the night's pale orb that moves; Count the groves' wing'd choristers; Count each verdant blade that grows; Counted then will be my woes.

When shall these eyes cease to weep; When shall this world-wearied frame, Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?-- Sure, beneath yon planet's beam, None like me have made such moan; This to every bower is known.

Sad my nights; from morn till eve, Tenanting the woods, I sigh: But, ere I shall cease to grieve, Ocean's vast bed shall be dry, Suns their light from moons shall gain. And spring wither on each plain.

Pensive, weeping, night and day, From this shore to that I fly, Changeful as the lunar ray; And, when evening veils the sky, Then my tears might swell the floods, Then my sighs might bow the woods!

Towns I hate, the shades I love; For relief to yon green height, Where the rill resounds, I rove At the grateful calm of night; There I wait the day's decline, For the welcome moon to shine.

Oh, that in some lone retreat, Like Endymion I were lain; And that she, who rules my fate, There one night to stay would deign; Never from his billowy bed More might Phoebus lift his head!

Song, that on the wood-hung stream In the silent hour wert born, Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam. Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn, Thou shalt seek a glorious plain, There with Laura to remain!

DACRE.

SESTINA VIII.

Là ver l' aurora, che sì dolce l' aura.

SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS.

When music warbles from each thorn, And Zephyr's dewy wings Sweep the young flowers; what time the morn Her crimson radiance flings: Then, as the smiling year renews, I feel renew'd Love's tender pain; Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain; And I for comfort court the weeping muse.

Oh! could my sighs in accents flow So musically lorn, That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe, And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn: Yet, ere within thy icy breast The smallest spark of passion's found, Winter's cold temples shall be bound With all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.

The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye, The love-impassion'd strain To move thy flinty bosom try Full oft;--but, ah! in vain Would tears, and melting song avail; As vainly might the silken breeze, That bends the flowers, that fans the trees, Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail.

Both gods and men alike are sway'd By Love, as poets tell;-- And I, when flowers in every shade Their bursting gems reveal, First felt his all-subduing power: While Laura knows not yet the smart; Nor heeds the tortures of my heart, My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower!

Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear, While life shall warm this clay; And soothing sounds to Laura's ear My numbers shall convey; Numbers with forceful magic charm All nature o'er the frost-bound earth, Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth, And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm.

The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest, Now laughs his purple plain; And shall the nymph a foe profest To tenderness remain? But oh! what solace shall I find, If fortune dooms me yet to bear The frowns of my relentless Fair, Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind? In baffling nets the light-wing'd gale I'd fetter as it blows, The vernal rose that scents the vale I'd cull on wintery snows; Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to move Which dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love.

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CCI.

Real natura, angelico intelletto.

ON THE KISS OF HONOUR GIVEN BY CHARLES OF LUXEMBURG TO LAURA AT A BANQUET.

A kingly nature, an angelic mind, A spotless soul, prompt aspect and keen eye, Quick penetration, contemplation high And truly worthy of the breast which shrined: In bright assembly lovely ladies join'd To grace that festival with gratulant joy, Amid so many and fair faces nigh Soon his good judgment did the fairest find. Of riper age and higher rank the rest Gently he beckon'd with his hand aside, And lovingly drew near the perfect ONE: So courteously her eyes and brow he press'd, All at his choice in fond approval vied-- Envy through my sole veins at that sweet freedom run.

MACGREGOR.

A sovereign nature,--an exalted mind,-- A soul proud--sleepless--with a lynx's eye,-- An instant foresight,--thought as towering high, E'en as the heart in which they are enshrined: A bright assembly on that day combined Each other in his honour to outvie, When 'mid the fair his judgment did descry That sweet perfection all to her resign'd. Unmindful of her rival sisterhood, He motion'd silently his preference, And fondly welcomed her, that humblest one: So pure a kiss he gave, that all who stood, Though fair, rejoiced in beauty's recompense: By that strange act nay heart was quite undone!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CCII.

I' ho pregato Amor, e nel riprego.

HE PLEADS THE EXCESS OF HIS PASSION IN PALLIATION OF HIS FAULT.

Oft have I pray'd to Love, and still I pray, My charming agony, my bitter joy! That he would crave your grace, if consciously From the right path my guilty footsteps stray. That Reason, which o'er happier minds holds sway, Is quell'd of Appetite, I not deny; And hence, through tracks my better thoughts would fly, The victor hurries me perforce away, You, in whose bosom Genius, Virtue reign With mingled blaze lit by auspicious skies-- Ne'er shower'd kind star its beams on aught so rare! You, you should say with pity, not disdain; "How could he 'scape, lost wretch! these lightning eyes-- So passionate he, and I so direly fair?"

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CCIII.

L' alto signor, dinanzi a cui non vale.

HIS SORROW FOR THE ILLNESS OF LAURA INCREASES, NOT LESSENS, HIS FLAME.

The sovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no avail Concealment, or resistance is, or flight, My mind had kindled to a new delight By his own amorous and ardent ail: Though his first blow, transfixing my best mail Were mortal sure, to push his triumph quite He took a shaft of sorrow in his right, So my soft heart on both sides to assail. A burning wound the one shed fire and flame, The other tears, which ever grief distils, Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills. But no relief from either fountain came My bosom's conflagration to abate, Nay, passion grew by very pity great.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCIV.

Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago.

HE BIDS HIS HEART RETURN TO LAURA, NOT PERCEIVING THAT IT HAD NEVER LEFT HER.

P. Look on that hill, my fond but harass'd heart! Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to take Some care of us and friendlier looks to dart; Now from our eyes she draws a very lake: Return alone--I love to be apart-- Try, if perchance the day will ever break To mitigate our still increasing smart, Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache. H. O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell, Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget, Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet? When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell, Thou didst depart alone: it stay'd with her, Nor cares from those bright eyes, its home, to stir.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCV.

Fresco ambroso fiorito e verde colle.

HE CONGRATULATES HIS HEART ON ITS REMAINING WITH HER.

O hill with green o'erspread, with groves o'erhung! Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay, Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say, Sits she by fame through every region sung: My heart, which wisely unto her has clung-- More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay! Notes now the turf o'er which her soft steps stray, Now where her angel-eyes' mild beam is flung; Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove, "Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot, Doom'd but to taste the bitterness of love!" She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not: Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove-- O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!

WRANGHAM.

Fresh, shaded hill! with flowers and verdure crown'd, Where, in fond musings, or with music sweet, To earth a heaven-sent spirit takes her seat! She who from all the world has honour found. Forsaking me, to her my fond heart bound --Divorce for aye were welcome as discreet-- Notes where the turf is mark'd by her fair feet, Or from these eyes for her in sorrow drown'd, Then inly whispers as her steps advance, "Would for awhile that wreteh were here alone Who pines already o'er his bitter lot." She conscious smiles. Not equal is the chance; An Eden thou, while I a heartless stone. O holy, happy, and beloved spot!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCVI.

Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggio.

TO A FRIEND, IN LOVE LIKE HIMSELF, HE CAN GIVE NO ADVICE BUT TO RAISE HIS SOUL TO GOD.

Evil oppresses me and worse dismay, To which a plain and ample way I find; Driven like thee by frantic passion, blind, Urged by harsh thoughts I bend like thee my way. Nor know I if for war or peace to pray: To war is ruin, shame to peace, assign'd. But wherefore languish thus?--Rather, resign'd, Whate'er the Will Supreme ordains, obey. However ill that honour me beseem By thee conferr'd, whom that affection cheats Which many a perfect eye to error sways, To raise thy spirit to that realm supreme My counsel is, and win those blissful seats: For short the time, and few the allotted days.

CAPEL LOFFT.

The bad oppresses me, the worse dismays, To which so broad and plain a path I see; My spirit, to like frenzy led with thee, Tried by the same hard thoughts, in dotage strays, Nor knows if peace or war of God it prays, Though great the loss and deep the shame to me. But why pine longer? Best our lot will be, What Heaven's high will ordains when man obeys. Though I of that great honour worthless prove Offer'd by thee--herein Love leads to err Who often makes the sound eye to see wrong-- My counsel this, instant on Heaven above Thy soul to elevate, thy heart to spur, For though the time be short, the way is long.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCVII.

Due rose fresche, e colte in paradiso.

THE TWO ROSES.

Two brilliant roses, fresh from Paradise, Which there, on May-day morn, in beauty sprung Fair gift, and by a lover old and wise Equally offer'd to two lovers young: At speech so tender and such winning guise, As transports from a savage might have wrung, A living lustre lit their mutual eyes, And instant on their cheeks a soft blush hung. The sun ne'er look'd upon a lovelier pair, With a sweet smile and gentle sigh he said, Pressing the hands of both and turn'd away. Of words and roses each alike had share. E'en now my worn heart thrill with joy and dread, O happy eloquence! O blessed day!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCVIII.

L' aura che 'l verde Lauro e l' aureo crine.

HE PRAYS THAT HE MAY DIE BEFORE LAURA.

The balmy gale, that, with its tender sigh, Moves the green laurel and the golden hair, Makes with its graceful visitings and rare The gazer's spirit from his body fly. A sweet and snow-white rose in hard thorns set! Where in the world her fellow shall we find? The glory of our age! Creator kind! Grant that ere hers my death shall first be met. So the great public loss I may not see, The world without its sun, in darkness left, And from my desolate eyes their sole light reft, My mind with which no other thoughts agree, Mine ears which by no other sound are stirr'd Except her ever pure and gentle word.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCIX.

Parrà forse ad alcun, che 'n lodar quella.

HE INVITES THOSE TO WHOM HIS PRAISES SEEM EXCESSIVE TO BEHOLD THE OBJECT OF THEM.

Haply my style to some may seem too free In praise of her who holds my being's chain, Queen of her sex describing her to reign, Wise, winning, good, fair, noble, chaste to be: To me it seems not so; I fear that she My lays as low and trifling may disdain, Worthy a higher and a better strain; --Who thinks not with me let him come and see. Then will he say, She whom his wishes seek Is one indeed whose grace and worth might tire The muses of all lands and either lyre. But mortal tongue for state divine is weak, And may not soar; by flattery and force, As Fate not choice ordains, Love rules its course.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCX.

Chi vuol veder quantunque può Natura.

WHOEVER BEHOLDS HER MUST ADMIT THAT HIS PRAISES CANNOT REACH HER PERFECTION.

Who wishes to behold the utmost might Of Heaven and Nature, on her let him gaze, Sole sun, not only in my partial lays, But to the dark world, blind to virtue's light! And let him haste to view; for death in spite The guilty leaves, and on the virtuous preys; For this loved angel heaven impatient stays; And mortal charms are transient as they're bright! Here shall he see, if timely he arrive, Virtue and beauty, royalty of mind, In one bless'd union join'd. Then shall he say That vainly my weak rhymes to praise her strive, Whose dazzling beams have struck my genius blind:-- He must for ever weep if he delay!

CHARLEMONT.

Stranger, whose curious glance delights to trace What Heaven and Nature join'd to frame most rare; Here view mine eyes' bright sun--a sight so fair, That purblind worlds, like me, enamour'd gaze. But speed thy step; for Death with rapid pace Pursues the best, nor makes the bad his care: Call'd to the skies through yon blue fields of air, On buoyant plume the mortal grace obeys. Then haste, and mark in one rich form combined (And, for that dazzling lustre dimm'd mine eye, Chide the weak efforts of my trembling lay) Each charm of person, and each power of mind-- But, slowly if thy lingering foot comply, Grief and repentant shame shall mourn the brief delay.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CCXI.

Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente.

MELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGES.

O Laura! when my tortured mind The sad remembrance bears Of that ill-omen'd day, When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears, I left my soul behind, That soul that could not from its partner stray; In nightly visions to my longing eyes Thy form oft seems to rise, As ever thou wert seen, Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen, But loosely in the wind, Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair, That late with studious care, I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined: On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears; Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears; Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief, As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief! Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deign To hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain!

WOODHOUSELEE.

What dread I feel when I revolve the day I left my mistress, sad, without repose, My heart too with her: and my fond thought knows Nought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay. Again my fancy doth her form portray Meek among beauty's train, like to some rose Midst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows; Not with misfortune prest but with dismay. Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness, Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire, Her song, her laughter, and her mild address; Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love: Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings dire Raise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove!

NOTT.

SONNET CCXII.

Solea lontana in sonno consolarme.

SHE ANNOUNCES TO HIM, IN A VISION, THAT HE WILL NEVER SEE HER MORE.

To soothe me distant far, in days gone by, With dreams of one whose glance all heaven combined, Was mine; now fears and sorrow haunt my mind, Nor can I from that grief, those terrors fly: For oft in sleep I mark within her eye Deep pity with o'erwhelming sadness join'd; And oft I seem to hear on every wind Accents, which from my breast chase peace and joy. "That last dark eve," she cries, "remember'st thou, When to those doting eyes I bade farewell, Forced by the time's relentless tyranny? I had not then the power, nor heart to tell, What thou shalt find, alas! too surely true-- Hope not again on earth thy Laura's face to see."

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CCXIII.

O misera ed orribil visione.

HE CANNOT BELIEVE IN HER DEATH, BUT IF TRUE, HE PRAYS GOD TO TAKE HIM ALSO FROM LIFE.

O misery! horror! can it, then, be true, That the sweet light before its time is spent, 'Mid all its pains which could my life content, And ever with fresh hopes of good renew? If so, why sounds not other channels through, Nor only from herself, the great event? No! God and Nature could not thus consent, And my dark fears are groundless and undue. Still it delights my heart to hope once more The welcome sight of that enchanting face, The glory of our age, and life to me. But if, to her eternal home to soar, That heavenly spirit have left her earthly place, Oh! then not distant may my last day be!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXIV.

In dubbio di mio stato, or piango, or canto.

TO HIS LONGING TO SEE HER AGAIN IS NOW ADDED THE FEAR OF SEEING HER NO MORE.

Uncertain of my state, I weep and sing, I hope and tremble, and with rhymes and sighs I ease my load, while Love his utmost tries How worse my sore afflicted heart to sting. Will her sweet seraph face again e'er bring Their former light to these despairing eyes. (What to expect, alas! or how advise) Or must eternal grief my bosom wring? For heaven, which justly it deserves to win, It cares not what on earth may be their fate, Whose sun it was, where centred their sole gaze. Such terror, so perpetual warfare in, Changed from my former self, I live of late As one who midway doubts, and fears and strays.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXV.

O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte.

HE SIGHS FOR THOSE GLANCES FROM WHICH, TO HIS GRIEF, FORTUNE EVER DELIGHTS TO WITHDRAW HIM.

O angel looks! O accents of the skies! Shall I or see or hear you once again? O golden tresses, which my heart enchain, And lead it forth, Love's willing sacrifice! O face of beauty given in anger's guise, Which still I not enjoy, and still complain! O dear delusion! O bewitching pain! Transports, at once my punishment and prize! If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam (Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside) Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow; Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried, Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam; Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe.

WRANGHAM.

O gentle looks! O words of heavenly sound! Shall I behold you, hear you once again? O waving locks, that Love has made the chain, In which this wretched ruin'd heart is bound! O face divine! whose magic spells surround My soul, distemper'd with unceasing pain: O dear deceit! O loving errors vain! To hug the dart and doat upon the wound! Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic light My life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find, Ever impart a pure unmixed delight? Or if they have one moment, then unkind Fortune steps in, and sends me from their sight, And gives my opening pleasures to the wind.

MOREHEAD.

SONNET CCXVI.

I' pur ascolto, e non odo novella.

HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR.

Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait, Of that sweet enemy I love so well: What now to think or say I cannot tell, 'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate: The beautiful are still the marks of fate; And sure her worth and beauty most excel: What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwell Where virtue finds a more congenial state? If so, she will illuminate that sphere Even as a sun: but I--'tis done with me! I then am nothing, have no business here! O cruel absence! why not let me see The worst? my little tale is told, I fear, My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.

MOREHEAD.

No tidings yet--I listen, but in vain; Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe, What or to think or say I nothing know, So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain, Danger to some has in their beauty lain; Fairer and chaster she than others show; God haply seeks to snatch from earth below Virtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain, Or rather sun. If what I dread be nigh, My life, its trials long, its brief repose Are ended all. O cruel absence! why Didst thou remove me from the menaced woes? My short sad story is already done, And midway in its course my vain race run.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXVII.

La sera desiar, odiar l' aurora.

CONTRARY TO THE WONT OF LOVERS, HE PREFERS MORN TO EVE.

Tranquil and happy loves in this agree, The evening to desire and morning hate: On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait-- Morning is still the happier hour for me. For then my sun and Nature's oft I see Opening at once the orient's rosy gate, So match'd in beauty and in lustre great, Heaven seems enamour'd of our earth to be! As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burst Whose roots have since so centred in my core, Another than myself is cherish'd more. Thus the two hours contrast, day's last and first: Reason it is who calms me to desire, And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXVIII.

Far potess' io vendetta di colei.

HIS SOUL VISITS HER IN SLEEP.

Oh! that from her some vengeance I could wrest With words and glances who my peace destroys, And then abash'd, for my worse sorrow, flies, Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest; Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress'd By sure degrees she sorely drains and dries, And in my heart, as savage lion, cries Even at night, when most I should have rest. My soul, which sleep expels from his abode, The body leaves, and, from its trammels free, Seeks her whose mien so often menace show'd. I marvel much, if heard its advent be, That while to her it spake, and o'er her wept, And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXIX.

In quel bel viso, ch' i' sospiro e bramo.

ON LAURA PUTTING HER HAND BEFORE HER EYES WHILE HE WAS GAZING ON HER.

On the fair face for which I long and sigh Mine eyes were fasten'd with desire intense. When, to my fond thoughts, Love, in best reply, Her honour'd hand uplifting, shut me thence. My heart there caught--as fish a fair hook by, Or as a young bird on a limèd fence-- For good deeds follow from example high, To truth directed not its busied sense. But of its one desire my vision reft, As dreamingly, soon oped itself a way, Which closed, its bliss imperfect had been left: My soul between those rival glories lay, Fill'd with a heavenly and new delight, Whose strange surpassing sweets engross'd it quite.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXX.

Vive faville uscian de' duo bei lumi.

A SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOY.

Live sparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes, So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd, And softly from a feeling heart and wise, Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd: Even the memory serves to wake my sighs When I recall that day so glad esteem'd, And in my heart its sinking spirit dies As some late grace her colder wont redeem'd. My soul in pain and grief that most has been (How great the power of constant habit is!) Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean: For at the sole taste of unusual bliss, Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope, Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXI.

Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita.

THINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFT.

Still have I sought a life of solitude; The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind; That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind, Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good: Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued, These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind, Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find; And sing and weep in concert with its flood. But Fortune, ever my sore enemy, Compels my steps, where I with sorrow see Cast my fair treasure in a worthless soil: Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove, For once, to me, to Laura, and to love; Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.

NOTT.

Still have I sought a life of solitude-- This know the rivers, and each wood and plain-- That I might 'scape the blind and sordid train Who from the path have flown of peace and good: Could I my wish obtain, how vainly would This cloudless climate woo me to remain; Sorga's embowering woods I'd seek again, And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood. But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me, Compels me where I must, indignant, find Amid the mire my fairest treasure thrown: Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, she Now proves herself, at least for once, more kind, Since--but alone to Love and Laura be it known.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXII.

In tale Stella duo begli occhi vidi.

THE BEAUTY OF LAURA IS PEERLESS.

In one fair star I saw two brilliant eyes, With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o'er, That soon those graceful nests of Love before My worn heart learnt all others to despise: Equall'd not her whoever won the prize In ages gone on any foreign shore; Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty bore Unnumber'd ills, to Troy death's anguish'd cries: Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless blade Piercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fled Dishonour worse than death, like charms display'd; Such excellence should brightest glory shed On Nature, as on me supreme delight, But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXIII.

Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama.

THE EYES OF LAURA ARE THE SCHOOL OF VIRTUE.

Feels any fair the glorious wish to gain Of sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise? On those bright eyes attentive let her gaze Of her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe. Honour to gain, with love of God to glow, Virtue more bright how native grace displays, May there be learn'd; and by what surest ways To heaven, that for her coming pants, to go. The converse sweet, beyond what poets write, Is there; the winning silence, and the meek And saint-like manners man would paint in vain. The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight, Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seek By art, what by kind chance alone we gain.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET CCXXIV.

Cara la vita, e dopo lei mi pare.

HONOUR TO BE PREFERRED TO LIFE.

Methinks that life in lovely woman first, And after life true honour should be dear; Nay, wanting honour--of all wants the worst-- Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here. And who, alas! has honour's barrier burst, Unsex'd and dead, though fair she yet appear, Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst, A lingering death, where all is dark and drear. To me no marvel was Lucretia's end, Save that she needed, when that last disgrace Alone sufficed to kill, a sword to die. Sophists in vain the contrary defend: Their arguments are feeble all and base, And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXV.

Arbor vittoriosa e trionfale.

HE EXTOLS THE VIRTUE OF LAURA.

Tree, victory's bright guerdon, wont to crown Heroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf, How many days of mingled joy and grief Have I from thee through life's short passage known. Lady, who, reckless of the world's renown, Reapest in virtue's field fair honour's sheaf; Nor fear'st Love's limed snares, "that subtle thief," While calm discretion on his wiles looks down. The pride of birth, with all that here we deem Most precious, gems and gold's resplendent grace. Abject alike in thy regard appear: Nay, even thine own unrivall'd beauties beam No charm to thee--save as their circling blaze Clasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold'st most dear.

WRANGHAM.

Blest laurel! fadeless and triumphant tree! Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride! How much of joy and sorrow's changing tide In my short breath hath been awaked by thee! Lady, the will's sweet sovereign! thou canst see No bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside; Love's chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride; From man's deceit thy wisdom sets thee free. Birth's native pride, and treasure's precious store, (Whose bright possession we so fondly hail) To thee as burthens valueless appear: Thy beauty's excellence--(none viewed before) Thy soul had wearied--but thou lov'st the veil, That shrine of purity adorneth here.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE XXI.

I' vo pensando, e nel pensier m' assale.

SELF-CONFLICT.

Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought So strong a pity for myself appears, That often it has brought My harass'd heart to new yet natural tears; Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh, Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wings With which the spirit springs, Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high; But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh, Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain: And so indeed in justice should it be; Able to stay, who went and fell, that he Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain. But, lo! the tender arms In which I trust are open to me still, Though fears my bosom fill Of others' fate, and my own heart alarms, Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.

One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind-- "What still do you desire, whence succour wait? Ah! wherefore to this great, This guilty loss of time so madly blind? Take up at length, wisely take up your part: Tear every root of pleasure from your heart, Which ne'er can make it blest, Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest. If long ago with tedium and disgust You view'd the false and fugitive delights With which its tools a treacherous world requites, Why longer then repose in it your trust, Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust? While life and vigour stay, The bridle of your thoughts is in your power: Grasp, guide it while you may: So clogg'd with doubt, so dangerous is delay, The best for wise reform is still the present hour.

"Well known to you what rapture still has been Shed on your eyes by the dear sight of her Whom, for your peace it were Better if she the light had never seen; And you remember well (as well you ought) Her image, when, as with one conquering bound, Your heart in prey she caught, Where flame from other light no entrance found. She fired it, and if that fallacious heat Lasted long years, expecting still one day, Which for our safety came not, to repay, It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet, Uplooking to that heaven around your head Immortal, glorious spread; If but a glance, a brief word, an old song, Had here such power to charm Your eager passion, glad of its own harm, How far 'twill then exceed if now the joy so strong."

Another thought the while, severe and sweet, Laborious, yet delectable in scope, Takes in my heart its seat, Filling with glory, feeding it with hope; Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame, It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame, When I am pale or ill, And if I crush it rises stronger still. This, from my helpless cradle, day by day, Has strengthen'd with my strength, grown with my growth, Till haply now one tomb must cover both: When from the flesh the soul has pass'd away, No more this passion comrades it as here; For fame--if, after death, Learning speak aught of me--is but a breath: Wherefore, because I fear Hopes to indulge which the next hour may chase, I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace.

But the third wish which fills and fires my heart O'ershadows all the rest which near it spring: Time, too, dispels a part, While, but for her, self-reckless grown, I sing. And then the rare light of those beauteous eyes, Sweetly before whose gentle heat I melt, As a fine curb is felt, To combat which avails not wit or force; What boots it, trammell'd by such adverse ties, If still between the rocks must lie her course, To trim my little bark to new emprize? Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord, who yet dost keep Me safe and free from common chains, which bind, In different modes, mankind, Deign also from my brow this shame to sweep? For, as one sunk in sleep, Methinks death ever present to my sight, Yet when I would resist I have no arms to fight.

Full well I see my state, in nought deceived By truth ill known, but rather forced by Love, Who leaves not him to move In honour, who too much his grace believed: For o'er my heart from time to time I feel A subtle scorn, a lively anguish, steal, Whence every hidden thought, Where all may see, upon my brow is writ. For with such faith on mortal things to dote, As unto God alone is just and fit, Disgraces worst the prize who covets most: Should reason, amid things of sense, be lost. This loudly calls her to the proper track: But, when she would obey And home return, ill habits keep her back, And to my view portray Her who was only born my death to be, Too lovely in herself, too loved, alas! by me.

I neither know, to me what term of life Heaven destined when on earth I came at first To suffer this sharp strife, 'Gainst my own peace which I myself have nursed, Nor can I, for the veil my body throws, Yet see the time when my sad life may close. I feel my frame begin To fail, and vary each desire within: And now that I believe my parting day Is near at hand, or else not distant lies, Like one whom losses wary make and wise, I travel back in thought, where first the way, The right-hand way, I left, to peace which led. While through me shame and grief, Recalling the vain past on this side spread, On that brings no relief, Passion, whose strength I now from habit, feel, So great that it would dare with death itself to deal.

Song! I am here, my heart the while more cold With fear than frozen snow, Feels in its certain core death's coming blow; For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'd Of my vain life the better portion by: Worse burden surely ne'er Tried mortal man than that which now I bear; Though death be seated nigh, For future life still seeking councils new, I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXVI.

Aspro core e selvaggio, e cruda voglia.

HOPE ALONE SUPPORTS HIM IN HIS MISERY.

Hard heart and cold, a stern will past belief, In angel form of gentle sweet allure; If thus her practised rigour long endure, O'er me her triumph will be poor and brief. For when or spring, or die, flower, herb, and leaf. When day is brightest, night when most obscure, Alway I weep. Great cause from Fortune sure, From Love and Laura have I for my grief. I live in hope alone, remembering still How by long fall of small drops I have seen Marble and solid stone that worn have been. No heart there is so hard, so cold no will, By true tears, fervent prayers, and faithful love That will not deign at length to melt and move.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXVII.

Signor mio caro, ogni pensier mi tira.

HE LAMENTS HIS ABSENCE FROM LAURA AND COLONNA, THE ONLY OBJECTS OF HIS AFFECTION.

My lord and friend! thoughts, wishes, all inclined My heart to visit one so dear to me, But Fortune--can she ever worse decree?-- Held me in hand, misled, or kept behind. Since then the dear desire Love taught my mind But leads me to a death I did not see, And while my twin lights, wheresoe'er I be, Are still denied, by day and night I've pined. Affection for my lord, my lady's love, The bonds have been wherewith in torments long I have been bound, which round myself I wove. A Laurel green, a Column fair and strong, This for three lustres, that for three years more In my fond breast, nor wish'd it free, I bore.

MACGREGOR.

TO LAURA IN DEATH.

SONNET I.

Oimè il bel viso! oimè il soave sguardo!

ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.

Woe for the 'witching look of that fair face! The port where ease with dignity combined! Woe for those accents, that each savage mind To softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base! And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace, Which now leaves death my only hope behind! Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined, But that too late she came this earth to grace! For you I still must burn, and breathe in you; For I was ever yours; of you bereft, Full little now I reck all other care. With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through, When last my only joy on earth I left:-- But caught by winds each word was lost in air.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Alas! that touching glance, that beauteous face! Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught! Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought! That roused the coward, glory to embrace! Alas! that smile which in me did encase That fatal dart, whence here I hope for nought-- Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought, The world had then confess'd thy sovereign grace! In thee I breathed, life's flame was nursed by thee, For I was thine; and since of thee bereaved, Each other woe hath lost its venom'd sting: My soul's blest joy! when last thy voice on me In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived; Alas! thy words have sped on zephyrs' wings!

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE I.

Che debb' io far? che mi consigli, Amore?

HE ASKS COUNSEL OF LOVE, WHETHER HE SHOULD FOLLOW LAURA, OR STILL ENDURE EXISTENCE.

What should I do? what, Love, dost thou advise? Full time it is to die: And longer than I wish have I delay'd. My mistress is no more, and with her gone my heart; To follow her, I must need Break short the course of my afflictive years: To view her here below I ne'er can hope; and irksome 'tis to wait. Since that my every joy By her departure unto tears is turn'd, Of all its sweets my life has been deprived.

Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore to thee I plain, How grievous is my loss; I know my sorrows grieve and weigh thee down, E'en as our common cause: for on one rock We both have wreck'd our bark; And in one instant was its sun obscured. What genius can with words Rightly describe my lamentable state? Ah, blind, ungrateful world! Thou hast indeed just cause with me to mourn; That beauty thou didst hold with her is fled!

Fall'n is thy glory, and thou seest it not; Unworthy thou with her, While here she dwelt, acquaintance to maintain. Or to be trodden by her saintly feet; For that, which is so fair, Should with its presence decorate the skies But I, a wretch who, reft Of her, prize nor myself nor mortal life, Recall her with my tears: This only of my hope's vast sum remains; And this alone doth still support me here.

Ah, me! her charming face is earth become, Which wont unto our thought To picture heaven and happiness above! Her viewless form inhabits paradise, Divested of that veil, Which shadow'd while below her bloom of life, Once more to put it on, And never then to cast it off again; When so much more divine, And glorious render'd, 'twill by us be view'd, As mortal beauty to eternal yields.

More bright than ever, and a lovelier fair, Before me she appears, Where most she's conscious that her sight will please This is one pillar that sustains my life; The other her dear name, That to my heart sounds so delightfully. But tracing in my mind, That she who form'd my choicest hope is dead E'en in her blossom'd prime; Thou knowest, Love, full well what I become: She I trust sees it too, who dwells with truth.

Ye sweet associates, who admired her charms, Her life angelical, And her demeanour heavenly upon earth For me lament, and be by pity wrought No wise for her, who, risen To so much peace, me has in warfare left; Such, that should any shut The road to follow her, for some length of time, What Love declares to me Alone would check my cutting through the tie; But in this guise he reasons from within:

"The mighty grief transporting thee restrain; For passions uncontroll'd Forfeit that heaven, to which thy soul aspires, Where she is living whom some fancy dead; While at her fair remains She smiles herself, sighing for thee alone; And that her fame, which lives In many a clime hymn'd by thy tongue, may ne'er Become extinct, she prays; But that her name should harmonize thy voice; If e'er her eyes were lovely held, and dear." Fly the calm, green retreat; And ne'er approach where song and laughter dwell, O strain; but wail be thine! It suits thee ill with the glad throng to stay, Thou sorrowing widow wrapp'd in garb of woe.

NOTT.

SONNET II.

Rotta è l' alta Colonna, e 'l verde Lauro.

HE BEWAILS HIS DOUBLE LOSS IN THE DEATHS OF LAURA, AND OF COLONNA.

Fall'n that proud Column, fall'n that Laurel tree, Whose shelter once relieved my wearied mind; I'm reft of what I ne'er again shall find, Though ransack'd every shore and every sea: Double the treasure death has torn from me, In which life's pride was with its pleasure join'd; Not eastern gems, nor the world's wealth combined, Can give it back, nor land, nor royalty. But, if so fate decrees, what can I more, Than with unceasing tears these eyes bedew, Abase my visage, and my lot deplore? Ah, what is life, so lovely to the view! How quickly in one little morn is lost What years have won with labour and with cost!

NOTT.

My laurell'd hope! and thou, Colonna proud! Your broken strength can shelter me no more! Nor Boreas, Auster, Indus, Afric's shore, Can give me that, whose loss my soul hath bow'd: My step exulting, and my joy avow'd, Death now hath quench'd with ye, my heart's twin store; Nor earth's high rule, nor gems, nor gold's bright ore, Can e'er bring back what once my heart endow'd But if this grief my destiny hath will'd, What else can I oppose but tearful eyes, A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell'd? O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill'd, A sunny breath, and that exhaling, dies The hope, oft, many watchful years have swell'd.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE II.

Amor, se vuoi ch' i' torni al giogo antico.

UNLESS LOVE CAN RESTORE HER TO LIFE, HE WILL NEVER AGAIN BE HIS SLAVE.

If thou wouldst have me, Love, thy slave again, One other proof, miraculous and new, Must yet be wrought by you, Ere, conquer'd, I resume my ancient chain-- Lift my dear love from earth which hides her now, For whose sad loss thus beggar'd I remain; Once more with warmth endow That wise chaste heart where wont my life to dwell; And if as some divine, thy influence so, From highest heaven unto the depths of hell, Prevail in sooth--for what its scope below, 'Mid us of common race, Methinks each gentle breast may answer well-- Rob Death of his late triumph, and replace Thy conquering ensign in her lovely face!

Relume on that fair brow the living light, Which was my honour'd guide, and the sweet flame. Though spent, which still the same Kindles me now as when it burn'd most bright; For thirsty hind with such desire did ne'er Long for green pastures or the crystal brook, As I for the dear look, Whence I have borne so much, and--if aright I read myself and passion--more must bear: This makes me to one theme my thoughts thus bind, An aimless wanderer where is pathway none, With weak and wearied mind Pursuing hopes which never can be won. Hence to thy summons answer I disdain, Thine is no power beyond thy proper reign.

Give me again that gentle voice to hear, As in my heart are heard its echoes still, Which had in song the skill Hate to disarm, rage soften, sorrow cheer, To tranquillize each tempest of the mind, And from dark lowering clouds to keep it clear; Which sweetly then refined And raised my verse where now it may not soar. And, with desire that hope may equal vie, Since now my mind is waked in strength, restore Their proper business to my ear and eye, Awanting which life must All tasteless be and harder than to die. Vainly with me to your old power you trust, While my first love is shrouded still in dust.

Give her dear glance again to bless my sight, Which, as the sun on snow, beam'd still for me; Open each window bright Where pass'd my heart whence no return can be; Resume thy golden shafts, prepare thy bow, And let me once more drink with old delight Of that dear voice the sound, Whence what love is I first was taught to know. And, for the lures, which still I covet so, Were rifest, richest there my soul that bound, Waken to life her tongue, and on the breeze Let her light silken hair, Loosen'd by Love's own fingers, float at ease; Do this, and I thy willing yoke will bear, Else thy hope faileth my free will to snare.

Oh! never my gone heart those links of gold, Artlessly negligent, or curl'd with grace, Nor her enchanting face, Sweetly severe, can captive cease to hold; These, night and day, the amorous wish in me Kept, more than laurel or than myrtle, green, When, doff'd or donn'd, we see Of fields the grass, of woods their leafy screen. And since that Death so haughty stands and stern The bond now broken whence I fear'd to flee, Nor thine the art, howe'er the world may turn, To bind anew the chain, What boots it, Love, old arts to try again? Their day is pass'd: thy power, since lost the arms Which were my terror once, no longer harms.

Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall'd, whence Live darts were freely shot of viewless flame; No help from reason came, For against Heaven avails not man's defence; Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense, Modest demeanour, affable discourse, In words of sweetest force Whence every grosser nature gentle grew, That angel air, humble to all and kind, Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find; Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threw Doubt on the gazer's mind To which the meed of highest praise was due-- O'er hardest hearts thy victory was sure, With arms like these, which lost I am secure.

The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign, Haply are bound in many times and ways, But mine one only chain, Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys; Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst. Rather I mournful ask, "Sweet pilgrim mine, Alas! what doom divine Me earliest bound to life yet frees thee first: God, who has snatch'd thee from the world so soon, Only to kindle our desires, the boon Of virtue, so complete and lofty, gave Now, Love, I may deride Thy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave; In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide, When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died.

"Death from thy every law my heart has freed; She who my lady was is pass'd on high, Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by, To solitude and sorrow still decreed."

MACGREGOR.

SONNET III.

L' ardente nodo ov' io fui, d' ora in ora.

ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER LADY.

That burning toil, in which I once was caught, While twice ten years and one I counted o'er, Death has unloosed: like burden I ne'er bore; That grief ne'er fatal proves I now am taught. But Love, who to entangle me still sought, Spread in the treacherous grass his net once more, So fed the fire with fuel as before, That my escape I hardly could have wrought. And, but that my first woes experience gave, Snarèd long since and kindled I had been, And all the more, as I'm become less green: My freedom death again has come to save, And break my bond; that flame now fades, and fails, 'Gainst which nor force nor intellect prevails.

NOTT.

SONNET IV.

La vita fugge, e non s' arresta un' ora.

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE NOW ALIKE PAINFUL TO HIM.

Life passes quick, nor will a moment stay, And death with hasty journeys still draws near; And all the present joins my soul to tear, With every past and every future day: And to look back or forward, so does prey On this distracted breast, that sure I swear, Did I not to myself some pity bear, I were e'en now from all these thoughts away. Much do I muse on what of pleasures past This woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t' oppose My passage, loud the winds around me roar. I see my bliss in port, and torn my mast And sails, my pilot faint with toil, and those Fair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Life ever flies with course that nought may stay, Death follows after with gigantic stride; Ills past and present on my spirit prey, And future evils threat on every side: Whether I backward look or forward fare, A thousand ills my bosom's peace molest; And were it not that pity bids me spare My nobler part, I from these thoughts would rest. If ever aught of sweet my heart has known, Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost, I mark the clouds that o'er my course still frown; E'en in the port I see the storm afar; Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost, And set for ever my fair polar star.

DACRE.

SONNET V.

Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi.

HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO GOD, AND TO ABANDON THE VANITIES OF EARTH.

What dost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eye Back on the time that never shall return? The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn, Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply? Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky, Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn, Are fled; and--well thou knowest, poor forlorn!-- To seek them here were bootless industry. Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew; To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease: Thou rather that unwavering good pursue, Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please. Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view, Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET VI.

Datemi pace, o duri miei pensieri.

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BESIEGED CITY, AND ACCUSES HIS OWN HEART OF TREASON.

O tyrant thoughts, vouchsafe me some repose! Sufficeth not that Love, and Death, and Fate, Make war all round me to my very gate, But I must in me armèd hosts enclose? And thou, my heart, to me alone that shows Disloyal still, what cruel guides of late In thee find shelter, now the chosen mate Of my most mischievous and bitter foes? Love his most secret embassies in thee, In thee her worst results hard Fate explains, And Death the memory of that blow, to me Which shatters all that yet of hope remains; In thee vague thoughts themselves with error arm, And thee alone I blame for all my harm.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET VII.

Occhi miei, oscurato è 'l nostro sole.

HE ENDEAVOURS TO FIND PEACE IN THE THOUGHT THAT SHE IS IN HEAVEN.

Mine eyes! our glorious sun is veil'd in night, Or set to us, to rise 'mid realms of love; There we may hail it still, and haply prove It mourn'd that we delay'd our heavenward flight. Mine ears! the music of her tones delight Those, who its harmony can best approve; My feet! who in her track so joy'd to move. Ye cannot penetrate her regions bright! But wherefore should your wrath on me descend? No spell of mine hath hush'd for ye the joy Of seeing, hearing, feeling, she was near: Go, war with Death--yet, rather let us bend To Him who can create--who can destroy-- And bids the ready smile succeed the tear.

WOLLASTON.

O my sad eyes! our sun is overcast,-- Nay, rather borne to heaven, and there is shining, Waiting our coming, and perchance repining At our delay; there shall we meet at last: And there, mine ears, her angel words float past, Those who best understand their sweet divining; Howe'er, my feet, unto the search inclining, Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast. Why, then, do ye torment me thus, for, oh! It is no fault of mine, that ye no more Behold, and hear, and welcome her below; Blame Death,--or rather praise Him and adore, Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go, And to the weeping one can joy restore.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET VIII.

Poichè la vista angelica serena.

WITH HER, HIS ONLY SOLACE, IS TAKEN AWAY ALL HIS DESIRE OF LIFE.

Since her calm angel face, long beauty's fane, My beggar'd soul by this brief parting throws In darkest horrors and in deepest woes, I seek by uttering to allay my pain. Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain: This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows; No other remedy my poor heart knows Against the troubles that in life obtain. Death! thou hast snatch'd her hence with hand unkind, And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly face Now hidest from me in thy close embrace; Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind, Since she who of mine eyes the light has been, Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET IX.

S' Amor novo consiglio non n' apporta.

HE DESCRIBES HIS SAD STATE.

If Love to give new counsel still delay, My life must change to other scenes than these; My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze, Desire augments while all my hopes decay. Thus ever grows my life, by night and day, Despondent, and dismay'd, and ill at ease, Harass'd and helmless on tempestuous seas, With no sure escort on a doubtful way. Her path a sick imagination guides, Its true light underneath--ah, no! on high, Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye, Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hides Those lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life's span Is measured half, an old and broken man.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET X.

Nell' età sua più bella e più fiorita.

HE DESIRES TO DIE, THAT HIS SOUL MAY BE WITH HER, AS HIS THOUGHTS ALREADY ARE.

E'en in youth's fairest flower, when Love's dear sway Is wont with strongest power our hearts to bind, Leaving on earth her fleshly veil behind, My life, my Laura, pass'd from me away; Living, and fair, and free from our vile clay, From heaven she rules supreme my willing mind: Alas! why left me in this mortal rind That first of peace, of sin that latest day? As my fond thoughts her heavenward path pursue, So may my soul glad, light, and ready be To follow her, and thus from troubles flee. Whate'er delays me as worst loss I rue: Time makes me to myself but heavier grow: Death had been sweet to-day three years ago!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XI.

Se lamentar augelli, o Verdi fronde.

SHE IS EVER PRESENT TO HIM.

If the lorn bird complain, or rustling sweep Soft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow, Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep, Where on the enamell'd bank I sit below With thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow; 'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep! Her, form'd in heaven! I see, and hear, and know! Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep: "Alas," she pitying says, "ere yet the hour, Why hurry life away with swifter flight? Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour? No longer mourn my fate! through death my days Become eternal! to eternal light These eyes, which seem'd in darkness closed, I raise!"

DACRE.

Where the green leaves exclude the summer beam, And softly bend as balmy breezes blow, And where with liquid lapse the lucid stream Across the fretted rock is heard to flow, Pensive I lay: when she whom earth conceals As if still living to my eye appears; And pitying Heaven her angel form reveals To say, "Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears. Ah! why, sad lover, thus before your time In grief and sadness should your life decay, And, like a blighted flower, your manly prime In vain and hopeless sorrow fade away? Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair; But raise thine eyes to heaven and think I wait thee there!"

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

Moved by the summer wind when all is still, The light leaves quiver on the yielding spray; Sighs from its flowery bank the lucid rill, While the birds answer in their sweetest lay. Vain to this sickening heart these scenes appear: No form but hers can meet my tearful eyes; In every passing gale her voice I hear; It seems to tell me, "I have heard thy sighs. But why," she cries, "in manhood's towering prime, In grief's dark mist thy days, inglorious, hide? Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of time Has join'd eternity's unchanging tide? Yes, though I seem'd to shut mine eyes in night, They only closed to wake in everlasting light!"

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET XII.

Mai non fu' in parte ove sì chiar' vedessi.

VAUCLUSE.

Nowhere before could I so well have seen Her whom my soul most craves since lost to view; Nowhere in so great freedom could have been Breathing my amorous lays 'neath skies so blue; Never with depths of shade so calm and green A valley found for lover's sigh more true; Methinks a spot so lovely and serene Love not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew. All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that I Like them should love--the clear sky, the calm hour, Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower-- But thou, beloved, who call'st me from on high, By the sad memory of thine early fate, Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.

MACGREGOR.

Never till now so clearly have I seen Her whom my eyes desire, my soul still views; Never enjoy'd a freedom thus serene; Ne'er thus to heaven breathed my enamour'd muse, As in this vale sequester'd, darkly green; Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues, And nought intrusively may intervene, And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews. To Love and meditation, faithful shade, Receive the breathings of my grateful breast! Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nest As this, by pine and arching laurel made! The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love; Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.

CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET XIII.

Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto.

HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.

How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat From man and from myself I strive to fly, Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat, And swelling every blossom with a sigh! How oft, deep musing on my woes complete, Along the dark and silent glens I lie, In thought again that dearest form to meet By death possess'd, and therefore wish to die! How oft I see her rising from the tide Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood; Or pensive wander by the river's side; Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood; Bright as in life; while angel pity throws O'er her fair face the impress of my woes.

MERIVALE.

SONNET XIV.

Alma felice, che sovente torni.

HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCE.

O blessed spirit! who dost oft return, Ministering comfort to my nights of woe, From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow, Has lit with all the lustres of the morn: How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw! Thus do I seem again to trace below Thy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn. There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell-- Of thee!--oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen. One only solace cheers the wretched scene: By many a sign I know thy coming well-- Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.

WRANGHAM.

When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame, I see thy spirit in the midnight dream; Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam: In all but frail mortality the same. Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free, Methinks I meet thee in each former scene: Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene; Now vocal only while I weep for thee. For thee!--ah, no! From human ills secure. Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day; 'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way: No balm relieves the anguish I endure; Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near To soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET XV.

Discolorato hai, Morte, il più bel volto.

HER PRESENCE IN VISIONS IS HIS ONLY CONSOLATION.

Death, thou of fairest face hast 'reft the hue, And quench'd in deep thick night the brightest eyes, And loosed from all its tenderest, closest ties A spirit to faith and ardent virtue true. In one short hour to all my bliss adieu! Hush'd are those accents worthy of the skies, Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs; And all I hear is grief, and all I view. Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish'd heart, By pity led, she comes my couch to seek, Nor find I other solace here below: And if her thrilling tones my strain could speak And look divine, with Love's enkindling dart Not man's sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.

WRANGHAM.

Thou hast despoil'd the fairest face e'er seen-- Thou hast extinguish'd, Death, the brightest eyes, And snapp'd the cord in sunder of the ties Which bound that spirit brilliantly serene: In one short moment all I love has been Torn from me, and dark silence now supplies Those gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs, Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen: Yet doth my lady, by compassion led, Return to solace my unfailing woe; Earth yields no other balm:--oh! could I tell How bright she seems, and how her accents flow, Not unto man alone Love's flames would spread, But even bears and tigers share the spell.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XVI.

Sì breve è 'l tempo e 'l pensier sì veloce.

THE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CHASES SADNESS FROM HIS HEART.

So brief the time, so fugitive the thought Which Laura yields to me, though dead, again, Small medicine give they to my giant pain; Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought. Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought, Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain, Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign, Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought. As rules a mistress in her home of right, From my dark heavy heart her placid brow Dispels each anxious thought and omen drear. My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light, Says with a sigh: "O blessed day! when thou Didst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!"

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XVII.

Nè mai pietosa madre al caro figlio.

HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF.

Ne'er did fond mother to her darling son, Or zealous spouse to her belovèd mate, Sage counsel give, in perilous estate, With such kind caution, in such tender tone, As gives that fair one, who, oft looking down On my hard exile from her heavenly seat, With wonted kindness bends upon my fate Her brow, as friend or parent would have done: Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear, Instructive speech, that points what several ways To seek or shun, while journeying here below; Then all the ills of life she counts, and prays My soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere: And by her words alone I'm soothed and freed from woe.

NOTT.

Ne'er to the son, in whom her age is blest, The anxious mother--nor to her loved lord The wedded dame, impending ill to ward, With careful sighs so faithful counsel press'd, As she, who, from her high eternal rest, Bending--as though my exile she deplored-- With all her wonted tenderness restored, And softer pity on her brow impress'd! Now with a mother's fears, and now as one Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech She points what to pursue and what to shun! Our years retracing of long, various grief, Wooing my soul at higher good to reach, And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!

DACRE.

SONNET XVIII.

Se quell' aura soave de' sospiri.

SHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICE.

If that soft breath of sighs, which, from above, I hear of her so long my lady here, Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere, To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love, I could but paint, my passionate verse should move Warmest desires; so jealous, yet so dear O'er me she bends and breathes, without a fear, That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove. She points the path on high: and I who know Her chaste anxiety and earnest prayer, In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low, Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there: And find such sweetness in her words alone As with their power should melt the hardest stone.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XIX.

Sennuccio mio, benchè doglioso e solo.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO.

O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here, By thee though left in solitude to roam, Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home, On angel pinions borne, in bright career? Now thou behold'st the ever-turning sphere, And stars that journey round the concave dome; Now thou behold'st how short of truth we come, How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear! That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress'd. O friend! salute from me the laurell'd band, Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest: And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand, Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess'd, While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.

MOREHEAD.

Sennuccio mine! I yet myself console, Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone, For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown, Free from the flesh which did so late enrol; Thence, at one view, commands it either pole, The planets and their wondrous courses known, And human sight how brief and doubtful shown; Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control. One favour--in the third of those bright spheres. Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute, With Franceschin and all that tuneful train, And tell my lady how I live, in tears, (Savage and lonely as some forest brute) Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XX.

I' ho pien di sospir quest' aer tutto.

VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.

To every sound, save sighs, this air is mute, When from rude rocks, I view the smiling land Where she was born, who held my life in hand From its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit: To heaven she's gone, and I'm left destitute To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain Where'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute; There's not a root or stone amongst these hills, Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades, Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows, Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils, Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades, But knows how sharp my grief--how deep my woes.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XXI.

L' alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella.

HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIM.

My noble flame--more fair than fairest are Whom kind Heaven here has e'er in favour shown-- Before her time, alas for me! has flown To her celestial home and parent star. I seem but now to wake; wherein a bar She placed on passion 'twas for good alone, As, with a gentle coldness all her own, She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war. My thanks on her for such wise care I press, That with her lovely face and sweet disdain She check'd my love and taught me peace to gain. O graceful artifice! deserved success! I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she, Glory in her, she virtue got in me.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXII.

Come va 'l mondo! or mi diletta e piace.

HE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUE.

How goes the world! now please me and delight What most displeased me: now I see and feel My trials were vouchsafed me for my weal, That peace eternal should brief war requite. O hopes and wishes, ever fond and slight, In lovers most, which oftener harm than heal! Worse had she yielded to my warm appeal Whom Heaven has welcomed from the grave's dark night. But blind love and my dull mind so misled, I sought to trespass even by main force Where to have won my precious soul were dead. Blessèd be she who shaped mine erring course To better port, by turns who curb'd and lured My bold and passionate will where safety was secured.

MACGREGOR.

Alas! this changing world! my present joy Was once my grief's dark source, and now I feel My sufferings pass'd were but my soul to heal Its fearful warfare--peace's soft decoy. Poor human wishes! Hope, thou fragile toy To lovers oft! my woe had met its seal, Had she but hearken'd to my love's appeal, Who, throned in heaven, hath fled this world's alloy. My blinded love, and yet more stubborn mind, Resistless urged me to my bosom's shame, And where my soul's destruction I had met: But blessèd she who bade life's current find A holier course, who still'd my spirit's flame With gentle hope that soul might triumph yet.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXIII.

Quand' io veggio dal ciel scender l' Aurora.

MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT.

When from the heavens I see Aurora beam, With rosy-tinctured cheek and golden hair, Love bids my face the hue of sadness wear: "There Laura dwells!" I with a sigh exclaim. Thou knowest well the hour that shall redeem, Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued fair; But not to her I love can I repair, Till death extinguishes this vital flame. Yet need'st thou not thy separation mourn; Certain at evening's close is the return Of her, who doth not thy hoar locks despise; But my nights sad, my days are render'd drear, By her, who bore my thoughts to yonder skies, And only a remember'd name left here.

NOTT.

When from the east appears the purple ray Of morn arising, and salutes the eyes That wear the night in watching for the day, Thus speaks my heart: "In yonder opening skies, In yonder fields of bliss, my Laura lies!" Thou sun, that know'st to wheel thy burning car, Each eve, to the still surface of the deep, And there within thy Thetis' bosom sleep; Oh! could I thus my Laura's presence share, How would my patient heart its sorrows bear! Adored in life, and honour'd in the dust, She that in this fond breast for ever reigns Has pass'd the gulph of death!--To deck that bust, No trace of her but the sad name remains.

WOODHOUSELEE.

SONNET XXIV.

Gli occhi di ch' io parlai sì caldamente.

HIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOE.

The eyes, the face, the limbs of heavenly mould, So long the theme of my impassion'd lay, Charms which so stole me from myself away, That strange to other men the course I hold; The crispèd locks of pure and lucid gold, The lightning of the angelic smile, whose ray To earth could all of paradise convey, A little dust are now!--to feeling cold! And yet I live!--but that I live bewail, Sunk the loved light that through the tempest led My shatter'd bark, bereft of mast and sail: Hush'd be for aye the song that breathed love's fire! Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed, And turn'd to mourning my once tuneful lyre.

DACRE.

The eyes, the arms, the hands, the feet, the face, Which made my thoughts and words so warm and wild, That I was almost from myself exiled, And render'd strange to all the human race; The lucid locks that curl'd in golden grace, The lightening beam that, when my angel smiled, Diffused o'er earth an Eden heavenly mild; What are they now? Dust, lifeless dust, alas! And I live on, a melancholy slave, Toss'd by the tempest in a shatter'd bark, Reft of the lovely light that cheer'd the wave. The flame of genius, too, extinct and dark, Here let my lays of love conclusion have; Mute be the lyre: tears best my sorrows mark.

MOREHEAD.

Those eyes whose living lustre shed the heat Of bright meridian day; the heavenly mould Of that angelic form; the hands, the feet, The taper arms, the crispèd locks of gold; Charms that the sweets of paradise enfold; The radiant lightning of her angel-smile, And every grace that could the sense beguile Are now a pile of ashes, deadly cold! And yet I bear to drag this cumbrous chain, That weighs my soul to earth--to bliss or pain Alike insensible:--her anchor lost, The frail dismantled bark, all tempest-toss'd, Surveys no port of comfort--closed the scene Of life's delusive joys;--and dry the Muse's vein.

WOODHOUSELEE.

Those eyes, sweet subject of my rapturous strain! The arms, the hands, the feet, that lovely face, By which I from myself divided was, And parted from the vulgar and the vain; Those crispèd locks, pure gold unknown to stain! Of that angelic smile the lightening grace, Which wont to make this earth a heavenly place! Dissolved to senseless ashes now remain! And yet I live, to endless grief a prey, 'Reft of that star, my loved, my certain guide, Disarm'd my bark, while tempests round me blow! Stop, then, my verse--dry is the fountain's tide. That fed my genius! Cease, my amorous lay! Changed is my lyre, attuned to endless woe!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XXV.

S' io avessi pensato che sì care.

HIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF: OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIRED.

Had I e'er thought that to the world so dear The echo of my sighs would be in rhyme, I would have made them in my sorrow's prime Rarer in style, in number more appear. Since she is dead my muse who prompted here, First in my thoughts and feelings at all time, All power is lost of tender or sublime My rough dark verse to render soft and clear. And certes, my sole study and desire Was but--I knew not how--in those long years To unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire. I wept, but wish'd no honour in my tears. Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair, Silent and weary, calls me to her there.

MACGREGOR.

Oh! had I deem'd my sighs, in numbers rung, Could e'er have gain'd the world's approving smile, I had awoke my rhymes in choicer style, My sorrow's birth more tunefully had sung: But she is gone whose inspiration hung On all my words, and did my thoughts beguile; My numbers harsh seem'd melody awhile, Now she is mute who o'er them music flung. Nor fame, nor other incense, then I sought, But how to quell my heart's o'erwhelming grief; I wept, but sought no honour in my tear: But could the world's fair suffrage now be bought, 'Twere joy to gain, but that my hour is brief, Her lofty spirit waves me to her bier.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXVI.

Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva.

SINCE HER DEATH, NOTHING IS LEFT TO HIM BUT GRIEF.

She stood within my heart, warm, young, alone, As in a humble home a lady bright; By her last flight not merely am I grown Mortal, but dead, and she an angel quite. A soul whence every bliss and hope is flown, Love shorn and naked of its own glad light, Might melt with pity e'en a heart of stone: But none there is to tell their grief or write; These plead within, where deaf is every ear Except mine own, whose power its griefs so mar That nought is left me save to suffer here. Verily we but dust and shadows are! Verily blind and evil is our will! Verily human hopes deceive us still!

MACGREGOR.

'Mid life's bright glow she dwelt within my soul, The sovereign tenant of a humble cell, But when for heaven she bade the world farewell, Death seem'd to grasp me in his fierce control: My wither'd love torn from its brightening goal-- My soul without its treasure doom'd to dwell-- Could I but trace their grief, their sorrow tell, A stone might wake, and fain with them condole. They inly mourn, where none can hear their woe Save I alone, who too with grief oppress'd, Can only soothe my anguish by my sighs: Life is indeed a shadowy dream below; Our blind desires by Reason's chain unbless'd, Whilst Hope in treacherous wither'd fragments lies.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXVII.

Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.

HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.

My thoughts in fair alliance and array Hold converse on the theme which most endears: Pity approaches and repents delay: E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears. Since the last day, the terrible hour when Fate This present life of her fair being reft, From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state: No other hope than this to me is left. O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind! O unexampled beauty, stately, rare! Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd. Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there, Who to the world so eminent and clear Made her great virtue and my passion here.

MACGREGOR.

My thoughts were wont with sentiment so sweet To meditate their object in my breast-- Perhaps her sympathies my wishes meet With gentlest pity, seeing me distress'd: Nor when removed to that her sacred rest The present life changed for that blest retreat, Vanish'd in air my former visions fleet, My hopes, my tears, in vain to her address'd. O lovely miracle! O favour'd mind! Beauty beyond example high and rare, So soon return'd from us to whence it came! There the immortal wreaths her temples bind; The sacred palm is hers: on earth so fair Who shone by her own virtues and my flame.

CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET XXVIII.

I' mi soglio accusare, ed or mi scuso.

HE GLORIES IN HIS LOVE.

I now excuse myself who wont to blame, Nay, more, I prize and even hold me dear, For this fair prison, this sweet-bitter shame, Which I have borne conceal'd so many a year. O envious Fates! that rare and golden frame Rudely ye broke, where lightly twined and clear, Yarn of my bonds, the threads of world-wide fame Which lovely 'gainst his wont made Death appear. For not a soul was ever in its days Of joy, of liberty, of life so fond, That would not change for her its natural ways, Preferring thus to suffer and despond, Than, fed by hope, to sing in others' praise, Content to die, or live in such a bond.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXIX.

Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte.

THE UNION OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE IS DISSOLVED BY HER DEATH.

Two mortal foes in one fair breast combined, Beauty and Virtue, in such peace allied That ne'er rebellion ruffled that pure mind, But in rare union dwelt they side by side; By Death they now are shatter'd and disjoin'd; One is in heaven, its glory and its pride, One under earth, her brilliant eyes now blind, Whence stings of love once issued far and wide. That winning air, that rare discourse and meek, Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glance Which wounded my poor heart, and wins it still, Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek, I hope her fair and graceful name perchance To consecrate with this worn weary quill.

MACGREGOR.

Within one mortal shrine two foes had met-- Beauty and Virtue--yet they dwelt so bright, That ne'er within the soul did they excite Rebellious thought, their union might beget: But, parted to fulfil great nature's debt, One blooms in heaven, exulting in its height; Its twin on earth doth rest, from whose veil'd night No more those eyes of love man's soul can fret. That speech by Heaven inspired, so humbly wise-- That graceful air--her look so winning, meek, That woke and kindles still my bosom's pain-- They all have fled; but if to gain her skies I tardy seem, my weary pen would seek For her blest name a consecrated reign!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXX.

Quand' io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni.

THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.

When I look back upon the many years Which in their flight my best thoughts have entomb'd, And spent the fire, that, spite her ice, consumed, And finish'd the repose so full of tears, Broken the faith which Love's young dream endears, And the two parts of all my blessing doom'd, This low in earth, while heaven has that resumed, And lost the guerdon of my pains and fears, I wake, and feel me to the bitter wind So bare, I envy the worst lot I see; Self-terror and heart-grief on me so wait. O Death, O Fate, O Fortune, stars unkind! O day for ever dark and drear to me! How have ye sunk me in this abject state!

MACGREGOR.

When memory turns to gaze on time gone by (Which in its flight hath arm'd e'en thought with wings), And to my troubled rest a period brings, Quells, too, the flame which long could ice defy; And when I mark Love's promise wither'd lie, That treasure parted which my bosom wrings (For she in heaven, her shrine to nature clings), Whilst thus my toils' reward she doth deny;-- I then awake and feel bereaved indeed! The darkest fate on earth seems bliss to mine-- So much I fear myself, and dread its woe! O Fortune!--Death! O star! O fate decreed! O bitter day! that yet must sweetly shine, Alas! too surely thou hast laid me low!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXXI.

Ov' è la fronte che con picciol cenno.

HE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURA.

Where is the brow whose gentlest beckonings led My raptured heart at will, now here, now there? Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere, Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed? Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled? The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where? Where, group'd in one rich form, the beauties rare, Which long their magic influence o'er me shed? Where is the shade, within whose sweet recess My wearied spirit still forgot its sighs, And all my thoughts their constant record found? Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?-- Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes (Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drown'd.

WRANGHAM.

Where is that face, whose slightest air could move My trembling heart, and strike the springs of love? That heaven, where two fair stars, with genial ray, Shed their kind influence on life's dim way? Where are that science, sense, and worth confess'd? That speech by virtue, by the graces dress'd? Where are those beauties, where those charms combined, That caused this long captivity of mind? Where the dear shade of all that once was fair, The source, the solace, of each amorous care-- My heart's sole sovereign, Nature's only boast? --Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!

LANGHORNE.

SONNET XXXII.

Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra.

HE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASURE.

O earth, whose clay-cold mantle shrouds that face, And veils those eyes that late so brightly shone, Whence all that gave delight on earth was known, How much I envy thee that harsh embrace! O heaven, that in thy airy courts confined That purest spirit, when from earth she fled, And sought the mansions of the righteous dead; How envious, thus to leave my panting soul behind! O angels, that in your seraphic choir Received her sister-soul, and now enjoy Still present, those delights without alloy, Which my fond heart must still in vain desire! In her I lived--in her my life decays; Yet envious Fate denies to end my hapless days.

WOODHOUSELEE.

What envy of the greedy earth I bear, That holds from me within its cold embrace The light, the meaning, of that angel face, On which to gaze could soften e'en despair. What envy of the saints, in realms so fair, Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of grace The spirit pure to summon to its place, Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share; What envy of the blest in heaven above, With whom she dwells in sympathies divine Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs; And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove, That with her life has ta'en the light of mine, Yet calls me not,--though fixed and cold those eyes.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XXXIII.

Valle che d' lamenti miei se' piena.

ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA'S DEATH.

Valley, which long hast echoed with my cries; Stream, which my flowing tears have often fed; Beasts, fluttering birds, and ye who in the bed Of Cabrieres' wave display your speckled dyes; Air, hush'd to rest and soften'd by my sighs; Dear path, whose mazes lone and sad I tread; Hill of delight--though now delight is fled-- To rove whose haunts Love still my foot decoys; Well I retain your old unchanging face! Myself how changed! in whom, for joy's light throng, Infinite woes their constant mansion find! Here bloom'd my bliss: and I your tracks retrace, To mark whence upward to her heaven she sprung, Leaving her beauteous spoil, her robe of flesh behind!

WRANGHAM.

Ye vales, made vocal by my plaintive lay; Ye streams, embitter'd with the tears of love; Ye tenants of the sweet melodious grove; Ye tribes that in the grass fringed streamlet play; Ye tepid gales, to which my sighs convey A softer warmth; ye flowery plains, that move Reflection sad; ye hills, where yet I rove, Since Laura there first taught my steps to stray;-- You, you are still the same! How changed, alas, Am I! who, from a state of life so blest, Am now the gloomy dwelling-place of woe! 'Twas here I saw my love: here still I trace Her parting steps, when she her mortal vest Cast to the earth, and left these scenes below.

ANON.

SONNET XXXIV.

Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov' era.

SOARING IN IMAGINATION TO HEAVEN, HE MEETS LAURA, AND IS HAPPY.

Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays She, whom I seek but find on earth no more: There, fairer still and humbler than before, I saw her, in the third heaven's blessèd maze. She took me by the hand, and "Thou shalt trace, If hope not errs," she said, "this happy shore: I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore, And ere its evening closed my day's brief space. What human heart conceives, my joys exceed; Thee only I expect, and (what remain Below) the charms, once objects of thy love." Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed? Such of her soft and hallow'd tones the chain, From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move.

WRANGHAM.

Thither my ecstatic thought had rapt me, where She dwells, whom still on earth I seek in vain; And there, with those whom the third heavens contain, I saw her, much more kind, and much more fair. My hand she took, and said: "Within this sphere, If hope deceive me not, thou shalt again With me reside: who caused thy mortal pain Am I, and even in summer closed my year. My bliss no human thought can understand: Thee only I await; and, that erewhile You held so dear, the veil I left behind."-- She ceased--ah why? Why did she loose my hand? For oh! her hallow'd words, her roseate smile In heaven had well nigh fix'd my ravish'd mind!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XXXV.

Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi.

HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY.

Love, that in happier days wouldst meet me here Along these meads that nursed our kindred strains; And that old debt to clear which still remains, Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share: Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air, Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains: The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains, And all my various chance, my racking care: Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade; Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursue That life its cool and grassy bottom lends:-- My days were once so fair; now dark and dread As death that makes them so. Thus the world through On each as soon as born his fate attends.

ANON., OX., 1795.

On these green banks in happier days I stray'd With Love, who whisper'd many a tender tale; And the glad waters, winding through the dale, Heard the sweet eloquence fond Love display'd. You, purpled plain, cool grot, and arching glade; Ye hills, ye streams, where plays the silken gale; Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled vale Which oft have beard the tender plaints I made; Ye blue-hair'd nymphs, who ceaseless revel keep, In the cool bosom of the crystal deep; Ye woodland maids who climb the mountain's brow; Ye mark'd how joy once wing'd each hour so gay; Ah, mark how sad each hour now wears away! So fate with human bliss blends human woe!

ANON. 1777.

SONNET XXXVI.

Mentre che 'l cor dagli amorosi vermi.

HAD SHE NOT DIED SO EARLY, HE WOULD HAVE LEARNED TO PRAISE HER MORE WORTHILY.

While on my heart the worms consuming prey'd Of Love, and I with all his fire was caught; The steps of my fair wild one still I sought To trace o'er desert mountains as she stray'd; And much I dared in bitter strains to upbraid Both Love and her, whom I so cruel thought; But rude was then my genius, and untaught My rhymes, while weak and new the ideas play'd. Dead is that fire; and cold its ashes lie In one small tomb; which had it still grown on E'en to old age, as oft by others felt, Arm'd with the power of rhyme, which wretched I E'en now disclaim, my riper strains had won E'en stones to burst, and in soft sorrows melt.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET XXXVII.

Anima bella, da quel nodo sciolta.

HE PRAYS LAURA TO LOOK DOWN UPON HIM FROM HEAVEN.

Bright spirit, from those earthly bonds released, The loveliest ever wove in Nature's loom, From thy bright skies compassionate the gloom Shrouding my life that once of joy could taste! Each false suggestion of thy heart has ceased, That whilom bade thee stem disdain assume; Now, all secure, heaven's habitant become, List to my sighs, thy looks upon me cast. Mark the huge rock, whence Sorga's waters rise; And see amidst its waves and borders stray One fed by grief and memory that ne'er dies But from that spot, oh! turn thy sight away Where I first loved, where thy late dwelling lies; That in thy friends thou nought ungrateful may'st survey!

NOTT.

Blest soul, that, loosen'd from those bands, art flown-- Bands than which Nature never form'd more fair, Look down and mark how changed to carking care From gladdest thoughts I pass my days unknown. Each false opinion from my heart is gone, That once to me made thy sweet sight appear Most harsh and bitter; now secure from fear Here turn thine eyes, and listen to my moan. Turn to this rock whence Sorga's waters rise, And mark, where through the mead its waters flow, One who of thee still mindful ceaseless sighs: But leave me there unsought for, where to glow Our flames began, and where thy mansion lies, Lest thou in thine shouldst see what grieved thee so.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET XXXVIII.

Quel sol che mi mostrava il cammin destro.

LOVE AND HE SEEK LAURA, BUT FIND NO TRACES OF HER EXCEPT IN THE SKY.

That sun, which ever signall'd the right road, Where flash'd her own bright feet, to heaven to fly, Returning to the Eternal Sun on high, Has quench'd my light, and cast her earthly load; Thus, lone and weary, my oft steps have trode, As some wild animal, the sere woods by, Fleeing with heavy heart and downcast eye The world which since to me a blank has show'd. Still with fond search each well-known spot I pace Where once I saw her: Love, who grieves me so, My only guide, directs me where to go. I find her not: her every sainted trace Seeks, in bright realms above, her parent star From grisly Styx and black Avernus far.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXIX.

Io pensava assai destro esser sull' ale.

UNWORTHY TO HAVE LOOKED UPON HER, HE IS STILL MORE SO TO ATTEMPT HER PRAISES.

I thought me apt and firm of wing to rise (Not of myself, but him who trains us all) In song, to numbers fitting the fair thrall Which Love once fasten'd and which Death unties. Slow now and frail, the task too sorely tries, As a great weight upon a sucker small: "Who leaps," I said, "too high may midway fall: Man ill accomplishes what Heaven denies." So far the wing of genius ne'er could fly-- Poor style like mine and faltering tongue much less-- As Nature rose, in that rare fabric, high. Love follow'd Nature with such full success In gracing her, no claim could I advance Even to look, and yet was bless'd by chance.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XL.

Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat' Arno.

HE ATTEMPTS TO PAINT HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT HER VIRTUES.

She, for whose sake fair Arno I resign, And for free poverty court-affluence spurn, Has known to sour the precious sweets to turn On which I lived, for which I burn and pine. Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mine That future ages from my song should learn Her heavenly beauties, and like me should burn, My poor verse fails her sweet face to define. The gifts, though all her own, which others share, Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er, Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare; But when to the diviner part I soar, To the dull world a brief and brilliant light, Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLI.

L' alto e novo miracol ch' a dì nostri.

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES.

The wonder, high and new, that, in our days, Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain, Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch again Better to blazon its own starry ways; That to far times I her should paint and praise Love wills, who prompted first my passionate strain; But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vain To the fond task a thousand times he sways. My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while; I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below, Or speak or write of love will prove it so. Who justly deems the truth beyond all style, Here silent let him muse, and sighing say, Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLII.

Zefiro torna, e 'l bel tempo rimena.

RETURNING SPRING BRINGS TO HIM ONLY INCREASE OF GRIEF.

Zephyr returns; and in his jocund train Brings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear; Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain, With every bloom that paints the vernal year; Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain; With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear; Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main; All beings join'd in fond accord appear. But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs, Forced from my inmost heart by her who bore Those keys which govern'd it unto the skies: The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air, Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more; Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear.

NOTT.

The spring returns, with all her smiling train; The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers, The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers, And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain: And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain, Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove: All nature feels the kindling fire of love, The vital force of spring's returning reign. But not to me returns the cheerful spring! O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief, Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief, Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring: She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before, Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!

WOODHOUSELEE.

Returning Zephyr the sweet season brings, With flowers and herbs his breathing train among, And Progne twitters, Philomela sings, Leading the many-colour'd spring along; Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field, Jove views his daughter with complacent brow; Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield, And creatures all his magic power avow: But nought, alas! for me the season brings, Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawn By her who can from heaven unlock its springs; And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn, And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild, A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild.

DACRE.

Zephyr returns and winter's rage restrains, With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny! Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains, And spring assumes her robe of various dye; The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdains To view his daughter with delighted eye; While Love through universal nature reigns, And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy! But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn, And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceed For her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne. The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead, And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn, A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XLIII.

Quel rosignuol che sì soave piagne.

THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE REMINDS HIM OF HIS UNHAPPY LOT.

Yon nightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone, Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat, Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan, Filling the fields and skies with pity's note; Here lingering till the long long night is gone, Awakes the memory of my cruel lot-- But I my wretched self must wail alone: Fool, who secure from death an angel thought! O easy duped, who thus on hope relies! Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears, From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise? Now know I, made by sad experience wise, That Fate would teach me by a life of tears, On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies!

WRANGHAM.

Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows, Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate, A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws And skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state: And all the night she seems my kindred woes With me to weep and on my sorrows wait; Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose, Who deem'd a goddess could not yield to fate. How easy to deceive who sleeps secure! Who could have thought that to dull earth would turn Those eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure? Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure: That loathing life, yet living I should see How few its joys, how little they endure!

ANON., OX., 1795.

That nightingale, who now melodious mourns Perhaps his children or his consort dear, The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bourns Resound his notes, so piteous and so clear; With me all night he weeps, and seems by turns To upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear, Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns, A goddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear. Security, how easy to betray! The radiance of those eyes who could have thought Should e'er become a senseless clod of clay? Living, and weeping, late I've learn'd to say That here below--Oh, knowledge dearly bought!-- Whate'er delights will scarcely last a day!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XLIV.

Nè per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelle.

NOTHING THAT NATURE OFFERS CAN AFFORD HIM CONSOLATION.

Not skies serene, with glittering stars inlaid, Nor gallant ships o'er tranquil ocean dancing, Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing, Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade, Nor tidings new of happiness delay'd, Nor poesie, Love's witchery enhancing, Nor lady's song beside clear fountain glancing, In beauty's pride, with chastity array'd; Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show, Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tomb Who was erewhile my life and light below! So heavy--tedious--sad--my days unblest, That I, with strong desire, invoke Death's gloom, Her to behold, whom ne'er to have seen were best!

DACRE.

Nor stars bright glittering through the cool still air, Nor proud ships riding on the tranquil main, Nor armed knights light pricking o'er the plain, Nor deer in glades disporting void of care, Nor tidings hoped by recent messenger, Nor tales of love in high and gorgeous strain, Nor by clear stream, green mead, or shady lane Sweet-chaunted roundelay of lady fair; Nor aught beside my heart shall e'er engage-- Sepulchred, as 'tis henceforth doom'd to be, With her, my eyes' sole mirror, beam, and bliss. Oh! how I long this weary pilgrimage To close; that I again that form may see, Which never to have seen had been my happiness!

WRANGHAM.

SONNET XLV.

Passato è 'l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto.

HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER.

Fled--fled, alas! for ever--is the day, Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought; And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote: Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay! And fled that angel vision far away; But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote ('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, sought Her, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay. Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped; Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's car She reaps the meed of matchless holiness: So might I, of this flesh discumberèd, Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow far With her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss!

WRANGHAM.

Ah! gone for ever are the happy years That soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire, And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyre Has gone, alas!--But left my lyre, my tears: Gone is that face, whose holy look endears; But in my heart, ere yet it did retire, Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;-- My heart? Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheres Of light she bore it captive, soaring high, In angel robe triumphant, and now stands Crown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity: Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bands That tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,-- To join blest spirits in celestial lands!

MOREHEAD.

SONNET XLVI.

Mente mia che presaga de' tuoi danni.

HE RECALLS WITH GRIEF THEIR LAST MEETING.

My mind! prophetic of my coming fate, Pensive and gloomy while yet joy was lent, On the loved lineaments still fix'd, intent To seek dark bodings, ere thy sorrow's date! From her sweet acts, her words, her looks, her gait, From her unwonted pity with sadness blent, Thou might'st have said, hadst thou been prescient, "I taste my last of bliss in this low state!" My wretched soul! the poison, oh, how sweet! That through my eyes instill'd the burning smart, Gazing on hers, no more on earth to meet! To them--my bosom's wealth! condemn'd to part On a far journey--as to friends discreet, All my fond thoughts I left, and lingering heart.

DACRE.

SONNET XLVII.

Tutta la mia fiorita e verde etade.

JUST WHEN HE MIGHT FAIRLY HOPE SOME RETURN OF AFFECTION, ENVIOUS DEATH CARRIES HER OFF.

All my green years and golden prime of man Had pass'd away, and with attemper'd sighs My bosom heaved--ere yet the days arise When life declines, contracting its brief span. Already my loved enemy began To lull suspicion, and in sportive guise, With timid confidence, though playful, wise, In gentle mockery my long pains to scan: The hour was near when Love, at length, may mate With Chastity; and, by the dear one's side, The lover's thoughts and words may freely flow: Death saw, with envy, my too happy state, E'en its fair promise--and, with fatal pride, Strode in the midway forth, an armèd foe!

DACRE.

Now of my life each gay and greener year Pass'd by, and cooler grew each hour the flame With which I burn'd: and to that point we came Whence life descends, as to its end more near; Now 'gan my lovely foe each virtuous fear Gently to lay aside, as safe from blame; And though with saint-like virtue still the same, Mock'd my sweet pains indeed, but deign'd to hear Nigh drew the time when Love delights to dwell With Chastity; and lovers with their mate Can fearless sit, and all they muse of tell. Death envied me the joys of such a state; Nay, e'en the hopes I form'd: and on them fell E'en in midway, like some arm'd foe in wait.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET XLVIII.

Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua.

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE BELIEF THAT SHE NOW AT LAST SYMPATHISES WITH HIM.

'Twas time at last from so long war to find Some peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh, But Death their welcome feet has turn'd behind, Who levels all distinctions, low as high; And as a cloud dissolves before the wind, So she, who led me with her lustrous eye, Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind, Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky. Had she but stay'd, as I grew changed and old Her tone had changed, and no distrust had been To parley with me on my cherish'd ill: With what frank sighs and fond I then had told My lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween, She sees, and with me sympathises still.

MACGREGOR.

My life's long warfare seem'd about to cease, Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed; But levelling Death, who doth to all concede An equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace: As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece, So did her life from this world's breath recede, Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead, But now my all, save thought, she doth release. Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd, For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand, And calmer I had told my storied love: To her in virtue's tone I had convey'd My heart's long grief--now, she doth understand, And sympathises with that grief above.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XLIX.

Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore.

DEATH HAS ROBBED HIM IN ONE MOMENT OF THE FRUIT OF HIS LIFE.

From life's long storm of trouble and of tears Love show'd a tranquil haven and fair end 'Mid better thoughts which riper age attend, That vice lays bare and virtue clothes and cheers. She saw my true heart, free from doubts and fears, And its high faith which could no more offend; Ah, cruel Death! how quick wert thou to rend In so few hours the fruit of many years! A longer life the time had surely brought When in her chaste ear my full heart had laid The ancient burthen of its dearest thought; And she, perchance, might then have answer made, Forth-sighing some blest words, whilst white and few Our locks became, and wan our cheeks in hue.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET L.

Al cader d' una pianta che si svelse.

UNDER THE ALLEGORY OF A LAUREL HE AGAIN DEPLORES HER DEATH.

As a fair plant, uprooted by oft blows Of trenchant spade, or which the blast upheaves, Scatters on earth its green and lofty leaves, And its bare roots to the broad sunlight shows; Love such another for my object chose, Of whom for me the Muse a subject weaves, Who in my captured heart her home achieves, As on some wall or tree the ivy grows That living laurel--where their chosen nest My high thoughts made, where sigh'd mine ardent grief, Yet never stirr'd of its fair boughs a leaf-- To heaven translated, in my heart, her rest, Left deep its roots, whence ever with sad cry I call on her, who ne'er vouchsafes reply.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LI.

I dì miei più leggier che nessun cervo.

HIS PASSION FINDS ITS ONLY CONSOLATION IN CONTEMPLATING HER IN HEAVEN.

My days more swiftly than the forest hind Have fled like shadows, and no pleasure seen Save for a moment, and few hours serene, Whose bitter-sweet I treasure in true mind. O wretched world, unstable, wayward! Blind Whose hopes in thee alone have centred been; In thee my heart was captived by her mien Who bore it with her when she earth rejoin'd: Her better spirit, now a deathless flower, And in the highest heaven that still shall be, Each day inflames me with its beauties more. Alone, though frailer, fonder every hour, I muse on her--Now what, and where is she, And what the lovely veil which here she wore?

MACGREGOR.

Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled, A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seen Its only good; its hours (how few serene!) The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed: Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred, Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been; I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queen Hath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead. Her form decay'd--its beauty still survives, For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom, With which each day I more enamour'd grow: Thus though my locks are blanch'd, my hope revives In thinking on her home--her soul's high doom: Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LII.

Sente l' aura mia antica, e i dolci colli.

HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.

I feel the well-known gale; the hills I spy So pleasant, whence my fair her being drew, Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shew Wishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry. O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity! Wither'd the grass, the rills of turbid hue; And void and cheerless is that dwelling too, In which I live, in which I wish'd to die; Hoping its mistress might at length afford Some respite to my woes by plaintive sighs, And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes. I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord: While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired; And o'er its ashes now I weep expired.

NOTT.

Once more, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow; Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beams Gild your green summits; while your silver streams Through vales of fragrance undulating flow. But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer here Give life and beauty to the glowing scene: For stern remembrance stands where you have been, And blasts the verdure of the blooming year. O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee, Would I could find a refuge from despair! Is this thy boasted triumph. Love, to tear A heart thy coward malice dares not free; And bid it live, while every hope is fled, To weep, among the ashes of the dead?

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET LIII.

E questo 'l nido in che la mia Fenice.

THE SIGHT OF LAURA'S HOUSE REMINDS HIM OF HIS MISERY.

Is this the nest in which my phoenix first Her plumage donn'd of purple and of gold, Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold, For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst? Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth, Where is the fair face whence that bright light came. Alive and glad which kept me in my flame? Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth; Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here, Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd, To thee which consecrate I still revere. Watching the hills as dark night gathers round, Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take, And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.

MACGREGOR.

Is this the nest in which her wings of gold, Of gold and purple plume, my phoenix laid? How flutter'd my fond heart beneath their shade! But now its sighs proclaim that dwelling cold: Sweet source! from which my bliss, my bane, have roll'd, Where is that face, in living light array'd, That burn'd me, yet my sole enjoyment made? Unparallel'd on earth, the heavens now hold Thee bless'd!--but I am left wretched, alone! Yet ever in my grief return to see And honour this sweet place, though thou art gone. A black night veils the hills, whence rising free Thou took'st thy heavenward flight! Ah! when they shone In morning radiance, it was all from thee!

MOREHEAD.

SONNET LIV.

Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutte.

TO THE MEMORY OF GIACOMO COLONNA, WHO DIED BEFORE PETRARCH COULD REPLY TO A LETTER OF HIS.

Ne'er shall I see again with eyes unwet, Or with the sure powers of a tranquil mind, Those characters where Love so brightly shined, And his own hand affection seem'd to set; Spirit! amid earth's strifes unconquer'd yet, Breathing such sweets from heaven which now has shrined, As once more to my wandering verse has join'd The style which Death had led me to forget. Another work, than my young leaves more bright, I thought to show: what envying evil star Snatch'd thee, my noble treasure, thus from me? So soon who hides thee from my fond heart's sight, And from thy praise my loving tongue would bar? My soul has rest, sweet sigh! alone in thee.

MACGREGOR.

Oh! ne'er shall I behold with tearless eye Or tranquil soul those characters of thine, In which affection doth so brightly shine, And charity's own hand I can descry! Blest soul! that could this earthly strife defy, Thy sweets instilling from thy home divine, Thou wakest in me the tone which once was mine, To sing my rhymes Death's power did long deny. With these, my brow's young leaves, I fondly dream'd Another work than this had greeted thee: What iron planet envied thus our love? My treasure! veil'd ere age had darkly gleam'd; Thou--whom my song records--my heart doth see; Thou wakest my sigh, and sighing, rest I prove.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE III.

Standomi un giorno solo alla finestra.

UNDER VARIOUS ALLEGORIES HE PAINTS THE VIRTUE, BEAUTY, AND UNTIMELY DEATH OF LAURA.

While at my window late I stood alone, So new and many things there cross'd my sight, To view them I had almost weary grown. A dappled hind appear'd upon the right, In aspect gentle, yet of stately stride, By two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white, Who tore in the poor side Of that fair creature wounds so deep and wide, That soon they forced her where ravine and rock The onward passage block: Then triumph'd Death her matchless beauties o'er, And left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.

Upon the summer wave a gay ship danced, Her cordage was of silk, of gold her sails, Her sides with ivory and ebon glanced, The sea was tranquil, favouring were the gales, And heaven as when no cloud its azure veils. A rich and goodly merchandise is hers; But soon the tempest wakes, And wind and wave to such mad fury stirs, That, driven on the rocks, in twain she breaks; My heart with pity aches, That a short hour should whelm, a small space hide, Riches for which the world no equal had beside.

In a fair grove a bright young laurel made --Surely to Paradise the plant belongs!-- Of sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade, From whose green depths there issued so sweet songs Of various birds, and many a rare delight Of eye and ear, what marvel from the world They stole my senses quite! While still I gazed, the heavens grew black around, The fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd, Uprooted to the ground, That blessed birth. Alas! for it laid low, And its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.

A crystal fountain in that very grove Gush'd from a rock, whose waters fresh and clear Shed coolness round and softly murmur'd love; Never that leafy screen and mossy seat Drew browsing flock or whistling rustic near But nymphs and muses danced to music sweet. There as I sat and drank With infinite delight their carols gay, And mark'd their sport, the earth before me sank And bore with it away The fountain and the scene, to my great grief, Who now in memory find a sole and scant relief.

A lovely and rare bird within the wood, Whose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd, Alone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd, Of heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd, Flitting now here, now there, until it stood Where buried fount and broken laurel lay, And sadly seeing there The fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare, The channel dried--for all things to decay So tend--it turn'd away As if in angry scorn, and instant fled, While through me for her loss new love and pity spread.

At length along the flowery sward I saw So sweet and fair a lady pensive move That her mere thought inspires a tender awe; Meek in herself, but haughty against Love, Flow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fine Seem'd gold and snow together there to join: But, ah! each charm above Was veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud: Stung by a lurking snake, as flowers that pine Her head she gently bow'd, And joyful pass'd on high, perchance secure: Alas! that in the world grief only should endure.

My song! in each sad change, These visions, as they rise, sweet, solemn, strange, But show how deeply in thy master's breast The fond desire abides to die and be at rest.

MACGREGOR.

BALLATA I.

Amor, quando fioria.

HIS GRIEF AT SURVIVING HER IS MITIGATED BY THE CONSCIOUSNESS THAT SHE NOW KNOWS HIS HEART.

Yes, Love, at that propitious time When hope was in its bloomy prime, And when I vainly fancied nigh The meed of all my constancy; Then sudden she, of whom I sought Compassion, from my sight was caught. O ruthless Death! O life severe! The one has sunk me deep in care, And darken'd cruelly my day, That shone with hope's enlivening ray: The other, adverse to my will, Doth here on earth detain me still; And interdicts me to pursue Her, who from all its scenes withdrew: Yet in my heart resides the fair, For ever, ever present there; Who well perceives the ills that wait Upon my wretched, mortal state.

NOTT.

Yes, Love, while hope still bloom'd with me in pride, While seem'd of all my faith the guerdon nigh, She, upon whom for mercy I relied, Was ravish'd from my doting desolate eye. O ruthless Death! O life unwelcome! this Plunged me in deepest woe, And rudely crush'd my every hope of bliss; Against my will that keeps me here below, Who else would yearn to go, And join the sainted fair who left us late; Yet present every hour In my heart's core there wields she her old power, And knows, whate'er my life, its every state!

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE IV.

Tacer non posso, e temo non adopre.

HE RECALLS HER MANY GRACES.

Fain would I speak--too long has silence seal'd Lips that would gladly with my full heart move With one consent, and yield Homage to her who listens from above; Yet how can I, without thy prompting, Love, With mortal words e'er equal things divine, And picture faithfully The high humility whose chosen shrine Was that fair prison whence she now is free? Which held, erewhile, her gentle spirit, when So in my conscious heart her power began. That, instantly, I ran, --Alike o' th' year and me 'twas April then-- From these gay meadows round sweet flowers to bind, Hoping rich pleasure at her eyes to find.

The walls were alabaster, the roof gold, Ivory the doors, the sapphire windows lent Whence on my heart of old Its earliest sigh, as shall my last, was sent; In arrowy jets of fire thence came and went Arm'd messengers of love, whereof to think As then they were, with awe --Though now for them with laurel crown'd--I shrink Of one rare diamond, square, without a flaw, High in the midst a stately throne was placed Where sat the lovely lady all alone: In front a column shone Of crystal, and thereon each thought was traced In characters so clear, and quick, and true, By turns it gladden'd me and grieved to view.

To weapons such as these, sharp, burning, bright, To the green glorious banner waved above, --'Gainst which would fail in fight Mars, Polypheme, Apollo, mighty Jove-- While still my sorrow fresh and verdant throve, I stood defenceless, doom'd; her easy prey She led me as she chose Whence to escape I knew nor art nor way; But, as a friend, who, haply, grieves yet goes, Sees something still to lure his eyes and heart, Just so on her, for whom I am in thrall, Sole perfect work of all That graced her age, unable to depart, With such desire my rapt regards I set, As soon myself and misery to forget.

On earth myself, my heart in Eden dwelt, Lost in sweet Lethe every other care, As my live frame I felt To marble turn, watching that wonder rare; When old in years, but youthful still in air, A lady briefly, quietly drew nigh, And thus beholding me, With reverent aspect and admiring eye, Kind offer made my counsellor to be: "My power," she said, "is more than mortals know-- Lighter than air, I, in an instant, make Their hearts exult or ache, I loose and bind whate'er is seen below; Thine eyes, upon that sun, as eagles', bend, But to my words with willing ears attend.

"The day when she was born, the stars that win Prosperity for man shone bright above; Their high glad homes within Each on the other smiled with gratulant love; Fair Venus, and, with gentle aspect, Jove The beautiful and lordly mansions held: Seem'd as each adverse light Throughout all heaven was darken'd and dispell'd, The sun ne'er look'd upon a day so bright; The air and earth rejoiced; the waves had rest By lake and river, and o'er ocean green: 'Mid the enchanting scene One distant cloud alone my thought distress'd, Lest sometime it might be of tears the source Unless kind Heaven should elsewhere turn its course.

"When first she enter'd on this life below, Which, to say sooth, not worthy was to hold, 'Twas strange to see her so Angelical and dear in baby mould; A snowy pearl she seem'd in finest gold; Next as she crawl'd, or totter'd with short pace, Wood, water, earth, and stone Grew green, and clear, and soft; with livelier grace The sward beneath her feet and fingers shone; With flowers the champain to her bright eyes smiled; At her sweet voice, babbling through lips that yet From Love's own fount were wet, The hoarse wind silent grew, the tempest mild: Thus clearly showing to the dull blind world How much in her was heaven's own light unfurl'd.

"At length, her life's third flowery epoch won, She, year by year, so grew in charms and worth, That ne'er, methinks, the sun Such gracefulness and beauty saw on earth; Her eyes so full of modesty and mirth, Music and welcome on her words so hung, That mute in her high praise, Which thine alone may sound, is every tongue: So bright her countenance with heavenly rays, Not long thy dazzled vision there may rest; From this her fair and fleshly tenement Such fire through thine is sent (Though gentler never kindled human breast), That yet I fear her sudden flight may be Too soon the cause of bitter grief to thee."

This said, she turn'd her to the rapid wheel Whereon she winds of mortal life the thread; Too true did she reveal The doom of woe which darken'd o'er my head! A few brief years flew by, When she, for whom I so desire to die, By black and pitiless Death, who could not slay A fairer form than hers, was snatch'd away!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LV.

Or hai fatto l' estremo di tua possa.

DEATH MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT OF THE MEMORY OF HER VIRTUES.

Now hast thou shown, fell Death! thine utmost might. Through Love's bright realm hast want and darkness spread, Hast now cropp'd beauty's flower, its heavenly light Quench'd, and enclosed in the grave's narrow bed; Now hast thou life despoil'd of all delight, Its ornament and sovereign honour shed: But fame and worth it is not thine to blight; These mock thy power, and sleep not with the dead. Be thine the mortal part; heaven holds the best, And, glorying in its brightness, brighter glows, While memory still records the great and good. O thou, in thine high triumph, angel blest! Let thy heart yield to pity of my woes, E'en as thy beauty here my soul subdued.

DACRE.

Now hast thou shown the utmost of thy might, O cruel Death! Love's kingdom hast thou rent, And made it poor; in narrow grave hast pent The blooming flower of beauty and its light! Our wretched life thou hast despoil'd outright Of every honour, every ornament! But then her fame, her worth, by thee unblent, Shall still survive!--her dust is all thy right; The rest heaven holds, proud of her charms divine As of a brighter sun. Nor dies she here-- Her memory lasts, to good men ever dear! O angel new, in thy celestial sphere Let pity now thy sainted heart incline, As here below thy beauty vanquish'd mine!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET LVI.

L' aura e l' odore e 'l refrigerio e l' ombra.

HER OWN VIRTUES IMMORTALISE HER IN HEAVEN, AND HIS PRAISES ON EARTH.

The air and scent, the comfort and the shade Of my sweet laurel, and its flowery sight, That to my weary life gave rest and light, Death, spoiler of the world, has lowly laid. As when the moon our sun's eclipse has made, My lofty light has vanish'd so in night; For aid against himself I Death invite; With thoughts so dark does Love my breast invade. Thou didst but sleep, bright lady, a brief sleep, In bliss amid the chosen spirits to wake, Who gaze upon their God, distinct and near: And if my verse shall any value keep, Preserved and praised 'mid noble minds to make Thy name, its memory shall be deathless here.

MACGREGOR.

The fragrant gale, and the refreshing shade Of my sweet laurel, and its verdant form, That were my shelter in life's weary storm, Have felt the power that makes all nature fade: Now has my light been lost in gloomy shade, E'en as the sun behind his sister's form: I call for Death to free me from Death's storm, But Love descends and brings me better aid! He tells me, lady, that one moment's sleep Alone was thine, and then thou didst awake Among the elect, and in thy Maker's arms: And if my verse oblivion's power can keep Aloof, thy name its place on earth-will take Where Genius still will dote upon thy charms!

MOREHEAD.

SONNET LVII.

L' ultimo, lasso! de' miei giorni allegri.

HE REVERTS TO THEIR LAST MEETING.

The last, alas! of my bright days and glad --Few have been mine in this brief life below-- Had come; I felt my heart as tepid snow, Presage, perchance, of days both dark and sad. As one in nerves, and pulse, and spirits bad, Who of some frequent fever waits the blow, E'en so I felt--for how could I foreknow Such near end of the half-joys I have had? Her beauteous eyes, in heaven now bright and bless'd With the pure light whence health and life descends, (Wretched and beggar'd leaving me behind,) With chaste and soul-lit beams our grief address'd: "Tarry ye here in peace, beloved friends, Though here no more, we yet shall there be join'd."

MACGREGOR.

Ah me! the last of all my happy days (Not many happy days my years can show) Was come! I felt my heart as turn'd to snow, Presage, perhaps, that happiness decays! E'en as the man whose shivering frame betrays, And fluttering pulse, the ague's coming blow; 'Twas thus I felt!--but could I therefore know How soon would end the bliss that never stays? Those eyes that now, in heaven's delicious light, Drink in pure beams which life and glory rain, Just as they left mine, blinded, sunk in night, Seem'd thus to say, sparkling unwonted bright,-- "Awhile, beloved friends, in peace remain, Oh, we shall yet elsewhere exchange fond looks again!"

MOREHEAD.

SONNET LVIII.

O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momento.

HE MOURNS HIS WANT OF PERCEPTION AT THAT MEETING.

O Day, O hour, O moment sweetest, last, O stars conspired to make me poor indeed! O look too true, in which I seem'd to read. At parting, that my happiness was past; Now my full loss I know, I feel at last: Then I believed (ah! weak and idle creed!) 'Twas but a part alone I lost; instead, Was there a hope that flew not with the blast? For, even then, it was in heaven ordain'd That the sweet light of all my life should die: 'Twas written in her sadly-pensive eye! But mine unconscious of the truth remain'd; Or, what it would not see, to see refrain'd, That I might sink in sudden misery!

MOREHEAD.

Dark hour, last moment of that fatal day! Stars which to beggar me of bliss combined! O faithful glance, too well which seem'dst to say Farewell to me, farewell to peace of mind! Awaken'd now, my losses I survey: Alas! I fondly thought--thoughts weak and blind!-- That absence would take part, not all, away; How many hopes it scatter'd to the wind. Heaven had already doom'd it otherwise, To quench for ever my life's genial light, And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so. Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes, That blinded me to all before my sight, And sank at once my life in deepest woe.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LIX.

Quel vago, dolce, caro, onesto sguardo.

HE SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN HIS LOSS IN THE UNUSUAL LUSTRE OF HER EYES.

That glance of hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet, Methought it said, "Take what thou canst while nigh; For here no more thou'lt see me, till on high From earth have mounted thy slow-moving feet." O intellect than forest pard more fleet! Yet slow and dull thy sorrow to descry, How didst thou fail to see in her bright eye What since befell, whence I my ruin meet. Silently shining with a fire sublime, They said, "O friendly lights, which long have been Mirrors to us where gladly we were seen, Heaven waits for you, as ye shall know in time; Who bound us to the earth dissolves our bond, But wills in your despite that you shall live beyond."